Somehow, he would find a way. In the meantime, how to while away his time waiting for her? Humming attracted his attention. He followed the cheerful sound and found Mrs. Williams in the kitchen, filling a large basket.
He greeted her and asked about her morning plans, resulting in an invitation to accompany her to pay a visit on a sick member of the parish. This woman certainly paid a great deal of time and attention to her neighbors, always arriving with basket in hand. Admirable woman.
As they walked, Rowan carried the basket and they chatted like old friends. During a lull in the conversation, she eyed him sideways.
“Forgive me if this is too personal, but may I ask, how did you come to be here in Brighton?”
Her abrupt veering off topic suggested this question had been on her mind for quite some time. It was time for the whole truth. “My father and I were traveling to one of the family properties—Crestwood Manor. I was angry that he’d pulled me away from our family the day after my brother’s funeral to attend to estate business that could have waited. In truth, I was angry about a great deal. I’m afraid I was quite disrespectful to him. We got out of the carriage. He told me that he hoped I’d learn to appreciate my heritage and my duty. Then he got in and left.”
“I see.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Why did you introduce yourself as Rowan Law when you are the Viscount Hadley?”
“After all you’ve done for me, I suppose I owe you an explanation.”
“You really don’t—not if it’s personal.”
But he did. It took all his will not to break down and sob, but he explained, all the while clenching his fists, and sometimes his teeth, as grief pounded him.
Mrs. Williams’s voice hushed. “That is a terrible burden you now carry. But you are a gentleman of honor. You will bear that title in a way that would make him proud. You need time to work through your grief, but you will eventually grow into your new role until it fits. It will fit you differently than it fit him.”
He nodded stiffly. As if sensing his need to compose himself, she remained silent. A moment later, she put an arm around his waist and gave him a matronly squeeze. He wanted to turn into her and accept the motherly embrace she would probably give him, but he resisted.
Mrs. Williams said gently, “We are all expected to become something slightly out of our reach, but in our attempt to strive for it, we continually become better, stronger, kinder people who look out for others—especially those less fortunate than ourselves.”
As his grief receded enough for him to think, he considered her words.
She was right. He didn’t need to be the Hadley that his brother was. He could be the Hadley of his own creation. It would be a work in progress.
“There is our destination,” she said.
They spent the morning caring for a sick widower and his young children. Rowan rolled up his sleeves and pitched in where he could, all the time admiring the calm, caring efficiency with which Mrs. Williams interacted with them. Isabella, no doubt, performed similarly. She would make an excellent lady of the house, caring for tenants and servants alike. With Isabella at his side, he’d always be aware of who needed help.
Upon returning to the vicarage, they enjoyed a midday meal. Miss Montgomery waltzed into the dining room with her hands held high in triumph.
“It is finished! I have painted my very best one yet. This will surely impress Mr. Corby.”
“Well done,” Mrs. Williams said.
“I never doubted you,” Rowan said. “May I see it yet?”
“Right after you show me your surprise.” Isabella’s excitement spilled out of her and warmed him.
“Very well,” he said. “When you’re ready.”
After taking a few hurried bites of the repast and donning a pelisse, Isabella Montgomery declared herself unable to wait another moment. Chuckling, Rowan drove the Williams’s gig to his surprise destination. He pulled in front of the prince’s pavilion. Instead of stopping in front, he drove to the gate.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He smiled at her, playing the man of mystery, and gave his name to the gatekeeper. The gates opened to admit them.
“We’re going inside?” she gasped.
“Indeed we are.”
“How did you do that?”
“I wrote a letter to His Highness and asked.” He shrugged. “I’d met him a year ago, and since my father is a peer, I’d hoped the prince would give permission. He did. His Highness is really quite a decent chap.” He was a rake in the first order, but generous and a bit of a romantic.
“Oh!” She gave a happy little bounce. “I can’t believe you did this for me. Thank you so much!”
“It is very much my pleasure.”
Rowan pulled up in front, handed the reins to a waiting footman, and ushered her inside, where the butler took them on a tour. Each room drew more sighs of admiration from her. Rowan puffed up his chest that he had provided a little joy for the lovely lady who’d given so much to him. After completing the tour of the opulent palace filled with equally impressive furniture and art, they returned to the gig.
Isabella hugged herself. “I have seen more beautiful art than I’d ever imagined. That was one of the best days of my life.”
“I am very gratified to have provided that for you.” He would make it his life’s mission to give her many more “best” days of her life.
She wrapped both arms around his arm nearest her and gave it a hug. “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome.”
He soaked in the light in her eyes, the dazzling brightness of her smile, the beauty of her face. The edges of that hard, protective numbness encasing his heart melted, and a happiness unlike any he’d ever expected crept in like a healing salve.
He pulled his arm out of her grasp and put it around her to give her a one-sided embrace. He kissed the top of her head. Lest he be tempted to kiss much more of her, he snapped the reins and drove down the long drive.
His bliss remained during their ride home together. He wanted this feeling every day. As he helped her down from the carriage, he held onto her. He should release her. He couldn’t seem to let her go. He never wanted to let her go.
