“I’ve destroyed us.” The words emerged muffled through his fingers. “Our name, our standing, everything Father built.”
Louise crossed to him, sinking down beside her broken brother. “Father built his fortune on speculation that could have collapsed at any moment. You simply fulfilled his legacy of poor judgment.”
A startled laugh escaped George. “That’s harsh.”
“That’s honest.” She gripped his shoulder, feeling the bones too prominent through his coat. “We can rebuild, George. But only if you stop wallowing and start working.”
He lifted his head, hope flickering in eyes that looked too much like their mother’s. “You don’t hate me?”
“I’m furious with you. Disappointed. Hurt beyond measure.” Louise squeezed his shoulder once before releasing him. “But you’re my brother. We survive together or not at all.”
The Whitmore musicale should have been pleasant.
Louise sat between Lady Fenwick and Lady Wycliffe, offering the appropriate nods of attention while a soprano warbled through an Italian aria. Her new evening dress, a modest creation of amber silk, had cost more than they could afford but was necessary for appearances. It felt like armor that did not quite fit.
“Lord Calderley has been asking after you,” Lady Wycliffe murmured behind her fan. “Such a charming young man.”
Louise managed a polite smile while her mind catalogued household expenses. The coal bill. Emily’s lessons with Miss Whitfield, which Aaron still mysteriously paid for despite their departure. The medicine for Mrs. Fielding’s persistent cough.
“He’s very kind.” The expected response emerged automatically.
During the interval, Lord Calderley materialized at her elbow with the determination of a man on a mission.
“Lady Louise.” He bowed with excessive flourish. “Might I fetch you some refreshment?”
She accepted because refusing would cause talk they couldn’t afford. George stood across the room, attempting conversationwith men who had once called him friend, their discomfort visible in every stilted exchange.
Lord Calderley returned with a glass of punch that tasted of sugar and social obligation. “I trust your brother’s health continues to improve?”
“Yes, the physicians are quite encouraged.” The lie rolled off her tongue with practiced ease. Bath waters. Miraculous recovery. So fortunate.
“Perhaps, when he’s fully recovered, I might call on you?” Calderley’s eagerness made him look younger than his twenty-seven years. “With proper chaperonage, naturally.”
Louise studied the punch’s pink surface, seeing Aaron’s reflection instead of her own. The way he had looked at her that last morning, resolution and misery warring in his expression.
“That’s very flattering, Lord Calderley.”
He waited for more. When nothing came, his enthusiasm dimmed slightly. “But not welcome?”
“I’m focused on my family’s recovery.” She handed him the barely touched glass. “I’m sure you understand.”
He didn’t, but he pretended to, which was all society required.
The second half of the performance dragged interminably. Mr. Sheridan approached during the final piece, whispered an invitation to tomorrow’s garden party. Lord Ashford’s younger son cornered her near the door, suggesting a drive through Hyde Park might be refreshing.
Each man was perfectly pleasant. Appropriately bred. Financially stable. Emotionally available.
Yet none of them made her pulse race. None of them looked at her like she was sunlight after years of darkness. None of them had ever fought five men to protect her or spent weeks searching for her worthless brother.
None of them were Aaron.
The carriage ride home with George passed in silence until he spoke into the darkness.
“Three men approached me about you tonight.”
Louise kept her gaze fixed on passing streetlamps. “How flattering.”
“You refused them all.”
