The Lost Heiress

by Roseanna M. White

  “Mm. Kitty was telling me of how my mother came to meet you. Well, that she came here to call on Aunt Mary.”

  Brook would never tire of seeing the way his eyes went soft and warm at the mention of his Lizzie. Of the way his lips twitched. “Mary was out that day. I had seen your mother before, in London that Season—though only from a distance. She was always surrounded by crowds of adoring beaux, and I … I thought it all ridiculous, honestly. All that hubbub over one lovely face.”

  She couldn’t hold back the breath of laughter. “I am utterly shocked.”

  Half a grin emerged. “I had to be in Town that year, Mary was just betrothed to Ramsey. But I had no intention of playing those games. Then when I walked into the great hall as she was leaving her card …” His gaze went distant, awe-filled. “I was stunned. Not just because of her beauty, but because up close, without the crowds, I could so easily see that she was a woman of heart.”

  “And what did you do? Let her go, until the next time, when Aunt Mary was home?”

  “No.” He chuckled and cast his gaze to the side of the house and the maze cut into the shrubbery. “I assured her my sister would return in but a few moments and asked her to walk the maze with me to pass the time. Then pretended to get lost.”

  “Cunning.”

  He tapped a finger to his temple and, when the arriving car pulled into an open space a fair distance away, led her that direction. “I had that to my advantage, if nothing else. We strolled, talked.”

  “And fell in love?” It wasn’t hard to picture it, not with that light in his eyes.

  “It didn’t take long. She and Mary became fast friends, saw each other almost every day, and I … I think I knew within a week, though I couldn’t fathom she would feel the same. Miraculously, though …”

  Brook patted her father’s arm, even as her eyes tracked the two heads climbing from the car—one red as fire and the other dark as midnight—and the servants’ carriage that followed behind, headed for the rear. “It is no miracle.”

  “Love is always a miracle. Especially in this world.” He waved at all that was his—the grand house, the grounds, the extravagance. “I pray you find it someday, Brook—though not,” he added, spinning to her with a scowl, “anytime soon. I’ve only just got you back. Are we clear?”

  She was still laughing when the taller of the heads, the dark one, turned their way. It took only a glance to see why Thate had been worried over this future duke, and why Melissa always said his name on a wistful sigh. Lord Worthing could only be described as debonair—handsome, polished, and with a charm that all but knocked her over the moment he flashed his teeth in a grin.

  “Lord Whitby! Our apologies for our late arrival.” He strode their way, hand outstretched.

  The other half of his our seemed to have disappeared, but Brook couldn’t see where she’d gone. She let go her father’s arm so he could shake the young man’s hand. Unlike most of the other guests to greet them, he actually kept his gaze on Whitby rather than gawking at her.

  “No need to apologize, my lord.” Her father didn’t smile now, though he looked pleasant enough. And was probably adding a silent, The fewer the merrier. “We are only glad you could join us at all. I am acquainted with your father, you know.”

  Lord Worthing’s smile emerged again and nearly blinded her. He had dimples, even white teeth, and, what was more, seemed genuine in his enjoyment of life. “He speaks highly of you. He and Mother wanted to join us, but they had a few engagements yet in the Highlands they couldn’t bow out of.” Releasing Whitby’s hand, Worthing turned the full force of his smile on her. “And this must be your daughter.”

  “Lady Berkeley, yes.” Her father touched a supportive hand to the small of her back.

  Brook held out a hand, acknowledging the skitter of pleasure that raced up her arm when Worthing took it in his and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “I’ve heard much about you, my lord.”

  He laughed as he straightened, his fingers still clasping hers. “And despite that, I hope we will be friends. I am certain you and Ella …”

  Here he turned, and his smile gave way to a frown. “I seem to have misplaced my sister.” He said it as one might say one had misplaced one’s book … yet with obvious fondness.

  Brook could see her red hair over by Regan and Thate, but she decided that might not be the wisest place to direct his gaze just then. “She must have seen a friend.” Brook glanced to her father for help, but Whitby was frowning down the driveway.

