Camellia threw a pillow at her sister’s head. “Speak for yourself. Mother has said that if I fail to bring some sap up to scratch before the end of the Season, Father will select my future husband.”
“Poppycock.” Dahlia settled herself on the floor next to Heath’s chaise. “Father is too busy to wish us well on our birthdays. He’ll never take the time to comb through eligible bachelors in search of a perfect match for his daughter.”
“Exactly.” Bryony’s voice was dark. “He’ll pack her off with the first wily roué who asks. Cam, you cannot let him do it. You must find a husband first.”
Heath suddenly realized he had hoped all his sisters would find love matches. They deserved happiness. One person in the family taking a bride for the barony rather than for love was more than enough. He would do his duty so that his sisters could follow their hearts.
Duty meant choosing a chit based on bloodlines and good stock and impeccable comportment. Selecting from a limited pool of debutantes the way one might deliberate horseflesh at Tattersall’s. One didn’t expect tospeakwith the horse, to experience some sort of otherworldlyconnectionwith the horse. One simply did one’s best to procure a creature that would not embarrass him in front of his peers.
Just because Heath knew these things did not mean he must like them. If he was shocked to discover he had always taken such strict protocol for granted, he was even more shocked at the tiny part of him that wished exceptions could be made. Not forever; he was heir to a barony that he would one day pass down to his own son, and could not in good faith do anything to tarnish that gift.
No, not forever… but perhaps for a single moment. If he could freeze everyone else in time for a single, reckless hour, he really could ask a woman like Miss Winfield to dance. They would be the only two whirling amongst the frozen dance floor. They would not require an orchestra to find the rhythm to waltz.
For that hour, he would not be Mr. Grenville, first in line to a title, upholder of all that is proper andgood ton. For that hour, Miss Winfield would not be a sheep maid or a paid companion or off-limits at all. They would simply be a gentleman enjoying a waltz with a pretty woman.
And perhaps a kiss or three, if the lady were amenable. No need for promises, or apologies, or regrets. Just two people without a care or worry, finally allowing the spark between them full rein before the wheels of time came crashing down again to separate them for good.
“Pay close attention, Dahlia.” Bryony stabbed a plume in her sister’s direction. “As soon as Cam’s married, then it’ll be your turn.”
Dahlia blanched at the realization. “I refuse. There’s no time for such nonsense when I’ve a demanding schedule as headmistress of a school. How can Mother expect me to waltz through every dinner party in Town and still manage an overcrowded, underfunded boarding school?”
“She does not wish for you to do both,” Bryony pointed out dryly. “You would make her the happiest of creatures if you would stop caring about other people and focus your talents on flirting with painted fans.”
“Mother isn’t evil,” Heath reminded them all. “She’s this way because she loves all of you. In the world we live in, a daughter’s duty is to be wed, and a successful mother ensures that happens. She doesn’t view you as unworthy. She views herself as a failure.”
“To be fair, she also viewsusas failures,” Camellia said with a sigh. “I’m likely the worst of the lot. Unlike my hoyden sisters, I’m not ‘on the shelf’ on purpose.”
“I’m not against husbands,” Dahlia protested. “If I could find a man who didn’t mind that his wife’s priority was taking care of—”
“Stop right there,” Heath interrupted, miming taking written notes on the conversation. “If I report back to Mother that you are open to the idea of marriage, that will settle her nerves considerably.”
“What about you?” Camellia asked. “Are you truly going to find a bride this Season?”
“I promised Mother I would,” he replied. For better or for worse.
“One couldn’t ask for a firmer ‘yes.’” Bryony shook her head. “Heath has never broken his word in his life.”
“True.” Dahlia tossed him a saucy grin over her shoulder. “That’s how I tricked him into giving me self-defense lessons all those years ago.”
“You didn’t trick me,” he protested. “You said you wanted to know how to defend yourself if you encountered a situation that required it, and I found that a quite reasonable request.”
She leaned her head against his arm. “And I thank you, dear brother. You’re my favorite for a reason.”
Camellia’s mouth dropped open in mock offense. “No favorites allowed!”
She and Bryony showered him and Dahlia with every pillow cushion within arm’s reach.
Heath let the pillows fall where they may. He couldn’t have been more content.
He’d often wished that instead of the stodgy portrait Mother had commissioned of the four siblings when they were young, that they’d opted for an irreverent moment-in-time painting instead.
Days like today. Camellia and Bryony showering the room with bright satin cushions. Heath, sprawled on an elegant chaise. Dahlia, her prim coiffure resting against his shoulder while the telltale cuffs of boys’ breeches poked out from beneath the hem of her day dress.
A niggle of doubt cracked his happiness. Hehadtaught Dahlia to defend herself because he never wanted any woman to feel helpless. And thosewerehis castoff trousers that allowed her to tumble across the floor without fear of indecent exposure.
Dear Lord. Why would Mother believe he was in any way the right person to talk “sense” into Dahlia? Heath was the one to blame for her turning out strong and capable and stubborn.
For all intents and purposes, he’d been the only male figure present for most of his siblings’ lives. What if he’d conveyed the wrong message?
