Taking a deep breath, Brynne pivoted towards the wall and linked her hands behind her back as an irrational surge of annoyance went through her. Why did Lachlan have to be here tonight, of all nights? Even though he had as much a right to attend the ball as she did…and this wasn’t going to be the first, or the last, time that their paths inadvertently crossed. She pressed her lips together. If this was how he wanted it to be between them–friendly acquaintances, if not outright friends–then she’d do her best to accommodate his wishes. And ignore both the accelerated beat of her pulse and the slick tug between her thighs brought on by his nearness.
A year and a half she’d had to miss him, and this was how her body reacted when they’d barely spent a day apart? It was baffling. It was bemusing. It was an outright betrayal. Or maybe it wasn’t. Tell someone they had to have something, and they didn’t want it. Put it out of their reach, and it was all they desired.
But she couldn’t desire her husband.
Because…because she just couldn’t.
And that was all there was to it.
“Monet. Claude Monet.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve never heard of him, but if the Duke of Oxford has seen fit to add him to his collection, then he surely is an artist of substance.”
“And why is it the duke doesna have one of yer paintings?” Lachlan asked. “I’m sure this Monet fellow is all well and dandy, but it’s a beach with some sand and steps. Blaine could do something similar, if he had half a mind tae. But I’ve seen yer paintings, Bry. The scope of them. The sheer, staggering depth. If anyone deserves tae be in this gallery, it’s ye.”
“You’ve–you’ve seen my paintings?” This was the second time her husband had surprised her this evening. She’d never lifted a paintbrush at Campbell Castle, although she supposed he could have gone through the canvases she had brought with her and kept in a trunk in their bedroom. She just never thought that he had, given that he’d never shown any particular interest in her artistic endeavors.
Until now.
“The scene ye painted of our meadow on the hill is me favorite. The colors ye used. The blend of grass, and trees, and stars. Second only tae being there in person.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That painting is in my bedchamber. At Hawkridge Manor.”
“Aye, so it is,” he said cheerfully. “Above yer bed, if I recall.”
“You went in my room without my knowledge?”
“I was lost.”
“You weren’t lost,” she said, exasperated–and a tad amused. “Furthermore, it’s not our meadow.”
“Then why is it the first thing ye see when ye go tae sleep and the first thing ye awake tae in the morning?”
Her mouth opened. Closed. “Because I–”
“Who’s this one by?” he asked, pointing at a larger painting in a gilt-edged frame.
“William Hogarth, who was renowned for his Rococo style. Do you see how the brush strokes are flowing in nature, and there are high ridges of paint on the canvas?”
Lachlan shrugged. “All I see is that the lady isna very impressed by the bloke who’s grabbing her hand.”
“This is part of a series titled Before and After. This is the Before, and that”–she nodded at the painting beside it, showing the same couple albeit in a much more…intimate position–“is the After. It was deemed too risqué for public viewing at The National Gallery, which was how the Duke of Oxford was able to attain it through private auction.”
“Aye,” said Lachlan, tilting his head. “I can see why he wanted it. From this angle, ye can all but look up the lady’s skirts at her–”
Brynne’s face heated. “As I said, it is very risqué.”
He slanted her a grin. “Ye have tae admire the bloke’s persistence. It won him the lady’s affections in the end.”
“Or maybe,” she countered, “the woman acquiesced against her better judgment.”
“Dinna know about that,” said Lachlan, scratching his chin. “She looks quite pleased with herself.”
As Brynne imagined she had worn a similar expression after making love with her husband on the eve of their wedding, she possessed no valid counterpoint other than to move on to the next painting which was, thankfully, a landscape scene.
“This was done by Charles Bernard, a French impressionist who employs primary colors to–”
“Do those hills appear strange tae ye?” Lachlan interrupted.
“Strange?” She frowned at the painting. “Strange how?”
“The way they’re shaped. And the single tree on top of each one. Almost makes them look like–”
Breasts.
The hills resembled breasts.
“Over here,” she said hastily, “we have another Frenchman, Nicolas Poussin, renowned for his mastery of the Baroque style. As you can see, his paintings are exceptionally detailed.”
“Aye, I’ve never seen more realistic buttocks. Would ye say those are more muscular or less muscular than mine?” He patted his backside. “Ye can feel for comparison, if ye’d like.”
If her cheeks were hot before, they were positively burning now. “Is there any painting you won’t sexualize?” she hissed.
“Not if it makes ye blush like that.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Thank ye.” Then he sobered. “Ye never painted at Campbell Castle. Why? I know ye had everything sent tae ye.”
“I did, but…” She hesitated as she searched for an answer to the question that she’d already asked herself to no avail. “I am not sure, to be honest. Had you asked me a month ago, I would have said it was because I was too busy with the children, but that’s not completely true. I suppose…I suppose I was lacking for inspiration. Or maybe I didn’t want to go in search of it.”
“Why is that?”
“Because if I did, I’d have found it.” She shrugged helplessly. “Then I never would have been able to leave.” When she heard her own words, the blood drained from her countenance. “Lachlan, I’m sorry.”
