by Anna Bradley
“Look.”
Hyacinth shifted her gaze from his face to hers, then back again. “What am I looking at? It’s just me, in a blue gown—a gown much like every other.”
His big fingers touched her jaw, and he held her still with her face centered in the looking glass. “No. Look.”
Hyacinth never lingered over her glass, but now, with his warm, gentle fingers holding her, she met her mirror reflection, and for perhaps the first time in her life, she truly looked.
She looked for so long, and so hard, that after a time her face stopped making sense. Her brow, her eyes, her nose and mouth—they became shapes only, with no meaning attached to them—hers, and not hers at once.
Then he stroked his thumb over her jaw, and gradually the shapes changed, transformed, melted back into the face she’d seen in her glass thousands of times before, and it was her face—her brow, and her eyes, her nose and mouth, but somehow the sum of the parts now seemed to equal a different whole…
“This gown is yours. No one but you should dance in it.” He brushed a stray curl away from her ear, leaned closer, and whispered, “That’s why.”
Then he was gone, and she was holding handfuls of sky-blue silk, staring at herself in the mirror, and wondering if she’d imagined the entire thing.
Chapter Nine
Lady Chase hadn’t yet had her morning chocolate.
The very first lesson Hyacinth and her sisters had learned when they arrived in London was one didn’t annoy Lady Chase when she hadn’t yet had her morning chocolate, because until she had, she could be a bit—
“What does Lord Huntington mean, rousting us out of bed at such an hour? Why, I don’t think I exaggerate, Hyacinth, when I say it’s indecent! I can’t imagine what could be so important we must be dragged from our beds. Indeed, I can’t account for his behavior at all.”
“It might be Iris who sent for us, Grandmother. The servant didn’t say it was Finn.”
“Well, then, I daresay all this fuss is over something to do with Miss Ramsey’s gowns. Oh, I do hope Madame Bell hasn’t gotten into a temper, and sent them back unaltered. I wouldn’t half blame her if she did, after that scoundrel insulted her so infamously. White scraps, indeed!”
Hyacinth doubted this mysterious morning summons had anything to do with Isla’s gowns, unless Iris had worked herself into a sudden, inexplicable panic over them. Unlike Hyacinth, Iris had never been the sort of lady who was prone to fits of anxiety, but her calm demeanor seemed to be giving way to nervous agitation the further she got into her pregnancy.
Poor Iris. She’d been in quite a lather since the Ramseys arrived in London. She was so determined to make society accept them—both for their own sakes, and for Finn’s—she’d exhausted herself with her efforts.
“It’s the gowns. You may count upon that, Hyacinth. Madame Bell’s sent them back. She has an artist’s delicate temperament, you see, and that rogue Ciaran Ramsey has tipped it all askew.”
The worry fluttering like manic butterflies in Hyacinth’s belly began to calm. Perhaps her grandmother was right, and it was just the gowns, after all. Perhaps Isla didn’t care for the yellow gown, or the color didn’t flatter her, and she wished to change it again.
Well, this was what came of allowing Lachlan Ramsey to fuss about in her dressing closet. What did he know about ladies’ ball gowns? Why, nothing at all. No man did.
Except…
This gown is yours. No one but you should dance in it.
His whisper, his warm breath against her ear—she’d dreamed of it, and of the softness in his eyes when they met hers in the glass.
It made her yearn for things she could never have.
“I blame those brothers of hers,” Lady Chase declared. “Scoundrels, the both of them. Oh, I imagine scoundrels do well enough in Scotland, but those brothers don’t know how to behave in proper society.”
Hyacinth sighed. She never should have let Lachlan Ramsey tempt her with the sky blue gown. If she’d sent him away as she should have, she wouldn’t be trapped in this carriage with her grandmother, and Lady Chase as bad-tempered as a bear with a thorn in its paw.
Or a bear deprived of its morning chocolate.
“Now Miss Ramsey is a sweet child, and genteel enough, but the elder brother, Hyacinth! Why, what need is there for him to be so large? And always with that frightening glower on his face! Well, well. I don’t wonder you mistook him for a murderer, dear. He has a felonious look about him.”
