A generally calm, placid woman, the dowager countess was a remarkable improvement over Miss Hardgrave. Firm, but fair, she endeavored to keep a watchful eye over her charge whenever they were out in public. In private, she helped Brynne organize her social calendar, sort through the massive amount of proposals she continued to receive, and kept gentlemen callers at bay when the interest was not reciprocated (which it almost never was).
The two women rarely discussed anything of a deeply personal matter–Brynne had never told her patroness about Lachlan, for instance–but they maintained a mutual respect and understanding.
With shiny brown hair threaded lightly with gray, serious blue eyes, and a smooth complexion that didn’t yet betray her age, Lady Crowley was a comely woman who had received her own fair share of proposals over the years. Without hesitation, she’d turned down every one, because (as she’d once shared with Brynne after indulging in a second glass of wine at a dinner party): “the only way a woman of our means can truly achieve independence is by becoming a widow”.
But from the faraway glaze that captured her expression whenever she mentioned her husband, who had perished from an attack of the heart at the tragic age of two and forty, Brynne suspected love also had something to do with Lady Crowley’s decision to never remarry. That is, she remained in love with Lord Crowley…a bond that even death itself hadn’t managed to sever.
“Might you introduce me to your acquaintance, Lady Brynne?” she asked pleasantly even as her gaze focused with razor-sharp intensity on Lachlan. Like a mother gazelle sniffing the winds and sensing danger was near, she placed her hand on Brynne’s elbow, a discreet–but meaningful–measure of protection that did not go unnoticed by Lachlan.
“Lady Crowley, may I present Lord Lachlan Campbell.” As subtly as possible, Brynne withdrew her fingers from Lachlan’s grip. “A…a schoolmate of my brother’s from Eton. Lord Campbell, it is my pleasure to introduce the Dowager Countess of Crowley, my patroness.”
Lachlan bowed again. Slightly deeper this time, as Lady Crowley’s title outranked Brynne’s, who found herself impressed that he’d adopted such gentlemanly airs when just five years ago he’d been teaching her how to jump out of wagons.
“Lady Crowley,” he said smoothly. “The pleasure is all mine.”
“You are Scottish,” said Lady Crowley.
It was a statement, not a question.
A critique, not a compliment.
The corners of Brynne’s mouth tucked in. Anti-Scottish sentiment was not new amidst the British nobility. It heralded all the way back to the Middle Ages, when Highlanders in particular were thought to be warriors and savages. She’d read about the First War of Scottish Independence in a dusty tome she’d found on the bottom shelf in the library. Bloody and brutal, it had spanned nearly three decades, only to be followed five years later by the Second War of Scottish Independence.
Entire centuries had passed by then, but the British were known for their long memories, and Scots were generally looked upon with a wary eye for the same reason Americans were. Rebellion–even rebellion that was hundreds of years old–was not easily forgotten, or forgiven. And while Lachlan was no more savage than Weston, and Scotland was as much a part of the United Kingdom as England, there remained a distinct line drawn between the two countries that extended far beyond a simple land boundary.
“Aye.” Lachlan’s dimple flashed as his lips curved in an easy grin. “Born and bred in Glenavon.”
Lady Crowley sniffed. “I am certain I have never heard of it, Mr. Campbell.”
“I wouldna expect ye tae. And not that it matters all that much tae me, but it’s Lord Campbell.”
Brynne was reminded of the day she and Lachlan had first met. Her horrible governesses, Miss Hardgrave, had attempted to delegitimize his nobility in a similar manner in an attempt to make him seem small and less important. It was an old ploy, and a sad one, and she was glad to see that he was not giving it any more credence now than he had then.
“Lord Campbell’s father is the Marquess of Kintore,” she provided.
“Is he?” Lady Crowley said with obvious skepticism.
