His congratulation, however, wasn’t without reservation. He was also taking Bran’s measure as a competitor in the Raceof the Century. Bran took no offense. He’d always enjoyed a healthy competition.
Enjoyed.
A word that had been absent from his vocabulary for two years.
Now returned.
“It wasn’t a perfect race, by any stretch,” said Bran, threading the needle between self-deprecation and pride.
“Ah,” said the duchess, “but that’s when you see what everyone’s made of.”
Artemis hung back and silently watched, the lift of an eyebrow doing her talking for her.
Remembering his manners, Rakesley made a quick introduction to his wife and an absent, “And you’ve surely met my sister, Lady Artemis,” before launching into a detailed summary of the race, moment by moment.
All the while, Bran kept half an eye on Artemis, though she contributed not a word. Rather, she watched and kept her impressions to herself.
That was new. The Artemis he’d once known hadn’t been one for merely observing, but rather pitched herself into the thick of a conversation.
It wasn’t until Rakesley said, “Of course, you’re invited to the house party I’ll be hosting after the Race of the Century,” that Artemis’s brow crinkled and she visibly snapped to.
“The house party at Somerton?” she asked, her voice gone up a distressed octave.
“You know about the party, Artemis,” returned Rakesley, dismissive, his attention fixed on Bran. “It will be a small gathering for the competitors of the Race of the Century. Their families, too, if you want to bring—” His brow furrowed as if he’d only now remembered Bran’s family included the Earl of Stoke.
“Oh, yes, you must join us,” said the duchess, instinctively smoothing over the suddenly awkward moment.
Artemis shot her sister-in-law a look of utter betrayal. “But …” All eyes waited for her to continue. “But I’m sure Lord Branwell will be busy with other,erm, concerns.”
Bran saw what she was doing.
She was willing him to sayno.
She’d expected a clean break from Lord Branwell Mallory. If it wasn’t to be today, then certainly after the Race of the Century.
But here was the thing—Bran was irritated by her irritation.
Which was why, for some unfathomable reason, he was going against sound reason and saying, “I shall consider it, Your Grace.”
The bow was perhaps a step too far, but he sensed that would irritate Artemis, too.
“Rake will do.” Rakesley wasn’t the sort of duke to be flattered by even the faintest whiff of obsequiousness.
This path Bran now found himself on led not only to the Race of the Century, but beyond it, too. And the feeling it stirred within him was too new and undefined and fragile to grab hold of for fear of crushing it before it could take form, so he wouldn’t.
But if pressed to define it, he would say, though it didn’t yet hold form, it did hold the faint scent of new beginnings.
“Now, if you will excuse me,” he said. “I must see to a few matters. Tomorrow will be an early morning.”
“Back to the Roost?” asked Rake.
Bran shook his head. “We have two hundred miles to cover and only three weeks until the Race of the Century.”
The duchess’s brow crinkled with concern. “Really, that’s a long walk in a short time for Radish to be race-ready.”
“Radish won’t be walking.”
Trenches dug into Artemis’s forehead. “Surely, you won’t be riding him.”