Lady Chase chattered on about Lachlan Ramsey’s scandalous proportions until they’d reached Grosvenor Square. Hyacinth half-expected to see Madame Bell’s carriage parked in the drive, and Madame’s assistant, Eliza, rushing about with pins in her mouth, carrying armfuls of silk, but the Grosvenor Street house was quiet.
Oddly so. An oppressive hush hung over everything, as if the house and all its inhabitants had taken a deep breath, then been frozen in place before they could release it. Finn’s carriage was in the drive, but there was no sign of him, and no servants wandering about, either.
All was still, and ominously silent.
Uneasiness shivered up Hyacinth’s spine. Something was wrong, and whatever it was, it went beyond an irate modiste, or an unflattering gown. “It’s too quiet. Come, Grandmother. Let’s see if we can’t find Iris.”
But it wasn’t Iris who was waiting for them in the entryway. It was Finn, his face so pale and drawn an involuntary cry tore from Hyacinth’s lips. “Finn? Oh, dear God, something’s happened, hasn’t it? Is it…it’s not Iris?”
He shook his head, but his lips remained white with strain. “At the moment, Iris is well.”
At the moment?
“Finn, the…the child?”
He hesitated, and Hyacinth’s stomach gave a sickening lurch.
“Iris awoke early this morning with pains. I feared…” Finn swallowed. “I feared the worst, and sent for the doctor right away. He’s been here all night. The pains have subsided, and Iris is resting.”
“Thank God,” Hyacinth whispered, reaching out to clutch her grandmother’s hand.
“The doctor believes Iris is perfectly well for the moment, but he can’t assure us this, ah…” Finn flushed a little. “This irritation of the abdomen won’t happen again. He advises rest and uninterrupted quiet until Iris is brought to bed.”
“Yes, yes, of course, she must rest,” Hyacinth said. “We must do just what the doctor says.”
“I want to take Iris back to Huntington Lodge at once.” Finn’s troubled gaze met Hyacinth’s. “There’s certain to be a good deal of disruption here with Isla’s season, and London is loud and dirty. Iris will be much better off in Buckinghamshire.”
Hyacinth’s manic butterflies were back, but this time their wings felt like tiny whips cracking against her ribs. “But it can’t be safe for her to travel, can it?”
“The doctor thinks she’s safe enough if we take the trip slowly, with plenty of stops for rest. But if we’re to go, we must go at once. The risk increases as the child grows. If we don’t go soon, we won’t be able to go at all.”
“Then you must go.” Hyacinth attempted a reassuring smile. “Iris says you were born at Huntington Lodge, and your father before you. She’s told me over and over again she wishes to continue that tradition with your child.”
“Yes, she’s said the same to me, many times, and yet now she’s refusing to leave.”
“What?” Lady Chase’s shrill voice echoed in the empty entryway. “Why should she refuse?”
Finn let out a short bark of laughter, but there was an edge of panic in it. “Because she’s the most stubborn, willful woman in England.”
“It’s the Ramseys, isn’t it?” Hyacinth pressed her palm to her forehead. “If you leave London, it puts an end to Isla’s season. She can’t go forward without a single member of the family here to supp
ort her, not after that scandal.”
“No, she can’t.” Finn’s face was grim. “Iris is insisting we both remain in London, or that she goes ahead to Huntington Lodge without me, but I won’t let her go alone.”
“No, of course not. You’d go mad here in London, worrying about her.” Hyacinth was patting her palm against her forehead, as if she could shake loose a solution. “And Isla’s debut can’t be put off, either.”
Isla couldn’t withdraw from her season now—not after they’d gone to such lengths to persuade the ton to overlook the scandal. A retreat at this point would be disastrous. The ton had deigned to give the Ramseys a second chance. To squander it was a grave social offence, at best. At worst, it was an admission of wrongdoing.
