She hesitated. “Miss Evelyn Ellory. Daughter of the Viscount of Brimwood.”
He blinked once. That was all.
“I do not remember a Miss Evelyn Ellory,” he said plainly. “Though I assure you, Lady Brimwood, I am not in the habit of ruining young ladies.”
“But she?—”
“I believe,” he interrupted, “I should remember if I had compromised a viscount’s daughter.”
A pause. The room seemed to exhale. Robert’s gaze stayed fixed on the window. He didn’t look at her when he spoke next.
“Even if I had compromised anyone, Lady Brimwood, which I have not, I assure you, I do not respond well to being told what Ioughtto do.”
His voice was quiet, almost conversational, but it carried the chill of stone beneath a winter frost. If he had turned then, he would have found the woman flushed to the roots of her powdered curls. She shifted again, fussed with her gloves, and gave a strained little laugh. But he still remained with his back turned to her.
“No, no, of course not, Your Grace. I—I never meant to imply…” She trailed off, clutching her reticule in both hands like a lifeline. “This must have all been some… misunderstanding.”
Robert still said nothing.
She began speaking again, but now, it was more to herself than to him, her eyes darting about the drawing room as though searching for some ally among the draperies.
“I suppose Evelyn lied to me. To avoid…” She shook her head, lips tightening. “I should have known she might do something so mad. Always with her sharp tongue and grand principles. I told her… Itoldher more than once that a lady with too many opinions soon finds herself very alone.”
Robert remained still. He had learned a long time ago that people had a tendency to reveal themselves on their very own. One did not even need to ask any questions but only listen.
The woman pressed on. “She really ought to take better care. It’s not as though proposals rain from the heavens. She’s had plenty, and what has she done but reject every single one? And now she’s gone and made herself quite unmanageable—again. Well. Let her. She’s lucky Lord Wimberly still wants her.”
That made him turn… slowly.
He faced her with a precision that felt too exact to be casual. “Pardon?”
She blinked, confused by the sudden shift. “I said, she’s lucky Lord Wimberly is still happy to marry her.”
He stepped toward her, just once. Not threatening but focused.
“Who,” he said softly, “is Lord Wimberly to you?”
The woman, visibly unnerved now, tried to recover her usual briskness. “Why—he is my husband’s business partner. Wimberly is a widower, you know, terribly wealthy. In need of a mother for his children. Evelyn may put on airs, but I know she’ll come to her senses in time.”
Robert felt as if someone punched him in the gut, but he knew better than to show a reaction to that name. Fortunately, a lifemarred by tragedy had taught him how to hide his emotions well.
“I see,” he said at last. “Thank you, Lady Brimwood. That will be all.”
She hesitated, mouth parting slightly as though to ask something, but his tone had left no room for dialogue. Whatever curiosity sparked behind her eyes was promptly smothered by his stare.
She clutched her reticule tighter and nodded stiffly. “Very good. Good day, Your Grace.”
He said nothing. He listened to the sound of her steps echoing sharply against the marble. One hand passed over his jaw, slow and thoughtful, and then dropped to his side. His eyes lifted.
The family portrait loomed above the hearth as it always had. A stately thing, done in somber tones as was expected: greys, navy, plum. His father sat stiff in a red velvet chair, his eyes hard as iron. His mother stood beside him, not smiling but still soft, still gentle. She had always worn sorrow like jewelry, quiet and dignified.
His brother, Thomas, stood at their father’s right hand, proud and sure. And then Robert, younger by seven years, perched uncomfortably on a carved stool. His coat was too large, his posture too guarded, like a boy already preparing for battle.
He stepped toward it now. The fire crackled behind him, casting shifting shadows across the painted canvas. He reached up, slowly, and touched his fingertips to the image of his mother’s face.
There it was. Just there, in the corner of her eye. The faint, almost imperceptible crinkle that had only visibly appeared when she laughed. He had forgotten that. His fingers paused, and he exhaled, long and quiet.
“I swore I would never allow that world to pull me back into its filth. That I would not dance to their songs nor speak in their riddles nor pretend that honor still existed where it had been sold for titles.”
