by Eloisa James
Colin opened it and found himself quite startled. Grace’s paintings weren’t the sort of ham-handed jumbles that he and Margaret had created at the same age. The first page held a vivid painting of a lop-eared dog. The paws weren’t quite right, but he would have recognized that dog anywhere, simply by the look on her face. “Old Bessie,” he said. “Mother wrote me that she’d passed away.”
“We buried her under the flagstones by the buttery,” Grace said. “That’s where she liked to sleep, in the sun.”
Colin turned the page and discovered a portrait of a young maid, and then a window with clouds visible in the sky beyond, and finally an apple just on the verge of turning soft. “I think you’re brilliant,” he said, meaning every word. “I could never do anything approaching this.”
She beamed at him, and her smile was so beautiful that Colin blinked. Grace generally stayed in Lily’s shadow, and to be honest, he hardly thought about her. But now he realized that Fred could be right: Grace might well be the more interesting of the two sisters.
The thought made him uncomfortable. She was a twelve-year-old girl, for heaven’s sake. And he was eighteen, a grown man. He rose to his feet and bowed, picking up her hand and kissing the back of it.
“Lady Grace, I hope you are entirely recovered very soon.”
Her eyes grew round. She had extraordinary eyelashes, as thick a fringe as he’d ever seen.
“Oh!” she said, pulling her hand away quickly. “I expect I shall.”
Colin got out of the room feeling rather queer. He was the eldest child in the Griffin family, and he had watched as his own siblings and the duke’s babies arrived. They were all family, nothing more than that.
It was just odd to think of Grace and Lily growing up, that was all.
Three
Two more years have passed
December 1831
Ryburn House
The Duke of Ashbrook’s country estate
The year Grace turned fourteen, Colin walked through the door in a uniform, and her heart gave one big thump and never beat exactly the same way again. He had grown even taller. His shoulders were very wide, and his cheekbones much more pronounced.
Her family flew from their chairs and everyone clustered around, exclaiming at the fact he’d been made a lieutenant. Grace didn’t quite dare join them, but all day she secretly watched him whenever they were in a room together. When her mother declared that she was old enough to join the adults at supper, Grace walked down the stairs white with excitement.
Sir Griffin happened to be in the entry, and he looked up at Grace and then smiled. He was a justice of the peace, and Papa had been trying all morning to talk him into running for Parliament, before his father died and Sir Griffin had to take up his seat in the House of Lords.
But she didn’t think he would run for Parliament; he liked going to court half the day and then playing with his children or sweeping his wife off for a private talk. She loved her own mama and papa dearly, but they were busy all day long.
Now Sir Griffin waited until she reached the bottom step and said, “Lady Grace, you are exquisite. How did you manage to grow up while my back was turned?”
Grace dropped into a deep curtsy and smiled at him. “I am not quite grown up yet.”
He offered his arm. “Your mother showed me the painting of Fred in which you caught his snub nose perfectly. I think you show a positive genius with a brush.”
Sir Griffin sat her beside Colin, stopping to ruffle his oldest son’s hair, just as if he were eleven instead of twenty. “Why don’t you do a portrait of this ruffian, Grace? It would give us something to swear at when he decides to visit the fleshpots of Europe rather than return home where he belongs.”
Grace had no idea what “fleshpots” were, but they didn’t sound very nice.
“I’d love to have you paint my picture,” Colin said cheerfully as she sat down beside him. “As long as you don’t bring along that naughty little sister of yours.”
“I tried to paint her portrait last week, but she wouldn’t sit still long enough.”
Colin laughed. “Lily is like a sprite, isn’t she? Flying on to whatever mischief she can make next.”
Grace could have sorted him out regarding Lily. She wasn’t nearly as interested in mischief as his own brother Fred was, for example. She was just high-spirited. Papa said he was planning to move to Scotland when she came of age. Mama said that Lily was just like her father.
Deep in her soul, Grace resented the fact that everyone talked about Lily all the time. “I rode my first steeplechase,” she told Colin, ignoring his foolish comment about sprites: Lily couldn’t fly. And she was even worse at riding than Grace was.
“That’s brilliant! Any luck?”
She shook her head. She’d fallen off after about ten minutes, and had been taken home by a groom. “So is it fun being at sea?”
“Fun?”
“Yes, fun,” she prompted. “You always said that the best thing in the world would be to go to sea and never step foot on the shore again. So I was wondering whether it is as much fun as you thought it would be.”
“There are moments that are great fun,” Colin said slowly, then stopped because his mother asked him something from his left.
“Which moments?” Grace asked, when that conversation was over, and she had his attention once more.
“There’s nothing better than being chased by a storm. It howls up behind you, and it takes everything you’ve got to outwit it.”
Grace could almost imagine it because of paintings she’d seen in the National Gallery. “Isn’t it wet and cold? Aren’t you afraid?”
“Storms are not always cold. If you’re in the Tropics, the water can be warm as your bath, but even so a storm can whip it up so that it froths like cream.”
“I shouldn’t like that.”
