When this subject had been raised on the beach, he’d sensed a lie buried in the remnants of the past.
Now he knew it with absolute certainty.
It had been his brother himself who had first spoken the lie.
Oh, I’m going to marry the chit.
Stoke’s exact words when Bran had pressed him about his intentions toward Lady Artemis Keating.
Words spoken as established truth.
He’d believed the lie spilling from his mouth.
His brother might’ve been adept at squandering an earl’s entire fortune in a matter of a few years, but not duplicity.
“So, you weren’t out to marry a title?”
“I’m the daughter of one duke and the sister of another.” Her incredulity abated not whit. “Ihave a title.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. But I don’t understand how you believed it of me.”
Of a sudden, all the air felt knocked out of him.
She was right, of course.
She’d never once given him cause to think thusly of her.
But someone else had.
And it didn’t take longer than one thought to run into another for Bran to know who.
A truth it wouldn’t do to voice now—or possibly ever.
Artemis only saw good in the people she liked and loved.
And, of course, her mother would be one of those people.
Still, a different unwise question found its way to his mouth. “Why haven’t you married?”
Opaque emotion passed behind her eyes. “I was asked once,” she said, softly. “But he ran off.”
His brow furrowed. “Who would jilt you?”
Who would jiltyou?
That telling emphasis on theyou.
Truly, who would jilt Lady Artemis Keating?
“Indeed,who?” she asked, her eyes sliding away from his.
Who.
Her emphasis.
And it hit Bran … “AmIthewho?”