But he only nodded, as if her admission came as no great revelation to him even though it had shocked her to her core. “And there was a part of ye that always planned on leaving,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m afraid there was.”
In the silence that followed, she stared at the carpet, unable to meet his gaze for fear of the censure she was certain she would see there. But when he spoke, he wasn’t angry. And when he took her hand and placed a small, rectangular object in her palm, then wrapped her fingers around it, his touch was gentle.
“I brought this for ye. A token of a time when things were less complicated between us. I love ye, Bry.” So soft that she barely felt it, he kissed her forehead, his nose pressing into her hair before he moved away and gave a crooked smile. “Enjoy the rest of the ball.”
She waited until he was gone to open her hand and look at what he’d given her. When she saw what it was, what it meant, her breath caught and her eyes stung. Tucking it safely into the beaded reticule dangling from her wrist, she rushed after him in a flurry of taffeta and silk.
But when she reached the hallway, it was empty…and he was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I have to show you something.” The next morning Brynne brought Lachlan’s gift with her into the front parlor where Evie was drinking coffee and poring over the latest edition of The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine.
“I’m glad you’re here,” said Evie without glancing up. “I am trying to decide between these three necklines for the wedding gown I’m having designed. Joanna says they all look the same to her, but her opinion can hardly be trusted given that she wore her traveling habit–her traveling habit!–to marry Kincaid. Claimed it was more practical, if you can believe it.”
“I can, actually.” Forgoing the coffee for a cup of tea–her nerves were already strained enough–Brynne sat down beside Evie and consulted the different dresses that her brother’s fiancée had circled with such v
igor that dots of ink had splattered across the rest of the page. “You’ll be a beautiful bride no matter what you wear–”
“Well that’s not helpful.”
“–but a square cut neckline would complement your décolletage and collarbones the best, I should think. It’s a simpler design, but won’t distract from your face, which should be the main focus once you lower your veil.”
“Weston does like gazing at my décolletage.”
“So I’ve noticed,” Brynne said dryly.
Evie tapped her pen on the edge of the table, then drew a star beside the dress with the square bodice. “You’re right. This is the one. Now I only have to pick the variation of ivory I want, along with the size of the bustle, pearl buttons or gold, and the length of the train. Not to mention–”
“Could we discuss another topic for a moment?” It was either cut in then, or not at all. When fashion was the subject at hand, Evie was capable of going on at great length. Ordinarily, that was something the two women would have in common. But today, Brynne had a much more pressing subject matter on her mind. “Then I promise to give your wedding gown my full, undivided attention.”
“That’s right. You did say you had something to show me.” Evie laid down her pen and linked her fingers together expectantly.
“I also have something to tell you.” When she felt her chest beginning to constrict, Brynne inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. “But before I do, I have to ask that you not share it with my brother. At least not right away. I understand it’s a large favor–”
“Is not knowing whatever it is hurting him in some way?” Evie interrupted.
“No. If it were, I never would have kept it from him.” She blew out another stream of air, then pursed her lips. “Although he may hurt me once he finds out.”
“Now I must know. And I won’t tell him. Weston is going to be my husband, but you’re going to be my sister, and both of those relationships are special in their own way. We may not be blood, but you’re as important to me as Joanna and Claire.” Evie put her hand on top of Brynne’s and squeezed. “I want you to know that.”
“Thank you. I…thank you.” What else was there to say? She was humbled by Evie’s willingness to place her upon the same pedestal as her real sisters, even though they’d had an entire lifetime together while Brynne and Evie had just met. But then love wasn’t guided by time, or rules, or expectations. It was a river running down the side of a mountain. Diverging into streams and pools, drying up in places and flooding others, all while consistently trickling towards the ocean. And the ocean was–
Me, she realized in a stunning moment of clarity.
The ocean is me.
Not her father. Not Weston. Not Evie.
Not even Lachlan.
The ocean comprised all of the love she should have had for herself.
Should have, but didn’t.
Because along the way, she’d allowed the tide to go out.
Maybe it was when she was diagnosed with anxious mannerisms. Or when Miss Hardgrave discouraged her curiosity. Or her father stopped bothering to even send so much as a birthday letter. Or the girls at Cheltenham Ladies’ College had teased her mercilessly. Or the Dowager Countess of Crowley made it clear that a woman’s only purpose in life was to marry and marry well.
Her interests, her pursuits, her goals–they didn’t matter.
She, as an individual, didn’t matter.
All of these little things had chipped away at her self-worth. Her self-love. They’d happened so gradually, so seamlessly, that she had barely noticed. Like a rock being slowly worn down to sand every time a wave washed over it.
Until the rock was gone and her ocean was empty.
And finally, there it was.
The answer she’d been seeking all this time without knowing what question to ask.
She hadn’t run from Lachlan because of a supposed affair.
Or because of the children.
Or because of the castle.
She’d left because, deep down, she felt as if she were never worthy of his love. And she had wanted to end things between them before he came to his senses and ended them first. If she was incapable of loving herself, why would she ever expect that a man as good, as decent, as kind as Lachlan could?
