“I say, I’ve a brilliant idea.”
She turned toward him, her brush aloft. “Do you, now? Perhaps I should alert the Times, then.”
“Very amusing. Ahem. You know I care for you, Luce—”
“And I care for you, too,” she interrupted, her voice tight. Wherever was this leading?
With a sudden, jerky movement, Colin reached for her shoulders. Her eyes widened with surprise as she felt his lips touch hers. At once, she reached up and pushed him away. Green paint soiled his lapel as her brush dropped from her hand to the grass below.
“Whatever are you doing, Colin?” She could only stare at him in amazement.
“Lucy, why don’t you marry me?” he said.
“That isn’t funny.” Lucy looked up at the house and thought she saw a drape flutter in Lord Rosemoor’s study.
Colin moved to her side, his lean frame towering over her diminutive one. In mock exaggeration, he placed a hand over his heart. “I’m utterly and completely serious.”
“Have you lost your wits?” She bent down to retrieve her brush. “I was in no way insinuating you should marry me.”
“Upon my honor, I can assure you I have my wits entirely about myself. Why not marry me? It would serve us both well. I need a wife, and you will need a husband. We’re fond of one another, after all.”
“I cannot marry you, Colin.”
“But you care for me?”
“Of course I do,” Lucy said, “as a brother. Not as a lover.” Wherever did he get such a preposterous idea? Why, it was almost incestuous. She felt a shiver snake up her spine.
“But I would allow you to do whatever you please. Did you not just say—”
She shook her head. “It must be more than that.”
“What more could you want?”
“Love, Colin. Much as I adore you, I don’t love you in that way. I...I’m sorry, I thought...” She shook her head as her voice trailed off, and she busied herself with her paints in an effort to avoid looking at him.
“You’re right, of course. It was folly.” He reached for his handkerchief and began dabbing at the paint that marred his coat. “You must forgive my boorish behavior.”
“Of course I forgive you. You just...took me by surprise, that’s all. You’re like a brother to me, Colin. You always have been.”
“Have no fear. My affections for you have always remained brotherly in thought and nature. But you’re not my sister, and I only thought I must kiss you, to be certain. I hope my ill-considered words and actions haven’t damaged our friendship beyond repair.”
“Don’t be silly.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “It was a very gallant thing to do, offering to rescue me from the marriage mart.”
He smiled his familiar, lopsided smile, and Lucy returned it with her own. “And now you must tell me, for the record...”
“Yes?”
“The kiss.”
“Like kissing a sister,” he said with a mischievous grin.
“Positively incestuous,” she added with a nod.
“I say, there’s Mother,” he said, stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket. “Probably coming to scold you for not resting up for callers later.”
Lucy looked up sharply and saw Lady Rosemoor waving from the terrace. The viscountess walked briskly down through the garden and joined the pair before the easel.
“Lucy, what an, um, interesting, ahh...landscape, is it?”
“Yes, I know. It’s awful. I’ve never attempted landscapes before. I thought to give it a try.”
“Well, the horse there”—Lady Rosemoor pointed—“is superb.” She moved closer and raised her quizzing glass. “Very lifelike. It truly is, dear.” She nodded her head, her lips pursed.
“Thank you,” Lucy said. “Are Jane and Susanna resting?”
“Yes, they are. Colin, I was hoping for a private word with our Lucy. Would you excuse us? Your father is enjoying a sherry in his study and I am sure he would welcome your company.”
“Of course, Mother. I’d be happy to oblige.” Colin winked at Lucy and strode off toward the house.
Lady Rosemoor settled herself on a dainty chair, her ample body spilling over the sides of the seat. She gestured for Lucy to sit. “Lucy, dearest, I do hope you will not take what I am about to say as criticism. It is just that, with your mother gone, I feel it is my responsibility to help...well, to guide you.”“Of course, Lady Rosemoor.” Lucy sat and folded her hands in her lap.
“Lady Mandeville sought me out last night at the ball and spoke quite frankly about her displeasure over your visit to Covington Hall.”
“Covington Hall? But that was over a month ago.”
