Isabella excused herself and went after them. “Mr. and Mrs. March. Good morning.”
The family greeted her with open curiosity, except Mrs. March, who eyed her with disdain, as if she must endure the vicar’s adopted daughter but would rather not be seen speaking with someone dressed in such inferior clothing. Isabella smoothed a hand over her favorite rose-colored pelisse. It was only a year old, for heaven’s sake.
Mr. March took off his hat politely. “Good day, Miss Montgomery.”
“Good morning.” She smiled at them in turn.
Their daughter kept her eyes downcast. Oh, bother. How was Isabella to determine this girl’s eye color?
“What a lovely bonnet, Miss March.” Isabella said. “Did you get that from Madame Burchard’s?”
Without looking up, the girl smiled shyly and shook her head.
“It came from London,” Mrs. March said. “We went shopping when we were there for the Season, you know.”
“Of course.” Isabella searched for a way to address the girl so as to make eye contact.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to London?” Mrs. March sniffed.
“No, not yet,” Isabella said.
“I imagine an orphan living on the charity of a vicar would not be able to afford a Season in London—such an expensive way to enter society.”
Shocked at the woman’s rudeness, Isabella barely managed not to gape.
Mr. March coughed into his hand. “She didn’t mean it that way, Miss Montgomery.”
People didn’t really think she and George were impoverished orphans, did they? She’d thought it common knowledge that their father had owned Mistledown Park which George stood to inherit when he reached his majority. Perhaps, as newcomers to the area, the Marches were less informed than longtime residents.
Isabella bit back a comeback about not being so desperate for a husband that she had to put herself on the auction block called the social Season.
Instead, Isabella addressed the daughter. “Did you enjoy your Season, Miss March?”
The girl shrugged, still not looking up. How would Isabella determine her eye color if the girl refused to look her in the eye?
“Our dear Antoinette was quite the smash,” Mrs. March said. “She turned down three marriage offers, you know.”
Antoinette. This was promising.
“You must have broken many hearts,” Isabella said to the reticent girl.
The girl—Antoinette—shrugged again, but a tiny smile played around her mouth. “Not really.” She finally looked up at Isabella with soft green eyes. Not brown.
“Probably more than you know.” Isabella pitied the poor men who tried to woo the girl, with her dragon of a mother lurking over her. With a kind smile, Isabella took a step back. “I wish you all a good day.” After a proper curtsy, she excused herself.
Mr. Law stood encircled by a giggling herd of young ladies and waved his hand theatrically. “So I told them, ‘pistols at dawn for anyone who dares interfere.’”
Squeals of laughter erupted from his herd. A sudden disliking for all those young ladies soured her tongue. None of them were worthy of an earl’s son, either.
She stomped to Aunt Missy’s side. “I’ll walk on ahead. I’m rather tired.”
Aunt Missy eyed her. “You do look a bit peaked. Or perhaps a shade green?”
Isabella frowned at the jealousy reference and searched the tree-shaded area for her brother. She found him next to his newest fascination, Miss Stockton. Isabella ignored the thought that she should greet the object of George’s desire. She’d had quite enough conversation for the moment. Besides, George would probably find a new ‘love’ in a week or so, anyway.
With her head high and her strides long and graceful so as not to reveal her annoyance that every woman in the area under the age of fifty was enthralled with Mr. Law, and that he enjoyed their attention—curse him—she headed home. After a few moments, heavy footsteps sounded behind her.
“Miss Montgomery,” Mr. Law called.
She stopped and waited for him to catch up. She must not imagine he’d left his gawking gaggle of girls because he especially cared for Isabella.
“I saw you talking to a couple with a blonde daughter,” he said.
Was that the only reason he came after her, or did he do so because he preferred her company? Not that it mattered.
“Was that the merchant you told me about?”
He sounded so desperate that she finally looked at him.
His gaze searched her eyes. “It wasn’t her, was it?” He waited, but without hope.
She shook her head. “She is blonde, and her name is Antoinette, but her eyes are green.”
He let out a long exhale. “Thank you for trying.”
“Did you enjoy your bevy of fair maidens?” The words popped out of her mouth before she could stop them.
“Not really. They are like so many I meet—too silly, too eager.”
Dryly, she said, “It must be difficult to be in such demand with the ladies.”
“It’s nice to know some ladies still find me attractive.” A wry tone touched his words.
“Still?”
“You offered me a pretty firm set down.”
She stopped walking. “You mean when I refused to kiss you?” Against her will, her focus fixed on his mouth.
“You didn’t even consider it.” He looked either chagrined or amused; she wasn’t sure which.
“It’s fortunate that I did not. Otherwise, living under the same roof would be terribly awkward.” She resumed her pace.
“True.” He kept up with her.
If she had allowed him to kiss her, everything would have changed. At least he knew she wasn’t the sort of girl who went about kissing every man who asked.
What would it be like to kiss him?
His voice broke into her thoughts. “Do you have any other ideas who might be Hadley’s Ann?”