She gave a tiny nervous laugh. His promise to her guardian shouted in his ear. Clearing his throat, he stepped back. His arms ached to hold her. His mouth ached to kiss her. How long could he resist?
They entered the vicarage, and she went to her bedchamber to dress for dinner. Rowan stared after her. Could he gain his father’s permission to marry her?
He turned and halted in his tracks. Watching him, Mr. Williams stood in the parlor, his stance wide and combative. Rowan drew a bracing breath and strode to Miss Montgomery’s guardian to hear whatever unpleasantness the man wanted to say.
“Walk with me.” Mr. Williams headed to the door leading outside.
Rowan obliged him, walking next to him and matching him stride for stride rather than following after like an obedient dog. When they passed outside and walked out of earshot of the house, Rowan adopted a friendly, conversational tone.
“What is on your mind, sir?”
“You have been spending a great deal of time with my ward.” His expression tight, his words clipped, the man’s disapproval could not have been missed.
Rowan nodded. “I have been blessed by her presence and have enjoyed it as I’ve enjoyed spending time with your whole family.” Not the same way, of course, but he hoped his mention of the family would deflect the man’s ire. It didn’t. Rowan tried one more tactic. “Thank you, again, for the use of your gig.”
“If you will recall, I warned you about trifling with her heart.”
Rowan took an extra-large step so as to position himself in front of Mr. Williams. “I have done nothing to raise her expectations, nor have I laid a hand on her.”
“Perhaps not in the general sense, but I see how you two look at each other.”
“Sir, I cannot help how I feel about her—but I’m not ac
ting on those feelings.”
“I believe it is time for you to leave.”
Now? Leave now before he had a chance to learn if Isabella was the key to his happiness? No. It was too soon. He needed more time to know if he truly wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. If so, he must think of a way of convincing his father to allow the union. He refused to be robbed of happiness because he’d fallen for a girl his father pronounced unworthy based on societal expectations. And he hadn’t found Ann, yet.
“Sir . . .”
“I know of another place where you can stay until your father comes to collect you.”
“Please, sir, I beg you not to send me away. I haven’t broken your trust in me, nor will I—I give you my word.”
Mr. Williams looked at him for a long moment. “You are too smooth and charming by half. It is impossible to know if you’re sincere. Moreover, I have met your father—on more than one occasion—and I know his ideals. In addition, I know about your search for a young lady your father forbade your brother to marry. What makes you certain that you would not find the same refusal?”
How quickly Mr. Williams dove into the heart of the matter.
Rowan searched for the words and the courage to voice them. “I don’t know all the reasons why my brother’s love was denied. His girl might be illegitimate or the daughter of a member of the working class. She might be Catholic—my father has very strong opinions about our family all belonging to the Church of England. His reasons may not necessarily mean she didn’t come from noble enough blood.”
“Perhaps. But a peer expects a certain bloodline.”
“Miss Montgomery is the daughter of a gentleman, so there is no legitimate reason why our union would be denied.” He paused as determination gathered in him. “If I must, I would marry her against my father’s wishes.”
“Would you?” His focused gaze drilled into Rowan’s.
The man’s doubt in him spurred Rowan to throw out caution and speak from the heart. “She has poured healing light into my wounded soul. I feel like I’m breathing for the first time in weeks. I want to see her smile every day, to share all her disappointments and joys, and share mine with her. If I must take on this new role as heir, I want her at my side. I can’t even think of facing my future without her.” He huffed an amazed laugh. “I love her. Truly. Completely.”
Mr. Williams folded his arms. “You’ve only known her a week.”
“Yet we’ve spent as much time together as most courtships have in months.” Rowan stepped forward and held out his hands. “Sir, her happiness is important to me. It is of utmost importance.”
“Is it? Or does the lure of marrying a girl your father would not accept fit with your desire to rebel against him?”
The question took Rowan aback. “I would never . . . how can you even suggest that?”
“You may not consciously know that’s your motive. Either way, I’m convinced it is time for you to take accommodations somewhere other than our home. There’s an inn up the road. I’ll put you up there until your father comes for you, as I’m certain he will—soon. Please do not call upon Isabella or engage in any sort of courtship. I do not wish for you to see her again.” He left Rowan standing alone.
Never see her again? Panic ripped through him. In his fears that his father would not accept Isabella, he’d never dreamed that the vicar would reject Rowan.
Under a tent at the seashore, Isabella carefully displayed all the pieces of her art that she hoped to use to convince Mr. Corby to accept her as a pupil. But now that Rowan Law was gone, her eager anticipation had dimmed.
Still, he was only staying at an inn, not so very far away. And he knew of the art fair. Surely he’d come. After such a magical day at the pavilion, how could he not?
Wearing her best bonnet and pelisse, she waited under the tent where the other hopeful students stood by their art, including Miss Potter with her emotional, disturbing pieces. Looking at the other entries, Isabella’s courage about her so-called masterpiece faded in the face of such competition by clearly gifted and skilled artists. Would hers be good enough?