“Aye, that he is,” Lachlan said cheerfully. “Inherited the title when some dobber fell off a ladder. Made for quite the fanfare in our little village. Which ye really should visit, Lady Crowley, if ye ever find yerself in Northern Scotland.” His gaze slipped to Brynne. Held. Darkened. “The wild heather is beautiful this time of year.”
As a rosy blush unraveled across her cheeks, Brynne ducked her head to the side. She’d been the recipient of flattery before. So much of it over the past four Seasons that the words had become empty and hollow. But whereas the compliments of other gentlemen made her feel as if she were simply another box to be checked in the hopes of making a good match, Lachlan’s filled her with a warm, soft glow.
“Should I ever find myself with absolutely nowhere else to go, Lord Campbell, I may indeed consider Glenavon,” said Lady Crowley, her dry tone carrying just enough humor to lessen the sting of her artfully placed barb. “Are you residing there currently?”
Lachlan shook his head. “I’ve rented a townhouse in Mayfair, and will be in London for the rest of the Season.”
“That’s splendid!” Brynne blurted. When both Lachlan and Lady Crowley stared, her blush deepened and she mumbled, “I mean…that is to say…”
Were she a girl again and Weston a boy, she would have poked him with her elbow and he would have rolled his eyes as they would have skipped off to their next adventure. But here, swathed in heavy silk and surrounded by curious onlookers, the last thing she was able to do was what she wanted.
Prim, proper, and poised, she recited silently.
The three hallmarks of a well-behaved lady.
Which she was trying very hard to be.
For her father.
For her brother.
For the memory of her mother.
For Lady Crowley.
For her peers.
For everyone, really…except for herself.
And it was silly. Absurd, even. But in that moment, there was a part of her that was half-tempted to take Lachlan by the hand and race out those terrace doors and never return. They’d go to Paris, or Rome, or even set sail across the ocean and see what America’s finest cities had to show them. She’d bring nothing but her canvas and paints. Lachlan nothing but that devilish brogue of his. They would make their money from her art, and live in a rundown but charming flat above a baker’s shop, and wake to the sweet smell of bread every morning.
There’d be absolutely nothing prim, proper, or poised about such a life.
She’d never be able to show her face in Polite Society ever again.
But oh, how wonderful it sounded.
Then again, dreams always did.
Which were all that her imaginings were, she told herself firmly. Nothing more than ridiculous fantasies, no doubt caused by a lack of oxygen to her brain courtesy of the corset squeezing the air from her lungs.
“I am sure what Lady Brynne meant to say,” Lady Crowley interceded smoothly, “is that her brother, Lord Hawkridge, shall no doubt look forward to calling upon a former schoolmate. He is here, somewhere, if you’d like to speak with him.”
Her enunciation…and the meaning behind it…could not have been clearer.
The half-Scottish second-born son of a laird, even a laird-turned-marquess, was not to be considered an eligible suitor for the Duke of Caldwell’s only granddaughter. Neither he nor Brynne’s father were in attendance, or even in London for that matter, but their expectations were all but written in ink on the inside of her wrist all the same. She was to marry a man of equal or (preferably) superior rank, which Lachlan decidedly wasn’t. Which meant that any time spent speaking with him was time being taken away from her future husband. Never mind that she’d already met, and danced, with every other male occupant in the ballroom under the age of sixty at least thrice over the course of her previous Seasons.
&
nbsp; In addition to maintaining Brynne’s spotless reputation, Lady Crowley had one job to do. Make a magnificent match. The kind that would set the ton back on its heels for years to come. And given her vaguely repugnant expression, Lady Crowley did not envision Lord Lachlan Campbell as a magnificent match. Or even an almost-magnificent match. Or even an if-you-closed-one-eye-and-squinted-sideways-magnificent match.
And if he wasn’t a match, then he was an impediment.
An impediment that needed to be removed from Brynne’s path.
Immediately.
“Good evening to you, Lord Campbell,” said Lady Crowley when he didn’t move. “Lady Brynne, let’s move along.”
But neither of them stirred so much as a muscle.