  He in fact patted her back and took a step away. “That appears to be a courier. Will you excuse me, my dear? My lord?”

  “Of course.” In proof, Lord Worthing took the fingers he still held and tucked them into the crook of his elbow, beaming down at her. “It must be my lucky day. Only here for minutes, and already I have the lady of the hour on my arm. You are every bit as lovely as I had been warned to expect, my lady … and perhaps a bit more besides.”

  The wool under her fingers was fine, worsted. The same texture as Grand-père’s favorite jacket—for a moment the breeze felt warmer, the distant voices sounded Monegasque. For a moment, she was strolling through Monte Carlo, the scents of spice and salt in her nose. A princess again.

  No—a pretender again.

  Worthing drew her forward. “I’ve said something to upset you. Please, forgive me. Flattery is our language, but if it makes you uncomfortable … Though in my defense, it’s hardly flattery when it’s true.”

  A taste of laughter tickled her throat, though she let only a small smile escape. “I am immune to flattery, my lord—I grew up in a prince’s palace.”

  When she glanced up, she saw his dark eyes had gone serious. And seemed to see far more of her than they ought. “You are permitted to miss it—your father will understand.”

  She very nearly withdrew her hand and fled—a man she had known for all of a blink had no right to see what no one else ever seemed to. But then he glanced toward the side of the house where his sister had gone, where Regan still stood with her arm woven through Thate’s, and he came to an abrupt halt.

  Brook sucked in a breath.

  Worthing looked down at her with an arched brow and eyes filled with … laughter? “I seem to have missed something.”

  She could only stare at him. He must be upset at the woman he was courting attaching herself to another. And his quick stopping had shouted his surprise. Why, then, did his face reflect only amusement? Brook cleared her throat. “We just saw them come back from the hunt together. I haven’t spoken to her yet …”

  Worthing put on a lopsided smile and faced forward again, his gaze fastened on the new couple. “I deserve the credit for that, I think. I can’t tell you the number of times I caught him scowling at us in London.”

  She could well imagine though, and had to fight back a chuckle. “Oh, Thate wouldn’t scowl. Glowering, though—I have found the English to be masters of the glower.”

  Lord Worthing’s laugh rang out free and bright. “Bested only by the Russians, I daresay. Or are they ones with proper scowls?”

  Her very thought from that day in Monaco … which made her stomach knot up. “You’ve the right of it.” She looked at her cousin, laughing and grinning in the distance, and then back to her companion. “You’re not upset?”

  Lord Worthing sighed. “Your cousin is absolutely everything I could want in a wife, were I to make a list. And I think we both hoped we would fall in love. But …” He motioned toward Regan with his free hand. “We didn’t. I’ve known for a while that the Lord had other plans for us.”

  Brook tugged her hand free of his arm, so she could plant it on her hip. “Why, then, were you still courting her?” Perhaps she shouldn’t get irritated with a near stranger. But it was her cousin he had been toying with. Sweet, selfless Regan.

  And he had the nerve to grin. “Oughtn’t you to be chiding her, my lady, and demanding to know how she could dangle me while in love with Thate? It isn’t as though I was cour
ting anyone else at the same time. Surely I am the injured party here, not your cousin, who certainly looks happy with how things turned out.”

  The fact that he had a point did nothing to defuse the anger so quick to burn today. It must be the fault of the dream, and the restless night’s sleep it had caused yet again. “You certainly don’t seem injured, my lord—you seem rather happy as well.”

  Perhaps on another face, the arch of brow would have come off as a challenge. On him, it looked like a jest. “And now it is a crime to be glad that a young lady I care for has found the husband the Lord intended for her?”

  For a moment, the irritation still simmered. But the longer she held his gaze, the weaker the fire burned. And the more amusing it all seemed. Regan was happy, Thate was happy—and it was due in large part to Worthing inspiring Thate to jealousy. Who knew how long it would have taken him to act otherwise? It seemed no one was displeased with how it all turned out.

  With the exception of Aunt Mary, of course.

  Brook relented with a gusty sigh and nodded toward the redhead hurrying their way. “I believe your sister is coming to break the bad news to you.”

