This manor had always offered a comforting respite from the colorless isolation of Hawkridge Manor. There were paintings on the walls (most selected by her hand). Carpets on the floor. A bust of their grandfather, stern as ever, resting on a pedestal by the grand staircase. Glossy green ferns in glazed clay pots in the corners. It was a space meant to be lived in. And yet…and yet how much had she actually lived here?
Afternoon tea in the drawing room. Countless parties in the parlor. Piano recitals in the music room. Balls in the outdoor courtyard. She’d presided over all of them. Lady Brynne Weston, the perfect hostess. Renowned throughout the ton for her charm, and wit, and grace.
But what would those same people say if they’d seen her chasing after a snake in the hall? Or juggling bubby pots in the kitchen? Or coaxing a baby goat (courtesy of Callum, little devil that he was) out of the bathtub?
In those moments, she’d wanted this. Calm, quiet, elegant surroundings. Ceilings that didn’t leak and rooms that had real furniture in them. But as she turned in a circle and absorbed the silence–silence that suddenly felt far too stuffy and formal–she found herself missing the chaos.
Nostalgia, she thought as she made her way to the courtyard where the footman who greeted her at the door had said her brother was entertaining company. Just simple nostalgia.
After forcibly preventing herself from thinking about anything that had to do with Lachlan for the past year and a half, it was only to be expected that once those memories resurfaced, they’d shine with a rosier glow than before. Fondness had a way of attaching itself to the past, when in the present she’d be happy if she never saw another snake for as long as she lived.
“There you are!” Evie exclaimed, standing in a swirl of green muslin. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
An automatic smile laid claim to Brynne’s mouth as she gazed past her soon-to-be sister-in-law at the other guests occupying the shaded courtyard. Comprised of varying levels made from imported stone, it offered a view of Hyde Park through a living bamboo screen–also imported–and was decorated with a plethora of oversized tables and chairs to encourage lounging on a night exactly like this. Warm with a hint of crisp in the air and a sunset over the Thames that would make a poet weep.
In addition to Evie and Weston, who appeared more relaxed than she’d ever seen him with his cravat carelessly undone, his dark hair windswept and–was that a real smile?–there was a bookishly handsome man wearing spectacles that Brynne did not recognize and woman who she’d never met but immediately knew.
Joanna Thorncroft. The secret, illegitimate daughter of her father and his American mistress. A mistress, if Lady Crowley could be believed, that the cold-hearted Marquess of Dorchester had been madly in love with.
If not for that affair, Joanna wouldn’t be sitting here.
Weston wouldn’t be engaged to Evie.
And Brynne wouldn’t have a half-sister.
Two sisters of a sort, she corrected as she abruptly found her arms filled with squealing Americans. Their enthusiastic hug caught her off guard, but after a half-second’s worth of hesitation, she responded in kind, tentatively at first, and then with a laughing enthusiasm that Evie and Joanna returned tenfold.
“Your brother came to his senses at last,” Evie grinned, holding out her left hand to reveal the ring that she and Joanna had crossed an ocean to pursue. Not with the intention of wearing it as a sign of her engagement–at the time, the Thorncrofts hadn’t even known the identity of Joanna’s birth father, let alone that Brynne and Weston existed–but it seemed fitting that it had ended up this way. It seemed right. A circle coming all the way around to its close.
“The ring is beautiful on you,” Brynne said sincerely. She looked over Evie’s shoulder. Met her brother’s pleased, proud gaze. “Congratulations.”
“I have a hundred questions,” Joanna chimed in, her blue eyes shining. As slender as Evie but half a head taller and with bright red hair instead of black, she must have resembled her mother as closely as Brynne resembled hers, for neither had inherited any defining characteristics from their shared father.
Which, in a way, also seemed right.
“I don’t know if I have a hundred answers, but I’ll do my best,” Brynne promised.
And over the course of the next three hours, she did.