“Not yet.” After a moment, she asked a question that had been nagging at her. “Did you always call your brother Hadley?”
He nodded tightly. “From the moment of his birth, he was addressed by his courtesy title. As soon as we buried my brother, Father began calling me Hadley. I know that’s proper, but . . . it’s too soon. Father never even speaks of my brother anymore, as if we’re interchangeable—only Father’s frequently displeased with me.” He swallowed. “I don’t want Hadley’s name or his title or anything he stood to inherit. I just want him back.” He took a shaking breath and cleared his throat.
They walked in silence while Isabella searched for the right words, but none existed to convey her sorrow and sympathy. She ached for the grieving gentleman as he grappled with a raw pain she knew well.
Isabella gave him a moment to compose himself before asking, “Is your father very old?”
“No, he’s only fifty-four.”
“Surely he knows you won’t likely inherit for another twenty or thirty years and that there’s time to teach you what you must know.”
“It’s as if he thinks I’ll inherit in a few months rather than years.”
“Perhaps that’s his own way of mourning—turning his focus on you, the only son he has left. Some people find staying busy is helpful when working through grief.”
Rowan considered. “Perhaps. I’d never thought of that. Father has never been one to show emotion. For that matter, nor has my mother.”
“Stiff upper lip and all that—like proper Englishmen?”
He nodded.
She touched his arm briefly in sympathy but let her hand drop. Perhaps she ought not be so forward. She turned her mind to how to help him find Ann. “May I see the Lover’s Eye again?”
They stood under an oak while he fished the jewelry out of his pocket and handed it to her.
Isabella studied it, noting the shape, the color of the eye, the lashes, the brow. An idea struck her. “What if instead of trying to find the girl, we try to find the artist who painted this?”
&nbs
p; Hope lit his eyes. “How difficult would that be?”
“I imagine there are fewer artists in the area than there are blonde girls.”
“Find the artist and ask if he kept a record?”
“Exactly.”
He nodded. “How do we find the artist?”
“Old Pete knows everyone in the local art world. I suggest we ask him. He might recognize the artist simply by looking at this Lover’s Eye. Or he may know of someone who specializes in this kind of art who could tell us.”
Mr. Law nodded. “Sounds like a viable plan.” His features softened. He touched her face with a finger, tracing down her cheek.
Everything inside her went quiet and still, then instantly into motion. How lovely to be touched with such tenderness! She leaned in, hungry for more. He opened his hand and cupped her cheek. His thumb caressed her. All the world grew soft and light, and a lost place inside her found its way home.
As if someone turned off a spigot, his expression and even his posture stiffened. Fisting his hand, he stepped away. “Forgive me.”
Lost, confused, adrift, she stared.
“Shall we pay a call on Old Pete today?” he asked casually.
She took a moment to find her voice. “Old Pete always spends Sundays with his sister, so we’ll need to wait until tomorrow.” Did he notice her breathiness?
“I suppose that will have to do.” He strolled along like nothing had happened. And really, nothing had happened. And yet everything was different. She’d resisted all manner of advances from all manner of gentlemen. Why did this one tempt her so?
She would not think about it. She would divide her focus between creating the work of art that would convince Mr. Corby to accept her as a student, and helping Mr. Law find Ann. Soon he would leave. And she would still have her art. It would have to be enough. Then one day, perhaps, she would find her own true love.
The day after that Sunday afternoon when he’d almost kissed Isabella Montgomery, Rowan drove Mr. Williams’s gig through town. They stopped at Old Pete’s humble home but learned he’d gone to the seashore. In the tiny carriage built for two, they sat so closely that Miss Montgomery often brushed against him when they turned or went over a bump. Could he help it if he had to turn often or if the roads were bumpy?
His senses sharpened, taking in every detail of her until even her breathing stirred a deep ache inside him. He indulged in fantasies of the slenderness of her limbs, separated from him only by a few layers of fabric. Her clean, fresh scent invoked images of a rain-drenched garden, mingled faintly with the paint she used for her artwork. He’d never wanted a woman so badly as he wanted her. Happiness lit her eyes and curved her mouth. Just being with her filled him with hope.
She let out a contented sigh as she looked about. “I do adore the ocean. I could be satisfied with the tiniest of cottages if it were atop a cliff where I could look out of a window at that great expanse.”
“That’s one of the few memories I have of Crestwood Manor—watching storms come in over the sea, ships sailing by, waves crashing on rocks.”
She turned her face toward him and smiled so brightly that it was visible even in his peripheral vision. How could someone who’d lost so much still manage to find joy in everyday life? “Do you visit Crestwood Manor frequently?”
“Only a few times as a child. I haven’t been there in years.”
“I hope you enjoy it the next time you go.”
He would enjoy Crestwood even more if she accompanied him. Seeing the world through her eyes made everything beautiful.
He only allowed himself a glance at her. “I hope so, too.” He could have said so much more—wanted to say so much more—but kept it to himself. He refused to raise the young lady’s expectations by giving into his desire for her. And her guardian had been very clear.
