The Lost Heiress

by Roseanna M. White

  He timed it so that they reached that edge of the dance floor as the song drew to an end. Justin had worked his way to the edge of the crowd—the thunder in his brows no doubt clearing the way for him—and Brice greeted him with a bow and transferred her hand directly to his. Naturally, he grinned. “No need to thank me.”

  Naturally, Justin glowered. “Didn’t plan to.”

  “You were late.”

  “And you were quite happy, it seems, to take my place.”

  She still couldn’t wrap her head around Justin being jealous over her. “Gentlemen.” Making sure her smile remained bright and her words quiet, Brook curtsied to Brice and tucked her hand into the crook of Justin’s elbow. “We are far from alone, n’est pas?”

  Justin grunted and took his turn leading her onto the floor. “Five minutes late.”

  “And the music did not wait for you.” She didn’t want to be irritated, not tonight, but it shivered over her skin. Or perhaps that was his touch. She wasn’t sure.

  Having reached a bit of open space, Justin turned her toward him and slid a hand onto her waist. He held her closer than the two-step demanded, and her pulse sped—with that irritation, or with something better? His gaze dipped down to take in her dress, and his lips tugged up. “You look … nice.”

  “Nice?” She laughed as he spun them into the dance. “As many hours as I spent getting ready, I had better look more than nice.”

  “Pretty, then?” His eyes gleamed.

  She lifted her brows and gripped his hand. Maybe she could do this. Maybe she could slide easily from friendship to flirtation. “Your nemesis over there chose resplendent. Surely you can outdo that.”

  He smiled, the challenge turning to a simmer. “How about this.” He pulled her a little closer and leaned his head toward her ear. “I have traveled the world over these last months, but nowhere, on no continent, in no country, have I ever seen anyone half so beautiful as you.”

  Her fingers gripped his shoulder. “Better.” Wasn’t it? The trip of her heart said so. But still that voice whispered in the back of her mind that he had never used to say such things, when she was just Brook Sabatini, illegitimate daughter of an opera star. He didn’t used to think he could hold her close with his arms and push her away with his words.

  He didn’t used to try to pair fire and ice.

  She didn’t mean to sigh. But it built up inside and pushed its way past the music and glitter and seeped out when she spotted Melissa a few couples away, dancing with some young gentleman Brook had never seen before.

  Justin followed her gaze and winced. “Was she upset?”

  He must have known that Cayton had requested the first set of dances months ago. “More like furious.”

  “Deservedly.”

  “Mm. Where is he?”

  He shrugged, his muscles bunching under her hand. “I haven’t seen him in a few days. We are to go riding in Hyde Park tomorrow though.” Looking back to her, his eyes were deep and serious. “I have to support him. I hope … I hope you don’t blame me for it.”

  She glanced again at Melissa, whose laughter looked sincere rather than feigned. Missing a ball may have spoken to Cayton’s character, but it need not add to the tension between them. “That is between our cousins, not us.”

  “Good.” He squeezed her fingers and then looked out over the crowd. “They’re all watching you. And there’s a veritable sea of young men around your father and aunt, no doubt begging to be introduced. I’ll have to cut a swath to claim another dance later.”

  Would he even bother? “Thate is in the back room, I believe. Regan said something about an airplane pilot who was coming, and now all Thate can talk about is the air race this summer.” She couldn’t blame Justin if he retreated that direction. Frankly, she would rather be back there too—talking of automobiles and aeronautics—than in the ballroom.

  Justin grinned. “Will he take to the skies next, do you think?”

  “Regan made him swear he would keep his feet firmly planted on the ground until the baby arrives. Then … who knows.”

  His eyes went wide, and his smile crooked. “Baby? I hadn’t heard. I’ll have to find him and torment him about his settled and predictable life.” They slowed when the music hit its cadence, and the fingers against her back splayed out. “May I pay you a visit tomorrow, my lady?”