The man with the spectacles, she learned shortly, was Joanna’s husband, Thomas Kincaid. A private investigator, he’d been hired by the Thorncroft sisters after they arrived in London without the vaguest clue of where to begin their search. During the course of his investigation, Kincaid found the ring…and so much more.
It was clear, just from the way he gazed at her, that the subdued, serious-minded detective was absolutely besotted with his bride, and Joanna was equally infatuated with her husband.
Likewise, so too were Weston and Evie enamored of each other.
Which left Brynne noticeably without a partner.
And that was perfectly fine.
It was by her choice, after all.
But as she was quickly discovering, choosing to be alone didn’t make you any less lonely.
“…entire summer kitchen went up in flames. To this day, Joanna refuses to take responsibility. But everyone knows it was her fault.” Grinning, Evie nudged her sister with her elbow as Brynne blinked and refocused on the conversation at hand.
They’d taken seats around a table with the two men across from each other, the Thorncrofts next to each other, and Brynne by herself on the far side with a wine glass for company.
“I moved the pot!” Joanna protested.
“Not far enough, obviously.”
“If we’re discussing faults of our past, should I bring up the time you slathered turmeric on your face and–”
“No one wants to hear about that,” Evie said hastily.
“I do,” Weston drawled.
“Orange as a carrot for days,” Joanna said with a smirk. “She wouldn’t leave her room. Everyone thought she was deathly ill.”
Evie smiled brightly at Brynne, and, in a not-terribly-subtle attempt to shift the focus off her beauty mishap, she asked, “Do you have any interesting stories from when you and Weston were growing up? Anything embarrassing I should know about before we’re married? No detail is too small.”
“Our upbringing wasn’t nearly as…entertaining as yours, I’m afraid.” Brynne took a sip of her wine, a decadent port that lingered on her tongue. “By comparison, it was rather boring.”
Except for Lachlan, a tiny voice whispered.
She ignored it.
“That’s disappointing,” Evie remarked. “If you should remember anything enticing, you shall have to tell me at once.”
“I will,” Brynne promised. Then she rose to her feet. “It’s nearly past midnight, and I’ve had a long day of travel. Joanna and Mr. Kincaid, it was wonderful to meet you at last. I am looking forward to getting to know each other even more now that we’re all together in London. I take it you’ll be at the Duke of Oxford’s ball tomorrow evening?”
Joanna’s nose wrinkled. “I’ve found that large social events aren’t for me.”
“I’ll be there,” Evie said happily. “We can get ready together, if you’d like.”
Although Evie and Weston were engaged to be married, without the presence of a proper chaperone she’d been living with Joanna and Kincaid to uphold the appearance of propriety. Now that Brynne was here, however, she had shared her eagerness to move into the same house as her husband-to-be. In the bedroom beside his, naturally. Never mind that there was a door connecting the two chambers.
“I’d like that very much.” Brynne flicked a glance at Weston, and they shared an incredulous smile. Who would have ever thought that they’d be part of such a loud, boisterous family? From somber dinners at opposite ends of a long table to sitting on a terrace with a half-sister, and brother-in-law, and fiancée.
The only person missing was–
No.
Absolutely
not.
She hadn’t left Lachlan behind to think about him every other moment.
“I shall see you in the morning.” Exiting amidst a chorus of “good night” and “sleep well”, she went upstairs to find her bedroom precisely as she’d left it. Her lady’s maid, a cheerful middle-aged woman named Ira, was already there waiting to help her undress, and doused the candles before she left, blanketing the chamber in rolling darkness.
Through sheer will and determination, Brynne managed to keep her husband out of her head…until that head hit the pillow, sleep wrapped her in its languid embrace, and there was nothing she could do to prevent him from entering her dreams.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Evie marveled as their town coach slowed in front of the Duke of Oxford’s estate, a spectacular Grecian-styled manor perched high on a hill overlooking the Thames, and joined the twisting black line of carriages reaching all the way back to Harcourt Street.
