Words that tumbled through her ears and into her mind and rippled through veins and arteries, directly into that which beat inside her chest.
She lifted her field glass. But not to get a better look at the five horses and their jockeys jostling for advantageous positioning at the starting line. She was scanning the grounds for …
There he was—Bran—standing behind the white railing, apart from everyone to watch the race on his own.
She experienced a jolt of lightning at the sight of him, a now-familiar fluttering of the stomach and trill of the heart. A hush descended over the crowd, and she snapped to. The starter had lifted the gun into the air.
“There won’t be any false starts today,” said Beatrix. “Richmond and Acaster would have made certain.”
The next second, the gun exploded—and so did the crowd. The horses lurched into motion and were off, their hooves thundering down the turf. Beatrix began a running commentary of the race. As she’d spent her entire childhood accompanying her wastrel father, the Marquess of Lydon, to every racecourse up and down England, no one knew horse racing better than her.
But Artemis couldn’t hear a single word.
It wasn’t due to the deafening roar of the crowd, either.
Rather, she felt overcome with a feeling of distance from the events surrounding her as she kept her gaze fixed on Bran. Strangely, though separated by hundreds of yards, it felt like she and he were alone. Through him, she was able to watch thedrama on the turf unfold. Somehow, it took her anxieties away to use him as a filter, for the days were over that she could wholly enjoy a horse race.
So, since she knew Epsom Downs like the back of her hand—truly, she could ride it blindfolded—by the tightening of Bran’s fist, she knew when the field took the first turn. And by the hard clench of his jaw when the treacherous Tattenham Corner was approached and gotten through. Then inevitably, the roar of the crowd increased to earsplitting levels as fleet hooves thundered down the final stretch and Bran’s entire body was pressed against the fence railing.
Artemis knew two things: The race was nearing the end—and Radish must be in the thick of it.
Her palms grew damp and her heart raced, and still she watched Bran.
She knew the instant the race was over, for, predictably, the crowd exploded.
And as for the result … She knew that, too.
Bran banged his fist on the railing a few times and gave a curt shake of the head.
Radish hadn’t won.
“What a race!” exclaimed Beatrix and threw her arms around Artemis’s neck, carried away by the thrill of the moment.
“Who won?” asked Artemis.
Beatrix angled back and speared her with a quizzical glance. “Hannibal, of course. But what a run the field gave him.” She shook her head with wonder. “Liam Cassidy must be the best jockey of his generation.”
That pulled a good laugh from Artemis. “Don’t let Rake hear you say that. He’s already proclaimed Gemma the best of all time, and you know how immovable his opinion is once formed. Whatever time Liam hit, Gemma would’ve bested it by ten seconds.”
Beatrix shook her head with a knowing smile. “Husbands.”
Though Artemis couldn’t share in the sentiment, she smiled along with her friend.
“Speaking of which,” said Beatrix, leadingly.
“Oh, yes,” said Artemis. “You must go find yours.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.”
Outside, Artemis gave Beatrix a final parting hug and found herself a lone being within the raucous throng that surrounded her. There were any number of places she could go—the ladies’ retiring room … the gaming tent—or people she could congratulate—Rake and Gemma … Julian and Tessa … the Duke and Duchess of Acaster.
But that was all self-deception.
She knew exactly where she was going.
Though she shouldn’t.