  The low warmth of his tone belied the formality of his words. Not completely unfamiliar, that. And the gleam in his eyes … It had changed, yes, but he had always looked at her with more warmth than anyone else. Maybe it wasn’t such a change. Maybe, if she gave him a chance to share his heart, he would put her fears to rest. Maybe he would kiss her again, and the sensations would swell, and she would know that no matter what had happened in her life, he would still have wanted her.

  Because looking up into his sapphire eyes, she knew without a doubt that she would have come here at some point. She would have left Monaco, and where else in the world would she have gone but to him? She had always loved him. Maybe … maybe she had always been in love with him. What, then, would he have done had Brook Sabatini come knocking upon Ralin Castle’s door?

  She would have to find out. And it might as well be tomorrow. Pulling out a smile, she said, “I would be delighted, Duke.”

  Twenty-Two

  Brook poured steaming black life into a cup and prayed with the first sip that it would produce miracles. Her feet were sore. Her eyes were gritty. And so many names and faces buzzed in her head that she wanted to crawl back under her covers and shut out the world.

  Papa slid up next to her at the sideboard and began filling a plate—with her preferences, not his. “Now you’ve done it.”

  She took another sip of the coffee—not espresso, but at least strong—and lifted her eyes to his. His lips were twitching, so she went ahead and grinned. “What have I done this time?”

  In answer, he handed her his newspaper, folded open, and indicated the table. She sat with cup and news, let him slide the plate in front of her … but wasn’t sure how she would eat breakfast. It may have been well past noon already, but the headline made her stomach knot.

  THE LOST HEIRESS OF WHITBY

  “Eat.” Papa dropped a kiss onto the top of her head and sat beside her. “Much as I detest being in the news, the article is not a bad one.”

  It felt it, though, as she read and nibbled at her toast. A reminder of the carriage accident, an explanation of how Brook had ended up in the care of Collette Sabatini in Monaco, where the opera star passed her off as the child of Prince Louis. From there it shifted, touching on the countless girls paraded through Whitby Park over the last eighteen years trying to claim her inheritance. Then it sped back to the present, summarizing her arrival home in early September, her acceptance by her family, and how the reclusive Whitby was in London for the Season with her now.

  At least it didn’t mention the attack in November. Nor—which, frankly, surprised her—did it mention Justin anywhere.

  No, instead it reported that after opening the floor with her father last night, she was seen in the arms of Lord Worthing, with whom she danced thrice more—which was not true. She had danced only once more with Brice, once more with Justin. Her aunt had told her she could not, under any circumstances, dance more than twice with any one man unless she intended to be the subject of every gossiping tongue in London.

  Apparently even obeying such rules did not guarantee avoidance of that fate.

  Her eyes finally moved to the last paragraph.

  In a Parisian gown of pale green silk with an exquisite overlay of blue beading, the baroness debuted in glory. As onlookers gazed upon her, many remembered the fame her mother had attained twenty years prior, and it seems only fitting that they gave to her the same name with which they had dubbed the late Elizabeth Brook and welcomed a new Baroness Beauty into their midst.

  Brook lowered the paper and looked over at her father. “They called her that?”

  Papa’s smile was smal
l and wistful. “They did.”

  Brook grinned and might have replied had the butler not cleared his throat from the doorway. “Excuse me, but the Marquess of Worthing has arrived. Shall I show him in here or … ?”

  Brook stood even as her father did, coffee in her hand and paper in his. The food she would happily abandon. Aunt Mary employed an English cook, not a French—or French Canadian, as the case may be—chef, and her palate had not adjusted to the fare.

  “Drawing room,” they answered in unison.

  Melissa was dragging herself down the stairs as they went by, dressed and coiffed but with eyes at only half-mast. They exchanged a grin, and her cousin fell in with them instead of heading for the breakfast room.

  Brice preceded them into the room by only a few feet and spun to face them the moment they were all inside. Brook expected him to be grinning, teasing. Instead, his eyes were serious. “Have you seen it?”

  “The article about our Baroness Beauty?” Papa patted her shoulder. “We did.”

  “No. Well, yes, that too, but did you read the rest of the paper yet, Whit?”

  Her father shook his head.

  Brice indicated the folded newspaper, brows arched. “May I?”