As one of the largest events of the Season, over three hundred of the ton’s elite were expected to attend. There’d be dancing, and gossiping, and drinking. Mayhap even a salacious scandal or two. It was the recipe for a perfect evening and Evie, as the newly minted future Countess of Hawkridge, was certain to have a fair share of the spotlight. Which, by all outward appearances, she seemed absolutely elated about.
Once upon at a time, Brynne would have shared in Evie’s enthusiasm.
Although for a very different reason.
The Duke of Oxford was a renowned art connoisseur, and over his fifty-seven years he’d amassed a collection that rivaled the Dulwich Gallery in South London. For public events, he opened his private gallery for those who wished to stroll amidst the works of Rembrandt, Marillo, Canaletto, and even Poussin. Every year, there was something new to find, and Brynne always waited with bated breath to discover what grand painting Oxford had deemed worthy enough to add to his collection.
Now, however, instead of experiencing a tingling wave of anticipation, she just felt…flat.
Like a skirt without the benefit of crinoline.
Fortunately, Evie was excited enough for the both of them.
All but bouncing in her seat, the American leaned precariously out the square carriage window, her blue eyes shining in the torchlight. “Do you think we might get there quicker if we walked?”
With a muffled sound of vague alarm, Weston hauled her back in. “We’ll be there presently,” he said, and Brynne pretended she didn’t see the familiar way her brother’s hand splayed across the small of Evie’s back. “But not if you’re a puddle of silk on the ground.”
True to Weston’s word, the line moved relatively quickly and they were soon able to disembark from the town coach and join the glittering swell of gowns, and cravats, and jewels that spilled between the enormous pillars guarding the front of the manor. But when they were set to enter the massive French doors that led into the ballroom, Weston grasped Brynne by the elbow and pulled her aside.
“Are you feeling well?” he asked with a twin’s intuitive concern.
“Fine,” she said, tugging her arm away from him and straightening her satin gloves. Ivory with an embroidered hem of Chantilly lace, they complemented her citrine dress. “Why do you ask?”
“You’ve not been yourself since you returned from Hawkridge.”
“I’ve only been back for a day,” she pointed out. “And already attending a ball. Once I’ve had a moment to settle and unpack, I’m sure you’ll see nothing amiss.”
But he didn’t appear convinced. “You’d tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn’t you? Just because I am engaged to be married doesn’t mean I do not have time for my sister.”
“You’re engaged to be married. You shouldn’t have time for your sister,” she corrected lightly. “Have you told your bride-to-be how lovely she looks tonight?”
With the knowledge that eyes would be upon her, some in approval, some in silent judgment, Evie had chosen her gown with care. A deep violet with a chiffon bodice, puffed sleeves, and a wide grosgrain sash that emphasized her petite frame, the dress was as much a work of art as the paintings hanging on the walls.
“She is exquisite, isn’t she?” Weston’s eyes glowed with warmth and pride as he gazed at his fiancée. It was a noticeable change. Before Evie had turned his life upside down, the Earl of Hawkridge had regarded everything and everyone with a cold aloofness that bordered on contempt. He hadn’t only not believed in love, he’d actively fought against it. Until a spirited American had thawed all of that ice and laid claim to the heart hiding underneath it.
“Go,” Brynne said firmly, giving him a small push. “I’ll join you shortly.”
But instead of following Weston and Evie through the French doors, she went straight down the massive hallway and then turned right, using the light emanating from polished brass sconces to guide her away from the laughter and loudness in the ballroom to the near-silent solitude of the Duke of Oxford’s viewing gallery.
There was no one else in the room, and she hadn’t been expecting there to be. People did not attend a ball to look at art. They came to be looked at. Which they couldn’t be if they were sequestered away in a separate wing of the manor.