Several townspeople strolled by, stopping at various displays. Their admiring gazes at her pieces and their questions failed to calm her thudding heart. If only Rowan were here. Just his smile would soothe her nervousness.
The art master, Mr. Corby, arrived. A diminutive man with a shock of white hair atop his head and flowing over his collar, he would never have been considered imposing, yet her future as an artist lay in his hands. She folded her fidgety hands together and tried to stand still.
Aunt Missy and Uncle Joseph waited nearby, giving her a wave of encouragement. George strolled past with Miss Stockton on his arm.
The master stopped in front of her paintings and eyed them through a pair of spectacles. “Nice coloring. Good proportions. Very restful.” He nodded, then gestured at her masterpiece. “This one shows real depth of emotion.” He moved on to the other paintings.
Mr. Corby hadn’t stayed long. Did that mean he was quickly impressed or had deemed her unworthy of his time and expertise?
Mr. Corby studied each artist’s display, pausing only a few minutes at each. He walked back along them all with his hands folded behind him. He stopped.
Facing the hopeful artists, he announced, “I have chosen my new student. I don’t often accept young ladies, but this year one stands out above all the rest.”
Hope bubbled up inside and nearly spilled over. Was it true? Had he chosen her? She held her breath.
Mr. Corby turned toward her. “Congratulations, Miss Potter.”
Miss Potter?
With hands extended, Mr. Corby strode to the young lady standing next to Isabella. Isabella gaped. She’d thought . . .
No. Of course not. It had been too much to hope. She should have known that her sweet, ordinary paintings could never compete with such unique, passionate art as Miss Potter’s.
While the onlookers applauded, the art master and his new student shook hands. The girl bubbled over with enthusiasm. All those hours, all that work . . . for nothing. Clearly Isabella was not in possession of the skills nor talent she’d always believed. All her hopes withered like flowers in a garden devoid of rain.
With all of her might going to holding her tears at bay, she stood, head high, next to her less-than-impressive art display. When she thought she could speak, Isabella congratulated the winner through her wounded heart.
Aunt Missy and Uncle Joseph waved from where they stood in the shade, both smiling in supportive sympathy.
“I’m sorry you weren’t chosen,” a familiar voice said.
Rowan Law stood next to her, wearing the same clothing he’d worn the day she met him. A spark of light glittered in his eyes, brightening that air of sorrow that had dimmed him for so long.
“I’m glad you came,” she said. She reached out with both hands and took each of his.
He smiled apologetically and, after giving her hands the briefest squeeze, removed his hands, glancing at Uncle Joseph. “I had to be here for you today, but I’m afraid this is goodbye.”
“What?” A slow, cold dread trickled into her.
“I’m leaving. And I won’t see you again.”
While she wrestled with his possible meaning, a newcomer strode into her line of sight.
“There you are, Hadley. I hope you enjoyed your holiday in Brighton, but it’s time to leave now and resume your duties.” The older man had the same strong features as Rowan. Thin streaks of gray lined his dark hair, and his clothing followed the very latest fashion. He, too, wore a black mourning band.
“Father.” Rowan’s eyes widened, and his mouth parted.
“It was clear to me that you needed time to contemplate your place in the world, so I asked the good vicar here to take you in while I saw to some business.”
“You asked them to take me in?” He blinked and pressed a hand on his forehead. “I thought they took me in out of kindness.”
�
��It was a kindness that we pre-arranged. I’m back now, and we must resume our journey. You have much to learn.”
Rowan glanced back at Isabella but addressed his father. “I’m not—”
“You’ve had some time to collect yourself and”—Father glanced at Isabella dismissively—“apparently sow your oats. Now come.”
Isabella gasped. Had he just implied that she was some sort of trollop who’d dallied with Rowan?
The earl gestured impatiently at Rowan. “Your mother is waiting.”
Rowan’s brows drew together. “We left Mother in Sussex.”
“She decided to join us on our tour of the properties. Normally she dislikes this much travel, but she wanted a change of scenery. Having all those grieving relatives around her was making it worse rather than better. She’s at Crestwood Manor. Come, Hadley. We’re behind schedule.”
Rowan Law, the Viscount Hadley and heir to an earl, turned to Isabella one final time. He looked at her for a long moment. Was he really leaving? Would he declare himself?
Did he truly care, or had she imagined it?
“I have . . . enjoyed our time together. Very much.” He bowed over her hand and actually kissed it. Without looking, he strode away with his father.
Bewilderment and hurt stabbed her heart. She lurched toward him, a call on her lips.
Uncle Joseph grabbed both of her arms. “Let him go.”
“I can’t. I have to tell him—”
“He must go with his father. The earl.”
Halting, Rowan glanced over his shoulder at her, opened his mouth, looked at Uncle, then his father, and turned back around to resume walking.
She rounded on Uncle. “You sent him away.”
He met her gaze evenly. “I did.”
“Uncle! How could you?”
“To protect you. He was trifling with your heart.”
“He was sincere.” Wasn’t he? Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure. But now he was gone. She’d never know if he could one day return her love.
A Week in Brighton Page 23