Instead, they stared at each other, and the quiet, smoldering intensity of Lachlan’s amber gaze was unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. Which was probably why Brynne abruptly uttered three words she’d never spoken before.
“Dance with me,” she said breathlessly.
“What?” Lady Crowley squawked.
“It would be me pleasure.” Lachlan bowed again, then offered his arm.
She took it, and even though multiple layers of fabric separated his forearm from her hand, she would have sworn she felt heat pulsing off his skin as they made their way to the middle of the floor. Either that, or she was coming down with a fever. Regardless, there was a flame there. Between them. Where once there’d been the tiniest hint of a spark. And where there was a flame, fire was never far behind.
“Yer patroness should like me head served up on a silver platter,” Lachlan murmured.
“Nothing as fancy as that, I should think,” Brynne replied, her blood all but humming when he cupped her shoulder and nudged her in a quarter of an inch closer than what was deemed seemly. Not that anyone surrounding them would be able to tell the difference. But she did. Lachlan as well, if the glint in his eyes was any indication.
Goodness, but he stole her breath. In a way that had nothing to do with the rigorous physical exertion required of the Viennese waltz and everything to do with the way he was holding her. The way he was looking at her. As if he were an archaeologist who’d just discovered a priceless treasure that he never wanted to let go.
“Where have you been?” she asked as they moved in perfect unison, their steps guided by the full orchestra in the viewing balcony playing the music of John Strauss II, a prolific Austrian composer well-deserving of the sobriquet “The Waltz King”.
“Where have ye been?” he countered. “I returned tae Hawkridge Manor the following year, but ye werena there.”
“Did you hope that I would be?” she said, a playful smile teasing her lips. She doubted, very much, that Lachlan had thought of her these past few years as often as she’d thought of him. After he left, she had expected her infatuation with him to gradually dissipate. But if anything, it had grown stronger. Unwittingly, he’d become the standard by which she compared every other suitor that crossed her path.
Did they make her laugh as Lachlan had? Did they challenge her as Lachlan had? Did they encourage her dreams as Lachlan had?
To a man, the answer was always no.
But now Lachlan himself was standing in front of her, and the answer was…
“Yes,” he said simply, and her smile faded as she recognized the truth in his gaze…and the implication of what it meant.
“I…I would have been there, if I could.” She wet her lips. “I was at school.”
“Aye, that’s what Weston said. Did ye enjoy it?”
“Not as much as I’d anticipated.”
They released each other, completed a turn, and then rejoined their hands. This waltz was quick; its tempo nearly twice the speed of the other dances. Ordinarily maintaining a conversation would be difficult, if not impossible. But there was so much that Brynne wanted to say. So much that she wanted to hear. And even though she’d not spared a glance to the perimeter of the room, she knew that the instant the music ended Lady Crowley would come marching across the marble floor to collect her. Which meant this was the only opportunity she had to speak with Lachlan alone.
She didn’t want to waste a second.
“This is yer third Season?” he asked.
“The beginning of my fourth.”
His brows rose. “And ye havena found a husband yet?”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s a bad thing I did not acquiesce to the first proposal I received.”
“Have there been many of them?”
“Many of what?”
“Proposals,” he said, his mouth twisting around the word as if he’d bitten into something sour.
Brynne tried not to sigh. A friend had asked her the same question just the other day, and it never failed to embarrass her when she admitted the answer, even though she had done nothing to be embarrassed for. It wasn’t as if she had invited the proposals upon herself. If anything, she’d done all she could to discourage them. But no matter what she did, they kept coming, as predictable as rain on a Tuesday.
“Sixty-seven,” she said with great reluctance.
Lachlan’s eyes widened. “Sixty-seven? Bluidy hell. Why havena ye accepted one?”
“Because I’ve been waiting.”
“For what? The blessing of the pope?”
You, she replied silently. I’ve been waiting for you.