“But I was wrong,” she whispered as she withdrew the gift he had given her from the handkerchief she’d carefully wrapped it in. “I was so very wrong.”
“What is that?” Evie asked, a line of confusion marring her temple.
“A barley stick. My husband gave me one eleven years ago, and this one last night. It’s made of sugar, and worth more than all the gold in England.”
“Your husband?” Evie’s jaw dropped. “I had no idea you were married! Who? How? When? Who?”
Brynne’s mouth curved in a mirthless smile. “Perhaps I should start at the beginning…”
When she had finished, Evie sagged in her chair and shook her head in disbelief. “I cannot believe you managed to hide a husband. I cannot believe that all the time we’ve known each other you have been married.”
“Estranged,” Brynne corrected as she refreshed her tea and silently wished it was something much stronger.
“What did you wear?”
“Wear?” she said blankly.
“For your wedding.”
It was such a silly detail, such a small, meaningless note in the novel that comprised Brynne and Lachlan’s eleven year relationship, that she couldn’t help but laugh. Which was the point, she gathered from the way Evie’s eyes crinkled at the corners. For which she was grateful.
“A green dress that belonged to my mother,” she shared. “It was very plain, with only a beige ribbon for decoration.”
“It sounds perfect,” said Evie.
“It was.” She added a spoonful of milk to her tea, but didn’t drink it. Her stomach was too knotted to consume anything, even water. “I think I’ve acted poorly. No, I know that I have. Lachlan loved me. He does love me, to this day. And I…I have pushed him away. Perhaps irrevocably.”
“Never let it be said that loving a Weston is easy,” Evie declared with a humorous twist of her lips. “Your brother would have rather jumped off a cliff than admit he adored me. But I won him around in the end.”
Yes, she had.
And the notoriously cold-hearted Earl of Hawkridge had never been happier.
“But weren’t you afraid?” Brynne asked.
Evie’s head tilted. “Of what?”
“Of falling in love.”
“If you find the person you’re meant to be with, you don’t fall in love with them.” Her blue eyes shining, she smiled gently. “You fly.”
The private offices of Mr. Jacobson and his partners were not available to clients, new or existing, without an appointment. Generally speaking, that appointment needed to be made weeks in advance. As the most highly regarded solicitor in all of London, Mr. Jacobson’s time was of the utmost value.
And he charged for it accordingly.
But–as with all things–there were always exceptions, the Weston family being one of them. Which was why, when he was informed that the Marquess of Dorchester’s daughter had made an unscheduled visit, Mr. Jacobson left his meeting and met her in the grand foyer of the elegantly appointed townhouse without delay.
“Lady Brynne,” he said after he’d personally taken her jacket and gloves and ushered her into the adjoining parlor, an informal space meant to put his higher brow clientele at ease. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Or to be more accurate, no notice at all.” Forgoing tea and refreshments, Brynne sat down and neatly folded her hands on her lap. After her enlightening conversation with Evie yesterday, she’d known what she needed to do. What she had to do.
“I am always available to you, my lady. Ready to serve in whatever manner you require.” Approximately the same age as her father, Mr. Jacobson was tall and t
hin. The most notable thing about him was his gray moustache, and the way he waxed the tips so that they pointed straight up like tiny barbs. Everything else, from his three-piece tweed suit to the way he kept his hair slicked back (what remained of it, at any rate) with pomade was ordinary. Plain, even. But his intelligence and sharp legal mind were extraordinary, making him the obvious choice when Brynne had sought someone to help end her marriage. And now he was who she needed to see in order to save it.
“I come to you today with a delicate matter, Mr. Jacobson.”
“Delicate matters are my specialty.”
“You may recall our discussion surrounding the dissolution of my marriage to Lord Campbell,” she began. “We settled upon judicial separation as our best course of action, and you had papers drawn up for both parties.”
“Indeed,” the solicitor nodded. “Lord Campbell has already returned his.”
“He–he has?” she said in dismay. “So soon? But he only just arrived in London.”
Eighteen months.
For eighteen months, Lachlan had held on to hope that their marriage could be saved. And in three days he’d signed papers to destroy it once and for all.
Because of her.
She’d done this.
She’d wanted this.
She’d asked for this.
And now, perversely, it was the one thing she didn’t want.
“Give them to me,” she said wildly. “The papers. I’ll–I’ll destroy them. Burn them. Throw them in the Thames. It will be as if they never existed, and the judicial separation won’t be able to proceed.”
Mr. Jacobson frowned. “I am afraid I cannot do that, Lady Brynne. They were filed with the Court of Divorce and Matrimonial Causes this morning. Per your last written directive, that was what you requested me to do as soon as I was in possession of them.”
“Yes! No.” She clutched her skirt as she struggled to stave off a rush of tears. “I mean, yes, it was what I hired you to do. But I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to separate from my husband. I don’t want to separate from him at all.”
“Ah,” the solicitor remarked, his countenance impassive. “I see.”
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