  Lord Worthing chuckled and deftly tucked her fingers into the crook of his arm again. “Play along and I shall be forever in your debt—I can never get my fill of teasing Ella.”

  “Play along with what exactly?”

  Rather than answer, he patted her fingers where they rested on his arm, as if she were a friend he’d known for years. “You’ll get along well, I think. You’ll find that she’s annoyingly optimistic, but we love her anyway.”

  Brook directed her gaze to the distraught girl—she looked to be about seventeen—and could well imagine liking her. There was no clever cunning in her eyes, no line of artistry in her carriage. She looked all brightness and innocence.

  Except for the concern in her cinnamon eyes as she rushed up. “Brice …”

  “I know, Ella-bell.” Reaching out, he slung his other arm over her shoulders, so easily he must do it often. He loosed an exaggerated sigh. “And my heart has positively rent in two. But the Lord is good, and already He has provided me the most beautiful bandage a man could ask for. This is the Baroness of Berkeley, a succor to my crushed spirits.”

  Ella stared at him a moment, agape, and then looked to Brook.

  This must be his game, though Brook wasn’t sure how, exactly, she should play along. Was she to act lovestruck? Before she could decide, Lady Ella rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I can hardly tell when you’re joking.”

  Worthing winked at Brook. “It’s a gift.”

  “Did you warn her that you’re an unabashed flirt, and that she had better not take a word you say seriously?”

  At that, Brook had to laugh. “I figured that much out for myself, my lady.”

  “Call me Ella, please.” Dimpling, she reached across her brother to clasp the hand Brook lifted. “I hope we’ll be friends. I’ve been absolutely dying to hear about your life in Monaco. It sounds so romantic!”

  “Heaven help us—Ella, you don’t need any more tales of romance in your life. Make it out to be a bore, my lady, I beg you, or she’ll be running off to the casinos.”

  Ella’s eyes widened. “I would never! He’s terrible, Lady Berkeley, ignore him. Don’t believe anything he says. The only place I would ever run off to is Scotland—”

  “Hear that? She’s threatening to elope, and she isn’t even out yet.”

  “Stop teasing, Brice.” Ella slapped her brother in the arm, making Brook laugh. Then she looked around him again, to her. “Our mother’s from Edinburgh, and we take our holiday every year at her family’s lodge in the Highlands. Again, Lady Berkeley, just ignore him.”

  “Don’t worry.” She found their banter refreshing—not unlike what she and Justin so often shared. “And please, call me Brook.”

  Ella’s smile was sunshine.

  Lord Worthing’s was pure mischief. “Well, if you insist, but I suspect it will make your aunt faint dead away to hear me do so. And then you’ll be obliged to call me Brice, and she might never recover.”

  She would have laughed again, but Worthing’s mirth faded as he looked at something beyond her. Her father, it seemed, though he wasn’t coming their way. His jaw was clenched, his hand clutched around a piece of paper, and his course set for the house.

  No, not the house—the group of hunters just dismounting on the south lawn. She hadn’t noticed them come up, though now she swore she could feel Justin’s eyes shooting arrows into her. That Whitby was headed his way shouldn’t have made alarm race up her spine. Not until he called out for Lord Cayton as he passed.

  “Oh no.” Brook would have run forward, caught her father, passed him by. She would have run to Justin, gripped his hand, readied to hold him up again as she had those few short weeks ago.

  But her old friend turned his face away from her and strode forward to meet her father and his cousin. Rigidity in every line. Fingers curled into fists. Posture shouting that he needed, wanted no one. The fool of a man.

  Lord Worthing took her hand off his arm, let it go. But settled his fingers on her shoulder for a moment. “He’s the one who brought you here, isn’t he? You met in Monaco?”

  She could only nod, mute.

  “Everyone knows the Duke of Stafford is ill. Whatever news your father’s carrying, it isn’t good. Go to him. Even if he pushes you away, go. He needs you.”

  It was all the impetus she needed to go tearing across the lawn.