“So it was, but still she’s harping on how terribly inappropriate it was, you helping with the foaling. She said she was shocked to find you alone with her son, unchaperoned. In a state of ‘dishabille’ I believe she said.”
“Oh!” Lucy rose to her feet. “That’s untrue. Perhaps I was without a bonnet or gloves, but other than that I was properly clothed.”
“Lucy, I am sure what you say is true. I realize that, at home, people are accustomed to your pursuits. But here in London there are those who will find it terribly unusual for a lady to conduct herself as you do. Please, dearest, sit.” Lady Rosemoor reached for Lucy’s hand and gestured toward the chair.
Lucy complied, her legs shaking.
“I know you are very skilled, very knowledgeable. And if what Lord Mandeville says is true, you saved the life of that foal. No, I have no qualms with your going to Covington Hall to assist as you did. After all, the marquess himself summoned you. But you should have allowed someone, Mrs. Stafford perhaps, or even Mary or Bridgette, to accompany you.”
“You’re right, Lady Rosemoor,” Lucy murmured, her eyes downcast, “and I’m sorry for the embarrassment you must have suffered. Shall I write Lady Mandeville a note of apology?”
“No. I told her I would speak with you, and I have. But she chose to tell me about the incident with Lady Charlotte Haverford at the Warburton party, as well.” She raised one brow.
Lucy’s cheeks burned. “Oh, Lady Rosemoor, I have no idea how I made such an error.”
“Well, it was not such an error on your part, dear, if he did indeed ask that you call him by his given name, and Jane assures me he did. Yet I am afraid that you have made quite an enemy of Lady Charlotte. From what I hear, it is possible she and Lord Mandeville will soon become betrothed. At least Lady Mandeville hints at that.” Lady Rosemoor tapped her chin thoughtfully, looking puzzled. “Although it does seem peculiar that he would so publicly cut a young lady he was about to offer for, doesn’t it?”
Lucy’s heart began thumping in her chest.
“Anyway, dear, I would suggest you try to avoid Lord Mandeville if you can. I do not know under what circumstances he allowed you to address him so informally, but I sincerely hope you haven’t formed an attachment.”
“I assure you I have not.”
“Oh, I am much relieved to hear it. I thought as much. Lord Rosemoor does think highly of him, but I think that after the scandal a few years back he is perhaps a wounded man. I see something...I cannot explain it, but there is something in his eyes that disturbs me.” She shook her head solemnly. “I cannot say exactly why I think he is to be avoided—after all, he is a marquess, his manners are impeccable, and his pockets are heavy enough. But...” She threw her hands in the air. “There it is. Something in his eyes.”
Lady Rosemoor rose and patted Lucy on the shoulder. “I hope I have not upset you. You are like a daughter to me, Lucy. I loved your dear mother—God rest her soul—like a sister. I only hope I can guide you as well as she would have herself. She would have been so proud of you last night. You were every bit the proper young lady.”
“Thank you. I hope you know how grateful I am for the opportunities you and Lord Rosemoor have given me.”
“But you would be happier at home, am I right?”
“I confess I
feel a Season in London is unnecessary for a girl such as me.”
“Nonsense. Your grandpapa was a baron. Why, even as a physician’s wife your mother could be presented at court. You had every right to be introduced into society yourself, and I know Sarah would have wanted it for you. Now go, off with you. Back to your dreadful painting.”
Lucy couldn’t help but laugh. It was dreadful.
“And if that nosy son of mine asks what we spoke of, tell him I was scolding you for not resting up properly for the callers you will surely receive this afternoon.”
She watched Lady Rosemoor amble back to the house, stopping to admire a bloom here and there as she went, and then Lucy returned to her canvas. She retrieved her brush and palette and stood there, surveying her work, but her mind refused to focus on the task at hand. What a day it had been. First the bouquet from Lord Mandeville, then Colin and his peculiar proposal—she could barely believe he had tried to kiss her. Again. For he’d tried once before, when she’d been no more than twelve. She’d punched him then, a perfectly placed right hook that had bloodied his nose. He’d only wanted some practice, he’d claimed indignantly. Lucy couldn’t help but laugh aloud at the memory.
