Heaven.
“I am sorry, Septimus,” she whispered.
What did she know of Lord Bromton? What did he know of her?
She touched Septimus’s name one last time, and then she turned. The real Lord Bromton leaned against the gate, his rain-damp hair clinging to his angled cheeks.
Her breath caught between the past and the future. A raindrop snaked beneath the twisted fabric of her fichu. She could struggle all she wanted, but, in the end, she could not deny—Bromton, for better or for worse, was her destiny.
She did not know if he were punishment or gift—or, perhaps, a bit of both.
He was dizzyingly beautiful, with an undeniable allure. His elegant clothing was neither too ostentatious, nor too refined. It simply served to communicate sartorial assurance of his consistency, and, of course, to accentuate his features. His black cravat set off the strong line of his chin, emphasizing the light, mysterious color of his eyes.
Gray. His eyes were most certainly gray.
And they were locked on her own with unabashed proprietary intent, looking straight into the center of her soul.
Chapter Six
Bromton’s carefully orchestrated ambush awaited just outside the gate—a performance constructed of masculine ingenuity meant to serve as evidence of his loyalty and care: one beloved sister rescued from the clutches of indiscretion and youthful folly. But once he’d set foot inside the cemetery, everything had changed.
Only Katherine remained—the single breathing thing amidst an eerie garden of stone. Her wet eyes, clouded with bewilderment and loss, filled with sentiments so strong they struck him behind his knees. He’d sought the trunk of the nearest tree, just to help him stand.
He didn’t need to see the stone to know whose life it marked. Grief for parents, while excruciating, was a loss that was part of the natural way. This grief, the grief that rounded her shoulders with bone-breaking sorrow, was a grief born of having been stunned. Shattered.
Her palpable grief forced him to face the truth—lovewasreal.
Only love, the mythic force captured by poets, could bludgeon with a force strong enough to render his hellion so small and alone.
In his mind’s eye, a young man he’d never met shimmered in angelic perfection, a man decidedly unlike himself. Bromton would always be a brute, the likes of which she despised.
Chandler, by contrast, had been pious. So pious, an earl had granted him the hand of his eldest daughter. Such a man would never have questioned the existence of love. Such a man would have been the rock of his family, the heart of his father’s hopes.
Bromton hated Septimus Chandler. He hated him for being everything he could never be—a good man, a legitimate gentleman who had a rightful claim to Katherine’s devotion.
Bromton hadn’t such a claim, nor had he ever been the object of anyone’s devotion. Raw humiliation took the form of his most painful memory, a memory with talons that time had failed to dull.
“Giles!” His mother gathered him into her arms, smelling of air and lavender and sunshine.
“Let the boy go, Lady Bromton,” the marquess boomed. “He’s no longer a mindless infant for you to coddle.”
His father slapped his walking stick against the wall. Giles ducked behind his mother’s skirts. He was no stranger to that stick. Its sting hurt like the devil.
“Isaid,let him go.”
Giles clung with all his might, but his mother pried away his fingers. She looked not at him but at his fath—the marquess. The marquess pointed to the door. She would not—she could not—but she did.
Without a word or a backward glance, she left him alone to his fate.
“You,” the marquess placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, “will permit no one—not even the marchioness—to call you anything but your title. You are, by courtesy title, the Earl of Strathe, and Strathe you will remain until the day you take my place.”
Knowing his mother had left him to the marquess’s care, even though he’d belonged to her alone, only worsened his sense of shame. The spasm racking his heart never reached his face. Instead, his wet hair made cold slashes against his cheeks.
A gentleman would leave Katherine to her mourning.
He was no gentleman. He was a bastard with the audacity to call himself Bromton, and he refused to cede ground to a ghost.
Covetousness spread out about him like a greatcoat in the wind. He’d never wanted anything not his due. But, damnation, he wanted Katherine. His want unfurled in waves strong enough to shake the earth beneath his feet.
