In fact, they were better than better.
They weregood.
Hefelt …good.
And he knew why—Artemis.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE ROSE & CROWN, LATER
Artemis adjusted her bottom on the hard oak flat of the straight-backed chair and attempted not to attune her ear to the stirrings coming through the wall on the other side of the desk.
A futile endeavor.
Bran was on the other side of that wall.
She should pay closer attention to the task at hand—her correspondence. She’d promised Mrs. Hopper a letter every day.
“I need to know you’re safe, pet,” the cook had said, as stern as Artemis had ever seen her. “A line or two will suffice.”
As Artemis dared not ignore a directive from Mrs. Hopper—neither would she cause her undue worry—she’d set pen to paper to dash off a note. Except the swift few lines quickly turned into an uninspired slog. Every rustle of movement on the other side of the wall caught her ear, and her hand stopped writing.
What was he doing?
Each time, she chastised herself. Whatcouldhe be doing?
It was all probably terribly mundane and trifling and the same as what she was doing—washing up after a long day, and correspondence. That sort of thing.
Except she’d never felt like anything related to Bran was mundane or trifling.
She’d been so silly then.
And the possibility existed she was just as silly now.
She concluded the letter to Mrs. Hopper and reached for another sheet of paper.
Her next letter was for Mother.
She began with the usual greetings and questions about her health. That was as far as her pen seemed able to proceed. She needed to ask Mother a question—about the past.
Specifically, her past with Bran.
But this question couldn’t be asked by letter, that was what her still pen was telling her.
It must be asked in person.
She exhaled a gust of frustration.
Mother was presently in Paris for her autumn wardrobe fitting. The modistes were already preparing their most privileged clients for next spring’s styles. As a duchess who was very aware of her position in the public eye, Mother was always dressed in the first stare of fashion.
The question would have to wait until Mother’s return in a fortnight.
In a now-familiar pattern, her mind cast back over the day and its revelations and the near miracle that had occurred. Today, she’d been able to move past seeing Bran as a shadow of her past to the flesh-and-blood man he was now—a man damaged by life, in both body and mind.
He no longer rode.
It wasn’t that simple.