And now this most uncomfortable conversation with Lady Rosemoor. Thank goodness Lady Rosemoor didn’t know what had transpired between Lord Mandeville and herself last night at the ball. Her cheeks burned at the memory. Forget it, she chastised herself. Forget him. It was Susanna’s heart that Lady Rosemoor should be concerned with, not hers. Hadn’t Lord Mandeville said he wasn’t looking for a bride? And even if he were, would the daughter of a viscount meet his criteria? She doubted it. Poor Susanna. Lucy shook her head with a sigh as she put away her paints.
“Marriage mart,” she muttered under her breath as she headed toward the house. “How dreadful.”
Chapter 8
“Colin, it is imperative I have a word with you.” Lord Rosemoor shut the door to the study and sat at his desk, motioning for Colin to take the seat opposite him.
“I am afraid I saw something most disturbing last night, and then, just now...” He shook his head as he trailed off. “After much thought, I know what must be done.” His father absently tapped his fingers on the desk as he spoke, a frown wrinkling his brow.
“Whatever are you talking about?” An uneasy wariness slithered across Colin’s heart.
“You, son, you and Lucy,” his father said. “Last night at the ball—”
“Oh, that.” Colin waved a hand dismissively. “I was angry at the time. Perhaps I was a little forceful, but it has been smoothed out between us, I assure you.”
“And just now, out in the garden. I’ve always feared this could happen. I can see it in your eyes, when you look at her.” His father shook his head and cleared his throat.
Colin narrowed his eyes. His father was speaking in riddles.
“This must be done at once. There is a packet of letters at my solicitor’s office. A correspondence, of sorts. I had planned to leave them to you upon my death, but, well...” He cleared his throat again. “It is essential you are in possession of the information they contain immediately.”
“Letters, you say? I’m not sure I understand.” Colin shook his head. He had never seen his father act so strangely, and it unnerved him greatly.
“You will understand once you read them, of that I am sure. Read them, and leave them there for safekeeping. I will not speak of this matter again. Is that clear, son?”
“Yes, Father, but the secrecy of the matter baffles me.” His father continued to look at him sternly, as if unsatisfied by his reply.
“Yes, that is clear,” Colin said through clenched teeth.
“Good.” Lord Rosemoor nodded. “Go there now. I just sent word that they should expect you.” Lord Rosemoor rose from his chair and picked up an unlit cheroot, turning his back to Colin.
Apparently, the interview was over.
***
They were, indeed, expecting him. The slim, bespectacled solicitor led Colin to a quiet office, handed him a stack of neatly tied-up letters, and left him there without a word of explanation. He sat down on the scabbed leather chair opposite the desk and untied the string holding the packet together. He had no idea what kind of information these papers would contain, but he had a feeling it would not be pleasant news.
He took the first letter from the top of the stack. His hands shook as he unfolded the paper yellowed with age, and began to read.
Dearest Charles, I received your last letter and hold it close to my heart. The babe is almost six months now, and what a joy she is! You have no idea the happiness she brings me. Her hair is soft-spun gold and her eyes have turned a lovely clear green. Yes, she looks like her mama! You can rest easy that there are no suspicious features to betray her parentage. Oliver adores her, dotes on her as if she were his own. He is a most accepting man, and of that I am truly grateful. I do miss you, dearest Charles. Every time I look at her, I am thankful for this precious gift you have given me. I must go, the babe awakens.
It was signed simply ‘Sarah’. Sarah? Abbington? Dear God. Colin’s stomach did a flip-flop in his gut. The letter was dated January, 1798. Almost twenty-one years ago. His forehead broke out in a cold sweat; ice ran through his veins. He picked out another letter at random and opened it, smoothing the page flat with damp hands. This one was dated August, 1801.
Charles, your last letter disturbed me greatly. I know you care for Lucy and that you feel a certain responsibility for us, but you must put what happened behind us. Elizabeth must never know. She would never understand, never forgive us, and Lucy would suffer. Surely you understand that? Elizabeth is my dearest friend, after all, and now Oliver is my husband. What is done cannot be undone, but we must spare those we love further pain.