Finn, who’d no doubt reached the same conclusion, was shaking his head. “No. I’m afraid it’s too late to withdraw now. Either she debuts this season, or not at all.”
“Surely something can be done?” But what? Hyacinth’s brain was spinning, and catching her thoughts was like trying to catch a carriage wheel broken loose from its axle.
She knew only one thing.
Iris loved Finn with all her heart, and Isla was Finn’s sister. His sister. Lachlan and Ciaran—they were his brothers. His family. A family he’d always wanted, always wished for, ever since he was a child. It would break Finn’s heart to fail the Ramseys, and if Finn’s heart were broken, Iris’s heart would be, as well.
All this was to say nothing of Isla, who would be bitterly disappointed.
Hyacinth touched Finn’s arm. “Let me speak with Iris. I may be able to persuade her.”
Then I’ll work on persuading myself…
She had an idea, but it would mean week after week of balls and dinners, routs and musical evenings, lectures and art exhibits, and the entire ton staring at her, whispering behind her back. And they would be whispering. She was, after all, the only debutante in London who’d publicly accused a man of murder.
If she went ahead with her season, there wouldn’t be enough columns in all of London to hide her.
* * * *
It had been one of the longest days of Lachlan’s life, and it was only nine o’clock in the morning.
Isla’s season was over before it could begin, and Ciaran, who’d been tormented all night with dreams of Isabel Campbell, had sought to soothe his anger and despair by brawling with Lachlan in the grotto behind the rose garden.
Then there was Finn, who was so sick with worry over his wife he’d spent the past three hours hovering outside her bedchamber door, unwilling to enter because he didn’t wish to wake her, but also unable to stay away.
Lachlan pressed his arm tight against his side, and paced back and forth in front of the fireplace in the drawing room. He needed to think what to do, but the blow Ciaran had landed on his ribs hurt like the devil, and his head was cloudy.
He ran a weary hand through his hair. Maybe they shouldn’t have come to London at all. There wasn’t anything left for them in Lochinver, but maybe he should have let Ciaran figure that out for himself. At least then there wouldn’t be this anger and bitterness between them—
“Oh, Mr. Ramsey. I beg your pardon.”
Lachlan turned, and despite the burning pain in his ribs, he couldn’t help the grin that curled his lips at the sight of Hyacinth Somerset.
She was wearing the most ridiculous gown he’d ever seen.
He’d seen for himself she had dozens of pretty gowns in her closet, but she’d chosen to wear a gray, shapeless thing, the neckline so high and tight she was risking another swoon, this time from lack of oxygen. If that weren’t bad enough, it was finished with a frill of lace that swallowed her chin. No doubt the sleeves were as tight and smothering as the neck, but he couldn’t be sure, because she’d finished her ensemble with some sort of short coat that looked so dark and heavy she seemed to be sagging under the weight of it.
He couldn’t see a single sliver of the pale, fine skin he’d admired yesterday, and not a single golden hair escaped the prison of pins jabbed into her skull. Every curve and edge and loose end of her had been trimmed, buttoned and tucked away.
She looked like a shorn sheep.
And still, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“No, don’t go,” he said, when she turned to leave. “How does your sister do?”
“My sister?” She gave him a blank look, as if she couldn’t quite recall having a sister, and wandered into the drawing room in a daze.
“Yes. Your sister, Miss Somerset. Lady Huntington.”
“She’s, ah…Finn is right about her, you know. She’s the most stubborn, willful woman in England. Yet she’s agreed, just the same.” Hyacinth let out a strange little laugh. “I suppose I didn’t think she would, but now she has, well…I’ll have to go through with it, won’t I?”
Lachlan frowned. What the devil was wrong with her? She wasn’t making any sense, and her face was leached of color. “Sit down, Miss Somerset.” He took her arm and led her to the sofa. “Now, what has Lady Huntington agreed to?”
She turned to him in surprise, as if she’d just recalled he was there. “Oh, you don’t know? She and Finn are to go to Huntington Lodge. The servants are packing their things.”