“You might surprise yourself. There’s a wonderful burst of excitement that comes from skimming before a wind that’s going faster than even the swiftest bird can fly.”
Grace shook her head. “I don’t care for excitement.”
“You don’t, do you? It’s Lily who inherited the pirate sensibility.”
Lily again. Grace was tired of hearing about Lily.
“What parts are not as much fun?” she asked.
His eyes darkened a little, the periwinkle blue going navy. Like seawater in a storm, she thought, or her father’s favorite waistcoat. Her father liked somber colors, though her mother always tried to put him in magnificent purples.
“Oh, you don’t want to hear about that.”
Grace sat up a little straighter and gave him a polite smile. She was her mother’s daughter and had excellent manners. She knew that one never argued at the table. “I do wish to hear about that,” she pointed out. “Otherwise I would not have asked.”
Colin grinned at her. “Do you always mean precisely what you say?”
“Yes.” Grace didn’t have a gift for fibbing. She was fascinated by the way people tried to hide their thoughts. More than anything, she liked watching the secrets people had in their faces. But she knew perfectly well that she didn’t have any secrets herself, and no ability to hide them if she did. “Do tell me what you don’t like about being at sea.”
“Sometimes it feels as if the ship has fallen out from under your feet, and you suddenly realize the water beneath you is fathoms deep: I don’t like those moments.”
Grace shivered. “I wouldn’t, either. Especially because that water is full of fish who would like to eat you.”
“Not all of them,” Colin said. Then he told her about fish that had lights on their noses, and eels whose tails whipped the water so it looked as if a current went through it.
But Grace was nothing if not tenacious. “What else don’t you like about being at sea?” she asked, some time later.
Colin’s smile went crooked. “You never give up, do you?”
“Why should I?” Grace asked. “If I want to know something, I m
ean?”
“Right you are,” he muttered. “Well, I have to say that I don’t like fighting. And that’s a problem because I’m in the navy, and the navy is all about fighting.”
“Do you fight with swords?”
“Mostly with guns.” His face closed shut and his eyes went the color of the ocean at night, not blue but black.
“When you are fighting, do you wish that you were home instead?”
“There’s no time for it, not in the middle of a sea battle.” He stopped but then he added, “After, when we’re cleaning up from the fight, I want nothing more than to watch Fred and Lily misbehaving, or see my father and yours behaving like idiots at the dinner table.”
“Idiots?” Grace frowned at him. “Papa is never an idiot. Don’t you have maids to clean up for you on board ship?”
“No,” Colin said. “There are no maids in the navy, Grace.”
“I could write you a letter now and then,” she offered. “If I knew where to send it, that is. I can describe to you what’s happening at home so that you can picture it, even if you are washing the deck.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “I would love any letter that you would write me. If your father forwarded it to the Admiralty, they would send it on to me in a dispatch.”
And that was how Lady Grace Ryburn began writing to Colin Barry, Lieutenant. Her first letter was quite short, and included a frank truth: “I hate Lily. Last night she cut off the fingers of my favorite pair of gloves because she thought it was funny.”
Colin wrote a note back, saying that he’d had a rotten week, and her letter about the gloves made him laugh.
So Grace started trying to find stories that might make him laugh in the midst of the worst days. She described her brother taking all of their father’s neck cloths and turning them into sails for toy boats. She wrote when the chickens escaped and perched on the housekeeper’s clean linens. She even put in a little watercolor of a hen roosting on a sheet.
She told him the plots of plays they saw in London, and what their governess said about them. Once she even wrote down an entire song that Lily learned in German, sending it along with an ink drawing of Lily singing with an agonized expression.
In fact, she found herself writing about Lily quite a lot. Lily was funny. Besides, no matter how much Grace resented her sister, she loved her even more. Grace tried to make her own life sound as interesting, but it wasn’t.
At some point, she began painting very, very small portraits (because she had to make them fit between the folds of a sheet of pressed paper), and many of them were of Lily, too.
Mostly, Colin didn’t write back, but when he did, he always thanked her, and he always asked what Lily had got up to lately.
By two years later, Colin hadn’t managed to return to England, but Grace was still writing to him twice a month.
Both families got used to asking Grace how Colin was doing, and after a while she began forwarding his letters to Sir Griffin and Lady Barry. Colin was not communicative, it seemed. The occasional letters he sent to Grace were the only ones he wrote at all.
“He has a best friend,” she told them all one December. “His name is Philip Drummond and he’s a lieutenant as well. Colin says that Philip is a better sailor than he is.”
And the following August: “He and Philip are assigned to the West Africa Squadron. Their ship is trying to protect people from being stolen from Africa. He says slavers fight like demons when they’re caught.”
“He’s a chip off the old block,” her father said, smiling at Sir Griffin and raising his glass. “You raised a good man, Coz.”
But Grace remembered how much Colin hated fighting, and didn’t care whether Colin was good or not; she just wished he could come home.
Four
August 1834
On the way to Arbor House
Fred snorted. “If you don’t fall for Lily, you’ll be the only man for miles around who hasn’t.”
“She can’t be sixteen,” Colin said, raising an eyebrow.