Mahogany paneling covered the walls, offering a muted backdrop to the dozens of paintings that comprised Oxford’s vast assortment of art. The furniture was minimal; a rosewood chaise upholstered in red velvet here, an armchair in silk brocade there. This was not a place of idle gathering, but of reverence. Hallowed ground to appreciate beauty that transcended time itself.
A sumptuous, hand-knotted carpet devoured the sound of Brynne’s footsteps as she wandered from one ornate gold frame to another. Trying to will herself to feel something–anything–for works of art that would have usually stolen her breath and left her with a sense of wonder far larger than herself. Wonder she’d only ever experienced when looking at a Rembrandt…and when she was a girl in a meadow, gazing up at her first constellation.
Maybe she was ill.
But not with a sickness or disease that any medicine could fix, unless doctors had found a way to mend a broken heart.
For eighteen months, she’d used her anger at Lachlan to bind the pieces of it together. But now that her anger was gone, so too were the bandages that had kept her heart from falling apart. And now it felt as if it were going to fall right out of her chest. Such was her pain from missing him. From missing them. The way they’d been when they were good and how they could have been if they’d successfully navigated their way through the stormy seas to become great.
Your choice, she reminded herself. Your decision.
Scholars didn’t write about the adventurers who remained safely in the harbor, but for every James Cook that discovered a new land, there were a dozen more who never lived past their first voyage.
Maybe she just wasn’t destined for open waters.
But that was all right.
It had to be all right.
Or else yesterday she’d made the worst decision of her life.
She found the Duke of Oxford’s newest addition on the far wall. Small, inconspicuous even, the oil paint on canvas was by an artist whose name she didn’t recognize.
“Claude Monet,” she muttered, reading the signature scrawled at the bottom.
Whoever he was–or would become–his talent was apparent in every brushstroke. He’d depicted a busy boardwalk in the height of summer, with a dozen different shades of blue between the ocean and the sky. If she stared intently enough, she could almost smell the salt air and hear the call of gulls as they swooped to pick up pieces of bread thrown by giggling children.
“Ye should have a painting hanging right beside it,” drawled an achingly familiar brogue from directly behind her.
On a startled gasp, Brynne nearly jumped out of her heeled shoes. Would have, had Lachlan not laid a steadying hand upon her shoulder.
“What–what are you doing here?” Her hazel eyes as wide as the sky in Monet’s beach scene, she whirled ar
ound to confront her husband with equal parts disbelief, irritation, and bewildered joy. “You nearly scared me to death!”
“That wasna me intention.”
“Then what was your intention?”
“Tae see ye,” he answered simply. On a low whistle, he stepped back, his gaze slowly traveling from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. “I dinna have the words tae describe what a vision ye are, Bry. A sunset comes close. The colors of it. The way it dances across the horizon as if painted by God’s own hand. But compared tae ye, it’s nothing but a picture scrawled by a child.”
She wasn’t going to be charmed.
She wasn’t.
She refused.
“Lachlan, if you’ve come here to win me back–”
“Aye and it’s a high opinion we have of ourselves, isna it?” he smirked. “I received an invitation from the Duke of Oxford, same as ye. I didna realize our separation extended tae me being unable tae attend a ball.”
“Oh. I thought…” Flushing, she trailed away while Lachlan continued to grin.
Dashingly handsome in all black save the white of his cravat, he was the very picture of a refined aristocrat with his auburn hair contained in a tail at the nape of his neck and his face cleanly shaven. If not for the glint in his eyes and that roguish dimple in the middle of his cheek, she might have almost believed he was a gentleman.
“I figured it would be more awkward not tae seek ye out than tae pretend we didna know each other,” he said, arching a brow.
“Yes, you’re right.” She gave a tiny shake of her head. Pasted a smile on her face. “Of course, you’re right.”
“And who is it we have here?” he asked, nodding at the painting she’d been admiring before he snuck up behind her.
Seduced by the Scot Page 23