  “Certainly.”

  Brook strained onto her toes to try to see what section he was flipping toward. Though she couldn’t tell—not until he said, “Here,” and handed it back.

  “Engagement announcements?” Brow furrowed, Papa accepted the paper. Brook and Melissa leaned in on either side of him.

  Brook sucked in a breath when her gaze snagged on familiar names. “Pratt and Lady Catherine?” On the one hand—her cousin’s hand—no surprise. But he … Did that mean he had given up his hope of joining their estates?

  Brice nodded. “One of the two surprises.”

  “What el—”

  Melissa’s shriek of outrage cut off her question, and she snatched the paper from her uncle’s hand. “Who in blazes is Adelaide Rosten?”

  Frowning, Brook looked to Brice.

  “Cayton,” he murmured.

  Cayton—in the engagement section?

  Her cousin looked ready to tear the paper to shreds. “That lying, swindling, misleading, snake-tongued, blackhearted …”

  She had seen Melissa in quite a few storms of temper since September, but never like this. “‘Hell hath no fury …’”

  Brice grinned. “Chaucer, isn’t it?”

  Brook rolled her eyes.

  Melissa had finished her list of adjectives, it seemed. “I’m going to kill him! I’m going to march over to his townhouse and pluck every hair from his head!”

  “He’s not at home,” Brice helpfully supplied, hands in his pockets and half a grin still on his mouth. “I passed him on the way here—he looked as if he were going to Hyde Park.”

  Melissa shoved the paper back into Papa’s chest. “Then so am I. And you”—she grabbed Brice by the arm—“are coming with me.”

  Amusement gave way to panic on Brice’s face. “Ah …”

  “You’re going to look at me with that adoration you feign so well, and I’m going to laugh at your every ridiculous joke in sight of all London.”

  “Oh. Um.” He looked to Brook, eyes wide, and mouthed Help.

  Brook smiled and tucked her hand into the crook of her father’s arm. “I’m sure you’d be blessed beyond measure to keep company with a lady so fair, Lord Worthing. Isn’t that what you said the other day?”

  Brice narrowed his eyes at her while Melissa tugged him toward the door with the strength of a bull. “You’re going to let her kidnap me?”

  Chuckling, she waved her fingers. “My cousin needs you.”

  “Your cousin’s terrifying.”

  Melissa spun and must have given him quite the look, though Brook couldn’t see her face. Brice pasted on a smile. “Terrifying … ly beautiful?”

  Melissa yanked him out the door, giving him time for only one more pleading look.

  Papa sighed. “When the anger fades, she will be heartbroken.”

  It was true. And though Brook had never really liked Cayton, nor his readiness to arrange trysts with Melissa behind her mother’s back, she had been ready to be happy for her cousin when he proposed. Had he only been toying with her all these months? She didn’t know—but she knew who would.

  Perhaps he was summoned by her thoughts, for the moment she spun around, Justin stood in the doorway, question in his brows. “Where was Lady Melissa pulling Lord Fastidious?”

  Brook reclaimed her hand from Papa’s arm so she could fold hers over her chest. “Is that what you were talking about last night? Your cousin is engaged?”

  He stared at her blankly for a moment and then sighed. “He said he told her.”

  “He lied.”

  “Coward.” Justin pivoted, as if ready to chase after Melissa … then must have thought better of it. “She saw it in the paper? And that was the first she knew of it?”

  Brook wanted to ask him about his cousin’s motives. She wanted to ask him how he could support him. She wanted to ask him if his affections could be trusted.

  She moved her arms down, over her stomach, and bit it all back. “I thought you were riding with him today.”

  Justin looked her way again, conflict in his eyes. “I am. James was going to fetch Miss Rosten first, though, and as I’ve no desire to be a third wheel … I thought you might join us. But that was when I thought you knew already. I understand if you would rather not. Your cousin—”

  “Would not thank me if I passed up the chance to meet this Miss Rosten.” Brook looked to her father, who nodded his permission. “Are you on Alabaster?”

  “In a landau.”

