He had only himself to blame. He should have followed instinct, rather than good sportsmanship, and made his way straight to the stables. If he had done, he would have avoidedthis.
No choice left to him, he turned and admitted his brother into their small group. “Stoke.”
Stoke didn’t miss a beat. “What a race,” he said. “But didn’t get there in the end, did you?” He never skipped an opportunity to needle Bran—then drive it in a little deeper, for good measure. “Of course, there’s no defeating the Duke of Rakesley, is there?”
Bran’s stomach took a turn toward the nauseous. His brother’s obsequiousness ever had that effect.
“Stoke,” said Rakesley in greeting, the glint in his eye hard and tone of his voice ice.
Well, there was no mistaking it for anyone who wasn’t Stoke.
His chest puffed and almost stood out farther than his belly, which had gone soft from years of dissolution.
Rakesley turned toward Bran. “I must be going?—”
“To prepare for your house party at Somerton, then?” Stoke cut in.
Rakesley’s brow lifted. Bran might’ve groaned. Stoke had a special talent for making a fool of himself.
A beat of awkward silence ticked past.
Stoke wasn’t finished. “A house party for the participants, no?” And he went on. “One would assume their families are invited, as well?”
Ah.
Stoke had arrived at his purpose—as grubbing and brazen as it was.
“Of course,” said Rakesley, having recovered his usual unflappability, “if you can convince your brother to come, you are most welcome to join us, too.”
Stoke’s brow dug trenches into his forehead. It might never recover its former relative smoothness. “You refused the Duke of Rakesley, Bran?”
“Rather, he never officially accepted,” the duchess cut in.
Her words did nothing to soothe Stoke. “Bran, is this true?”
Bran shrugged. The thing was, he hadn’t given a toss about the house party when the invitation had been issued weeks ago—and he still didn’t. “I’d forgotten about it.”
Stoke’s eyebrows reached comic heights as he went speechless. It was the rare occasion that one could render the Earl of Stoke incapable of spouting his usual nonsense.
“Of course,” said the duchess. “You were occupied with Radish’s preparations for today.”
While Bran appreciated the duchess’s grace, it wasn’t precisely the truth.
The truth was when he’d said he would think about it, he’d had no intention of attending. He’d only spoken words he’d known would nettle Artemis.
But now he found himself opening his mouth and saying, “I would be honored to attend.”
Stoke clasped his hands together with relief.
Rakesley’s cold smile reached his eyes. “Of course, you must bring Stoke, and do I remember you have a sister?”
Bran nodded. “Lady Gwyneth.”
Again, Stoke’s brow darkened. He made no bones about his annoyance with their sister. “She’s not yet out.” He spoke the words like he’d played a trump card.
The duchess gave a breezy laugh. “We’ll try to keep the scandals to a minimum, shall we?”
Bran met his brother directly in the eye. “Bring Gwyneth, Stoke.”