Would marrying such a lovely, unspoiled girl be so bad? His father had hinted at him finding a proper wife. “Proper” didn’t normally describe an unsophisticated country girl. Did that really matter so much?
They reached the shore and began their search for the artist who might have answers. Rowan walked the horse and carefully maneuvered the gig around children at play, ladies strolling with their parasols, and other carriages. A brisk breeze tried to steal their hats.
As they approached the pier, Miss Montgomery touched his arm. “I think I see him.” She pointed. “Just there.”
A bent old man lumbered along the pier, carrying several objects, but at this distance, the exact nature of the objects remained a guess. Rowan turned the carriage toward the pier and drove it over the wooden planks. The wheels bump-bumped along, bouncing them both. Miss Montgomery laughed as she held onto her side of the seat.
“Oh, my, it’s about to bounce me right out.” She laughed again.
He caught himself smiling. Most ladies would have complained about the rough ride. Isabella Montgomery had a love for life he’d never found in others.
As they approached the man in question, Miss Montgomery waved. “Pete!”
The man lifted his gaze and removed his hat to reveal a mostly bald head except for a few wild strays of gray that waved in the sea breeze. “Good day to you, Miss Isabella.”
“Good day, Pete. How is your sister?”
“Ornery as always.” He grinned.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“You’ve a look about you like you’re on an important errand.” His craggy face creased further.
Miss Montgomery nodded. “Indeed. We need your help.”
“At your service.” Replacing the hat, he squinted up at them.
“First, please allow me to make introductions. Mr. Law, may I present Pete Dow, a gifted artist and my friend. Pete, this is Mr. Law, who is visiting our family.”
Rowan inclined his head in an abbreviated bow, which, considering their difference in station, was remarkably courteous of him.
Old Pete said, “What can I do for you?”
Rowan pulled out the Lover’s Eye and handed it to him. “Miss Montgomery tells me you might know the artist who painted this.”
Old Pete examined it, first up close, then at arm’s length. “That’s one ’o mine.”
Rowan’s heart tripped. “Do you happen to remember who commissioned it, or who the young lady was?”
“Lemme see. The fella was a gentleman. I can’t rightly recall the name, though. But the girl, she was a real pretty little thing, with hair ’bout the color of honey.”
The tripping turned into pounding. Would he truly find Ann? “You wouldn’t happen to know her name, would you?”
He thought a minute. “No, don’t recall. But I kept records of my commissions. I might have written down their names. I’d have to dig through some boxes.”
“I would be so grateful if you would,” Rowan said. He almost promised to make it worth the man’s time, but he had no money in his possession. He vowed to compensate Pete when he had access to his funds. “It’s very important to me that I find her.”
“Most people who commission these want their love kept a secret. Why’d’ya need to know who they are?”
Rowan answered, “I know who he was—my brother, recently deceased. The girl was his love. I’m trying to find her so I can notify her of his fate.” This time, loss only came as a vague reminder of pain, not the devastating storm that usually brought him to his knees.
“I see.” Old Pete nodded, pressed his mouth together, and clapped him on the shoulder. The gesture comforted Rowan unexpectedly. “Good for you. Very considerate. If you’ll give me a few days, I’ll look through my records. If I find a name, I’ll come to the vicarage.”
“My thanks,” Rowan said.
“Thank you, Pete,” Miss Montgomery said. “This means so much.”
Pete nodded. “Can’t make promises, mind you, but I’ll give it my best effort.”
They bade him farewell and Rowan drove along the shore before pulling to a stop so they could enjoy a lingering look at the seashore.
“We’ll find her,” Miss Montgomery said confidently. “This is simply a test of our determination.”
Pushing back the hopelessness that gnawed at him, Rowan let out a huff of amusement. “That’s one way to think of it.”
“Why, Mr. Law, did you just laugh?”
He stilled. “Did I?”
“It wasn’t a full belly laugh, but certainly the closest to one I’ve seen you do.”
He sifted through possible replies. It might have been a laugh—probably should have been—but he couldn’t quite reach around the sorrow that dampened every thought. “I . . .”
“I understand.” She put a hand on his arm. “I found it difficult to laugh or even smile for weeks after I received news of my father’s death.” She paused. “And when I learned of my brother’s, as well.”
He nodded, too moved by her compassion to speak.
“My father was a post captain. He served for many years with distinction. His father was a sea captain as well, and his father before him. When my eldest brother chose to follow the family tradition, no one thought much of it. My grandfather and great grandfather both lived long lives so we had no true fear for him.” She stopped, her expression thoughtful.
“But your grandfathers didn’t serve during wartime, did they?”
“No. I know the sea can be dangerous; I’ve heard the stories, but I never thought it would happen to them—not even with the war.”
“I know what you mean.” He’d heard of the dangers of steeplechasing but never thought it would happen to his family.
A Week in Brighton Page 21