  No need for her to change into her riding habit, then—which was good, since her aunt had insisted on one with a skirt, which would necessitate the dreaded sidesaddle. “I’ll fetch my hat and wrap.”

  Justin was vaguely aware of the sun shining. Of birds flitting from tree to tree. Of the scads of people walking, riding, driving along the paths through London’s largest park. He wanted to focus on the woman beside him, on the sweet smell of lilacs that drifted from her hair.

  But Brook was focused on Cayton’s landau. She had been the epitome of polite during the introductions, but now her lips were pressed together, and her fingers gripped the edge of her kimono coat. She didn’t even mention the suffragettes shouting from their soapboxes as she turned a hard gaze on Justin. “Is it catching?”

  He expelled a bitter breath. Miss Adelaide Rosten was not what he had expected, to say the least. “I know little about her, except that she is my neighbor in Gloucestershire. They knew each other as children.”

  “Tell me he met her again and fell in love and doesn’t see the obvious. Tell me that is why he tossed over my cousin for her.”

  If only he could. Ahead of them, Miss Rosten presented her profile as she looked to Cayton. She smiled, and it looked so sincere. So sweet. So … hopeful. But could do nothing to fill the hollow cheeks or lighten the shadows under her eyes. “She is an heiress. He is strapped.”

  Brook shook her head. “She is ill. She looks … she looks like Maman did at the end.”

  His hands tightened on the reins. “I know.”

  “Mon ami.” Her fingers landed on his arm, though they didn’t stay there. “Tell me your cousin is not so low as to marry a dying woman for her money, knowing well she hasn’t long to live, knowing well he can soon move on.”

  “I … don’t know.” He didn’t want to think so. Cayton, as he confessed his engagement at Azerley Hall, had seemed honest about his reasoning, and he certainly hadn’t mentioned any illness. “Perhaps it is a childhood malady that she still bears the marks of. But perhaps she is well now.”

  She didn’t look well. But Brook didn’t point it out again. “Look at how she watches him.”

  “She cares for him.” Which raised more questions in Justin’s mind. Did Miss Rosten know Cayton’s reasons for proposing, or had he spoken
words of love to her? Had he misled her? “Perhaps he knew of her feelings. Perhaps … perhaps he wanted to give her some happiness.”

  A delicate snort slipped from Brook’s lips. “Forgive me for doubting Cayton’s pure heart. Perhaps they’ll be happy, though—it seems unions built on love always end miserably, so perhaps one arranged for pragmatic reasons will have better luck.”

  Surely she jested. “Let us hope, for Regan and Thate’s sake, that you’re mistaken.”

  The fleeting smile she managed didn’t make it to her eyes. “If anyone can defy statistics, it is they.”

  He studied her profile, shaking his head. “When did you get so cynical on the subject of love, Baroness Beauty?”

  Brook winced. “Saw that, did you?”

  “It wasn’t so bad.” Even if it had exaggerated her relationship with Worthing—and even if she did dodge his question about love.

  “The Lost Heiress. That’s what they’ll all know me as now.”

  Her eyes went distant, and the fingers of one hand had abandoned her kimono’s hem in favor of twisting the pearls on her necklace.

  He bumped his shoulder into hers. “You are an heiress, Brooklet. You can’t expect society not to notice.”

  “But for most of my life I was just … lost.” She drew in a breath and twisted the pearls the other direction. “If you hadn’t found Papa for me …”

  “Let us praise the Lord that I did, that the crest was enough.”

  She looked up at him, dropping her hand back to her lap. “And what if I had been a lost nobody, instead of a lost heiress?” The question turned her eyes to flame. “I would have come, Justin. I would have shown up at Ralin one day and demanded that tour you always promised. Then what would you have done?”

  “I would have given you the tour.” And likely drawn her into his arms and kissed her and … what? Even Father, who had eschewed all ducal responsibilities, claimed Justin couldn’t marry her so long as she was only the illegitimate child of an opera singer. Though Grandfather had accused him of wanting to marry her even if it brought disgrace to Stafford. Which of them knew him better?