He didn’t say,Or don’t bother coming.
Stoke heard it, judging by his long-suffering sigh. “Of course.”
Here was an opportunity for Gwyneth. Bran could kick himself for not having seen it sooner. Rakesley’s house party would be the light introduction to society that could play a pivotal role for her season in the spring.
Stoke opened his mouth to emit one obsequious platitude or another, but Rakesley forestalled him. “My love,” he said to his wife, “you look peaked.”
In fact, the duchess looked the picture of radiant good health. Pregnancy agreed with her.
“Perhaps you need a lie-down?”
The two met eyes, and there was no mistaking the exchange of heat—or their need for that private room.
A few seconds later, it was only Bran and Stoke. His brother rounded on him. “Forgot an invitation from the Duke of Rakesley?” he demanded, incredulous. “How hard did you hit your head in Africa, anyway?”
Bran let the jibe glance off him. Stoke ever sought to diminish him. He had but one thing to say to his brother. “Don’t bother arriving at Somerton without Gwyneth.”
His troops had known well that blade of command in his voice.
Stoke’s reactive scoff rang hollow. He’d received the message. He pivoted on his heel and shouted out a greeting to a comrade in debauchery and disappeared into the swarming crowd.
Bran set off in the opposite direction toward the stables. Fifteen hard-won minutes later—were there no end to the congratulatory claps on the back?—he was in Radish’s stall and moving a brush across the Thoroughbred’s withers.
“It was a near thing today, though, wasn’t it,” he spoke in a soothing tone.
Radish might not have secured the top place in the history books, but he’d done himself, Bran, and Sir Abstrupus proud. It was no small thing to have taken first at the St. Leger Stakes. A win at The Race of the Century would have simply been the cherry on top of the trifle. But Bran wasn’t a greedy man. The win at Doncaster had secured Gwyneth’s season in the spring. It was enough.
In a smooth and steady rhythm, he moved the brush across Radish’s gleaming coat. He’d always enjoyed grooming horses. It fastened a bond between man and animal, and further, provided rest for the mind.
Sometimes, however, grooming had the opposite effect and gave the mind too much room to roam, and soon Bran’s mind was wandering down a pathway that had become too familiar.
Artemis.
Had she watched the race? Was she even in attendance?
He should appreciate that she’d kept her word and left by morning after their night together.
But his wants and desires weren’t governed by good, well-thought-out sensibility.
Quite the opposite.
Still, that night felt like a bite—a taste—a whetting of appetite.
It was good she wasn’t here.
Because if she were, well, he would have her on the path to ravishment within a minute.
Movement on the other side of the stall door caught the edge of his eye.
His gaze cut right—and he froze.
Artemis.
Her cheeks flushed dark pink, a hesitant smile hovering about her mouth, she looked so fresh and so beautiful in her saffron riding habit, his lungs forgot how to breathe.
Oh, but she was sunshine.
A weight lifted inside him.