She hadn’t. Not really. Not consciously, at any rate. For how could a tulip bulb possibly know it was waiting for the sun until it burst through the soil and felt the light on its petals for the first time?
They spun apart again.
Came together.
“For someone who wants to marry me and not my dowry, or to curry favor with my father or grandfather,” she said matter-of-factly.
While Lachlan’s mouth stretched in a grin, his eyes remained somber and serious. “Poor Bry,” he said quietly. “What’s a wealthy, beautiful heiress with the world at her feet tae do?”
“Find a husband who will not place me on the nearest shelf to collect dust with all of his other trophies.”
The music swelled into the final crescendo, and then faded into silence as everyone ended the waltz with a bow or a curtsy, before breaking apart to either find their next partner or seek refreshments from the silver trays piled high with food and drink that were being circulated around the room by footmen dressed in matching black livery.
Brynne glanced over her shoulder to see that Lady Crowley was already approaching with all the unflinching determination of the Royal Navy bearing down on Cape Trafalgar at the height of the Napoleonic Wars. She looked back at Lachlan, and bit her lip in apology.
“Thank you for dancing with me. It was…it was good to see you again. Truly.”
He’d not yet released her hand, and used it to tug her even closer. “Why does that sound like a farewell?” he asked, his breath fanning across her ear and causing a shivery ribbon of awareness to ripple down her spine.
“Because it is,” she said regretfully. “We may see each other from afar, but I fear my patroness will do everything in her power to prevent us from being this near again.”
Amusement flickered in his gaze. “The pretty English princess canna lower herself tae associate with the common Scottish folk, is that it?”
A dull flush painted the nape of her neck a deep crimson. “If Lady Crowley knew you–”
“If yer patroness knew me, she’d be running, not walking, over here tae rescue ye.” He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles in a subtle caress that made her knees wobble. “It’s all right, little songbird. I understand how the game is played. Perhaps if I had a proper title, and an estate tae go with it–”
“Those things don’t matter to me,” she interrupted.
He canted his head. Gave her a slow, measured stare. “Dinna they?”
Did they?
Given that she did not aspire towards superficiality, Brynne wanted her reply
to be a firm, unequivocal “no”. But as she looked deep within herself, she found the answer was far more complicated than that.
In a perfect world, a woman would be free to follow her heart with no consequences or repercussions. But this wasn’t a perfect world, particularly for women. In this world, where appearance was everything and a person’s title was the most important thing about them, women’s heads were too often at odds with their hearts.
Brynne liked to believe that there was a time and a place, somewhere in existence, where she could take Lachlan by the hand and they did race out those terrace doors. But this ballroom, this music box that she kept spinning around and around in, was neither the time nor the place, and a lump formed in her throat as she backed away from him.
“I am sorry, Lord Campbell.” She searched his gaze, willing him to understand that there were some things–most things–beyond her control. And she was far past the days where she might sneak outside to meet him in the moonlight and count the stars until dawn.
“We’re not children anymore, are we, Bry?” He shook his head before she could respond. “It’s all right.”
The staccato click of Lady Crowley’s walking cane was nearly upon them. Distress creased Brynne’s brow. Every strike of polished ivory against marble tile was one less second she had to spend with Lachlan, but there was still so much left unsaid! In four Seasons, this was the first genuine connection she’d felt. Normally, once a waltz had reached its conclusion, she couldn’t escape fast enough. But this time was different. This time, she wanted to stay. For a moment. For a minute. For an eternity. And she hated that she couldn’t. More than that, she hated that the decision wasn’t her own. It was being made for her. By Lady Crowley. By a father who wasn’t even here. By a grandfather who would never–ever–permit his granddaughter to marry the second-born son of a Scottish Highlander.
“It’s all right, little songbird,” Lachlan repeated tenderly as he read her expression. The panic in it, and the despair. “It’s going tae be all right. No need tae fret. As I said, I understand the game.”
Seduced by the Scot Page 8