Colin let the paper flutter to the desk. No need to read more. Lucy was his sister. His sister. Suddenly it all made sense. Hadn’t he always known it, always felt it in his heart? Good God, he had proposed marriage to her, even tried to kiss her! He shuddered and dropped his head into his hands with a groan.
What the hell had his father been thinking? It wasn’t as if Lucy were the only child born on the wrong side of the blanket. No, that was shockingly common amongst the ton. But Sarah Abbington had been his mother’s dearest friend. She had been like family. He searched his memory, looking for any indication of something—anything—improper between his father and Lucy’s mother. But he had only been a boy of four, perhaps five years when Lucy had been conceived. All he remembered was a woman with golden hair and green eyes, just like Lucy, except she had been taller, slighter, and her eyes had lacked the brilliant luster that Lucy’s possessed.
Had his father seemed exceedingly interested in Sarah’s daughter? He couldn’t remember. And then, several years later, Sarah had died while giving birth to Nicholas... Nicholas! Had he delved deeper into the packet of letters, would he have learned he had a half brother, as well? He eyed the letters suspiciously and shook his head. No, he could read no more. He realized he’d lost a significant measure of respect for his father. And yet...and yet he’d gained a sister, hadn’t he?
He stood on shaky legs and leaned against the desk. How unfair for him to be the sole possessor of this uncomfortable knowledge. Without thought, he retrieved the first letter from the stack and stuffed it into his breast pocket with a surreptitious glance around. He replaced the second letter and retied the bundle, then stood for a moment, attempting to collect himself.
Once his racing heart had settled a bit, he opened the door, thanked the solicitor, and headed out into the bright midday sun. He could feel the letter burning against his heart as he climbed into his curricle, took up the ribbons, and headed toward his own lodgings.
***
“Lucy, dear, must you go? You should be resting as the Rosemoor girls are doing.” Aunt Agatha shook her head impatiently as Lucy donned her riding gloves and straw bonnet.
Lucy had missed her morning constitutional and she wa
s itching to feel her horse beneath her, even if it was from atop a blasted sidesaddle. Yes, a ride would soothe her jangled nerves. Bridgette had already agreed to accompany her while her mistress slept. “Oh, Auntie, don’t fret. I promise to return in time for callers.” She wondered briefly if Thomas Sinclair would really come as he’d suggested. Her palms dampened at the prospect.
“Well, if you insist, then,” her aunt said. “But do hurry back, dear.” She wagged her head with disapproval.
“I will, Auntie,” Lucy said. “I promise.”
But before Lucy could finish tying her bonnet, Aunt Agatha began to wring her hands, her eyes darting about indecisively. “Oh, dear. Wait one moment, Lucy.” Her eyes appeared troubled. “I have a most unpleasant confession to make, and I can no longer stand the guilt.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Lucy asked in surprise.
“Earlier this morning I came to your bedchamber, looking for you, of course, nothing more, and I saw your escritoire was a mess so I thought to straighten it some, and...oh, bother!” the woman exclaimed, pulling something from her reticule. “I found this.”
Lucy could only stare. It was Lord Mandeville’s handkerchief. At the night’s end she had tucked it under her writing papers in the top drawer of her desk and then forgotten about it. She found her voice, made it steady. “Oh, is it only that? A handkerchief? You had me frightened for a moment there, Auntie.” She attempted a laugh.
“But dearest, the monogram,” Agatha said solemnly. She pointed to the monogrammed script. “‘I can only assume this belongs to Lord Mandeville?”
“Yes, you assume correctly.” There was no use denying it. Besides, perhaps it would help to unburden herself to her aunt. The tightness in her chest was positively suffocating. “It is indeed Lord Mandeville’s handkerchief. He gave it to me last night.” How would she ever explain it?
“Please tell me it was under proper circumstances,” her aunt said with a grimace. “I will be truthful with you, Auntie.” Lucy took a deep breath and steeled herself for her aunt’s disapproval. “We had somewhat of a row last night, the marquess and I. You know how easily I cry, and he gave me this to wipe my eyes. He apologized, of course, and all is well between us now, I suppose.” And she did suppose it was. After all, he had sent the flowers.
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