  Fourteen

  I knew I shouldn’t have left.” Justin pulled off his muddy boots and handed them to Peters. He needed to change. He needed to pack. He needed to leave, right now. No, yesterday.

  No, he shouldn’t have come at all.

  His valet grasped the black leather too tightly, obviously as shaken as he and Cayton had been. “He told you to go, Your Grace. It was what he wanted.”

  Your Grace. “Don’t. Not yet, please. Please, just … let me be me until we get home.”

  Peters turned away, toward his boot brushes. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

  He dragged a hand through his hair. “Don’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong.” Justin had, though. God had tried to warn him, and he had listened to the duke instead. Yet not, because he hadn’t come with any intention of proposing to Brook.

  And he’d been rewarded by seeing her laughing with who could only be Lord Worthing, her hand on his arm. Then this, moments later. It had been all he could do to escape the lawn before he fell to pieces, in front of her and the man he had no doubt would become her new beau.

  “You were going to change, my lord.”

  “Right.” Here he was standing in the middle of his room, shirtless, wasting precious time. He charged behind the screen and made quick work of peeling off mud-caked breeches. His trousers and shirt and waistcoat were already waiting, and the moment he stepped out in them, Peters was there, boots abandoned, to knot his tie.

  I shouldn’t have left. Shouldn’t have come.

  “Your aunts were there. He wasn’t alone.”

  Not like Father had been. And his aunts had each other—not like him. Still. “We should leave the car here and take the train. It’ll be faster.”

  To that, Peters nodded. “I can arrange it. You should find Lady Berkeley and your cousin to let them know.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” He spun for the door, yanked it open, and nearly collided with the fist Cayton had poised to knock.

  His cousin’s face was pale, and he was still in his mud-spattered riding clothes. But at least he didn’t knock on Justin’s head in lieu of the door. “I was making arrangements,” he said by way of greeting. “Your car will be taken to Azerley Hall, and we’ll take the train. It’ll be faster.”

  Justin nodded and stepped into the hall. “I was thinking the same. When does the next one leave for Gloucestershire?”

  “Perhaps Whitby knows.”

  They strode together down the bachelor wing, their strides
matching. “Where is he?”

  “Library, I think.”

  They traveled the distance in silence. Would likely travel all the way home in silence, and that was fine. He needed to think.

  Within a month, he had lost them both. Father and grandfather.

  Voices came from the library, soft and familiar. The moment he stepped inside, Brook was there. Her arms around him, her face pressed to his shoulder. Her aunt’s lips thinned in obvious disapproval, but Justin closed his eyes against it and held Brook tight. When she was flying his way across the lawn, he only wanted escape. Maybe because he knew how much he needed her, needed this.

  He could crumble—she would piece him together again. He could refuse to let go, ask her to come with him—she would, despite the consequences. Which was why he knew he had to release her, though he couldn’t convince his arms of it quite yet. He needed her, needed her warmth to chase away the chill inside.

  Her arms tightened around him. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Elizabeth Brook! Ambrose, did you hear her?”

  “Easy, Mary. She meant we.”

  Justin opened his eyes to find that Whitby had drawn near. He set a hand on Justin’s shoulder. “I will bring her. We can be ready within the hour.”

  He had a feeling the offer was spontaneous, and for Brook’s sake. Clearing his throat, he set her a step away. Their gazes tangled. “Not today. Come tomorrow, or Wednesday.”

  Temper snapped to life in her eyes. “Non.”

  “You have guests.”

  Whitby snorted. “Mary has guests. No one will even notice we have gone.”

  Lady Ramsey huffed her disagreement. “Don’t be absurd. We will end the party early, but we can hardly close the house on a minute’s notice.”

  Brook didn’t glance at her aunt, just held Justin’s gaze. “I want to come with you.” Of course she would. Because he was her dearest friend, the closest thing she had to a brother.

  Swallowing did nothing to banish the lump in his throat. “I know. But this is what I need you to do.”

  Confusion swirled through her eyes. “Why?”

  Because having her as a sister, a friend wasn’t enough—and he couldn’t ask her for more, not when she might grant it out of pity.