She simply could not bear to don colors. Not yet.
To be quite honest, she wasn’t sure if life would ever again paint itself in bold hues. She felt too raw and tumbled to tolerate such chaotic vibrance.
Lottie stepped down the central staircase of Frome Abbey, a muted Paisley shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders to ward off the January chill.
As the name indicated, Frome Abbey had begun its life as a Cistercian monastery. The Reformation had seen it awarded to the third Baron Lockheade and transformed into a Tudor country estate.
A century later, the second Viscount Lockheade had renovated the property, adding an impressive Baroque facade to the south entrance reminiscent of the grandeur of Versailles. Or so Grandmère claimed, as she was the only one of them who had seen Versailles firsthand.
The grand staircase zigzagged through the center of the house, its marble steps cantilevered out from the wall with no central supporting pillars. A skylight—added by her father—illuminated the whole from above.
The portraits of ancestors watched Lottie descend each step. She lifted her eyes mid-way down the flight of stairs and stopped.
Cousin Alex stood on the landing below her—hands clasped behind his back, face in profile—studying the painting on the wall. He had shed his caped overcoat and top hat, obviously. But his green clawhammer coat and black woolen breeches, though simple, were impeccably tailored.
He appeared younger than her memory of him. Here . . . he was merely a gentleman come for dinner.
He turned his head toward her and froze.
Oh.
He might seem younger in appearance, but his eyes . . .
She did not remember them being so . . . so . . .seeing.
He had ancient eyes. Slate gray, no trace of blue or green.
Eyes that perhaps had seen too much of life—too much death, too much suffering, too much helplessness—and were honed sharp in their refusal to tolerate others’ twaddle.
Had he always had such a gaze? Had she, in her youth and naivete those years ago, simply not noticed it?
Or, like herself, had Life knocked him about since then?
Those ancient eyes watched as she descended the final few steps to him.
Lottie curtsied.
“Dr. Whitaker,” she murmured, saying nothing of their cousin-ship.
He did notfeellike Cousin Alex anymore.
“Lady Charlotte.” He bowed. It was a precise, courtly motion.
No matter his current occupation and the absurdity of their previous encounter, Lottie was confident Cousin Alex—ehr. . . Dr. Whitaker—had been raised a gentleman.
As he raised his head, his eyes flicked to her bare hands. As they were to dineen famille, Lottie had not donned gloves. Given how his gaze lingered there for a moment, she had to wonder if he condemned her small lack of decorum—
The thought evaporated as his gray eyes lifted and again locked with hers.
Steely eyes. Battle eyes.
The sort of gaze a soldier might see right before his own demise.
Lottie swallowed.
Like with his peruke and justacorps those years ago, Dr. Whitaker was once again rendering her maudlin.
He was not her adversary. Sheknewthis. The man was no more guilty of his parentage than she was of hers.