“She’s fifteen, the same as I am. She was swanning about Bath in July, flirting with anyone in breeches.”
“Are you hoping she’ll wait for you?”
Fred scowled. “She’s still a horror, if you ask me. I like Grace better, but she’s older than me.”
The sun slanting low through the carriage windows caught Fred’s cheekbones and his wildly curling hair, and Colin thought that his brother—especially after he grew into his ears—would be as likely to cause swooning as Lily.
Not that Fred cared. He wanted to be an astronomer, and because their parents were quite unconventional in insisting their children learn more than how to dance a reel, Fred spent his time studying planetary motions and the like.
“So what else has changed at home?” Colin asked, settling back into his corner of the carriage. He felt a bone-deep sense of happiness at the idea of spending a few days at Arbor House.
“Nothing,” Fred said, turning a page. “Alastair made a fool of himself over Lily in December, not that she paid him any mind. He’s had a hopeless infatuation for years now. It was embarrassing to watch.”
“I find the idea of Lily as a heartbreaker extremely hard to imagine,” Colin said.
“She’s the biggest flirt in five counties, that’s what Father says. Though he likes her.”
“He does?”
“Everyone does.” Fred thought about it for a moment and then offered, “I think because she’s so pretty, but at the same time, she makes you feel comfortable to be talking to her.”
“A very wise assessment. Is that enough to make every young man in her vicinity fall in love?”
Fred rolled his eyes. “She’s the daughter of a duke; everyone knows she has pots of pirate gold for her dowry; and she’s bigger in the front than most girls her age.”
“That would do it.”
“She’ll love you. She’s up for a challenge.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. At an assembly, she likes to line up all the eligible men and knock them down like ninepins. You weren’t around this year, so she hasn’t knocked you over yet. I’d say that you’ll be desperately in love with her by the end of the first day.”
“Why should I be at risk, since you aren’t?”
“It depends on whether you remember what she’s really like. I shall never forget.”
“And that is?”
“Horrid. Frogspawn horrid.”
Colin nodded. “She might well have changed, though.”
“You never know who you’re really talking to,” Fred said darkly. “You wait. Lily looks as sweet as pie. But underneath? Frogspawn.”
“Are you truly only fifteen years old?” Colin asked, a few minutes after being charmed by an utterly engaging young lady, who had her mother’s elegance and her father’s looks. “And are you sure that you are Lily?”
She threw him a sparkling glance. But as a dashing young lieutenant encounters many a sparkling young lady, Colin just grinned back at every minxlike look she gave him from under her lashes, until she burst into laughter.
“Yes, do give up,” he said, answering her unspoken comment. “I know that you have ambitions to be the most hotly sought-after young lady on the marriage mart, but I’m not available.”
Lily’s face lit with honest laughter was so much more seductive than her flirtatious glances that Colin actually felt a flash of attraction. “I shall be,” she confided. “Mother only allowed me to go to select events this year, but next spring I shall make a proper debut.”
“In London?”
“Of course. Grace will be coming as well as she hasn’t debuted yet. Mother is throwing the town house open and there will be a ball held in our honor…” She chattered on and on, but Colin didn’t listen. He just relaxed into the tinkling prettiness of English conversation. It felt so far from the powdery, acrid smell of cannon smoke. The way bright red blood falls to the deck and seeps between the boards.
“All right,” Lily said, tucking her hand through his arm. “I can tell that you’re not listening.”
“Forgive me,” he said, wondering what he had missed. Her smile was so impish and yet delightful that he smiled back, despite himself.
“You are finding me utterly tedious, and why shouldn’t you?”
“I find you delightful.”
“Pshaw!” she said, laughing. “You would have been my first beau in uniform, but I suppose I shall meet some others in the spring. A lieutenant! We’re all so impressed, Colin. Father said that he thinks you’ll be an admiral before you reach thirty, at this rate.”
Colin made himself smile. “I don’t see Grace anywhere. Will she be joining us?”
“Oh, she’ll be down by the lake,” Lily said. “Probably writing you a letter. Do go see her.”
Grace was indeed down at the lake, sitting under a willow and working on a portrait of her brother, Brandon. She had heard a “halloo” and a lot of shouting behind her, up the hill toward the house, but she didn’t move. With so many children milling about, there was always some sort of excitement brewing.
She had discovered that putting tiny flecks of red where someone didn’t expect to see them gave depth to a piece of clothing, no matter how tiny. She realized it after putting her face as close as possible to a portrait by Hans Holbein in the ducal gallery.
Holbein’s portrait was of one of her ancestors, a stuffy, bejeweled duke. Hers was of a naughty boy, but the effect was the same.
She was so intent on painting that she was unaware someone was approaching until a hand came down on her shoulder, and a big body came between her and the water glinting on the lake.
It was Colin.
She looked up at him without a word, cataloguing—the way she always did—the curl of his eyelashes, the deep blue of his eyes, his high cheekbones. The way his thigh muscles bulged as he squatted before her. The way his shoulders seemed much wider than they had been the last time she saw him. Just like that, her heart began beating so quickly that she felt a bit dizzy.