“I see.” It was the right decision, and Lachlan was relieved for his brother’s sake, but a heaviness settled on his chest as Isla’s season vanished like a cloud of smoke before his eyes. “And you and Lady Chase leave for Brighton tomorrow?”
“Brighton?” Hyacinth folded her hands neatly in her lap like a schoolgirl about to recite her lessons, but Lachlan noticed her knuckles were white. “Oh, no. We’re not going to Brighton.”
“Not going? Why—”
“Did you mean what you said the other day?” she asked suddenly, her blue eyes so bright she looked almost feverish.
He shrugged. “I say a good many things. Odds are I mean some of them.”
“You said if I went ahead with my season, you’d consider it your responsibility to look after me, just as you do with Isla.”
Lachlan’s heart began to pound with hope. “I did mean it. Every word.”
She studied his face for a long moment without speaking, as if trying to gauge his sincerity. “I don’t want to do it, you know. My season. I never did, not even before the scandal, when all my family was here to help me along. Even then, I predicted it would be a disaster, but now...” She looked down, as if she were ashamed, and whispered, “I’m afraid.”
He moved closer, and took her hand in his. “I know you are, but I swear I won’t let anyone hurt you. Will you trust me?”
She glanced down at his large, rough fingers wrapped around her dainty white ones. What did she see when she looked at his hands? Did she see a fist crashing into his brother’s face, his knuckles smeared with blood? Did she imagine him grasping Ciaran by his collar with one hand while he bloodied his nose and blackened his eyes with the other? He’d always been a harsh, rough sort of man, but that she should have seen him that way, when he was at his most brutal, filled him with shame.
After a long silence she sighed, and raised her gaze to his. “I’ll have to trust you if I’m to go ahead with my season, won’t I?”
He hadn’t given her one reason to trust him, and more than one not to, but here she was, with her big, blue eyes fixed on his face, offering him something he’d denied to her. He was repaying her trust with secrets and lies.
Not just her, but Finn, and Lady Huntington—all of them. The thought made his gut twist with misery. Surely he could trust them with the truth? They’d welcomed him and Ciaran and Isla into their family, shown them nothing but kindness.
But then their friends in Lochinver had offered their kindness, their friendship, too—right up until they hadn’t anymore. He’d trusted before, and it had been a deadly mistake. If it should happen a second time, and they found the
mselves adrift again, he wasn’t sure Ciaran and Isla would survive it.
Ciaran and Isla will be the ones to suffer.
“…warn you not to hope for much. I’m hardly a replacement for the Marchioness of Huntington.”
Lachlan brought his attention back to Hyacinth.
“The ton may yet laugh us out of Lady Bagshot’s ballroom before the master of ceremonies introduces Isla, and we still need Lady Chase to agree to sponsor her. Iris is speaking with her now, but my grandmother may insist on taking me off to Brighton, regardless of my wishes. This might not work.”
No. It might not work, but it was a chance, and that was more than Isla had ten minutes ago. “Isla will be pleased.” He was a good deal more than pleased, but he wasn’t sure how to thank her, so he only tightened his fingers around hers.
She gave him a self-conscious smile. “I may disappear behind a column as soon as we enter the ballroom, or worse, fall into a swoon the moment some grand lord asks me for a dance.”
“You’ll dance the first dance with me, then.” The first hour of the ball would be the most difficult one for her, what with everyone gaping and whispering. He could shield her from the worst of it if they were dancing, and she couldn’t vanish behind a column if he was holding her in his arms.
What would it feel like, to hold her in his arms? To gather her soft body against his, and urge her closer with his hand on her waist? Damn, it was too bad the first dance was never a waltz.
“It will be my first dance of the season, and it would certainly send a clear message to the ton if I danced it with you. After all, if you were truly a murderer I wouldn’t dare, would I?”
Lachlan went still, the pretty illusions he’d spun splintering into shards.
No, you wouldn’t.
If she knew who he really was, and what he’d really done, she wouldn’t allow him to touch her. She wouldn’t dare to be alone in the same room with him.
