Oh.
Dimly, under the rushing in my ears, I heard Mother prattling. “—Lady Grayson. Your mother introduced us at her annual ball a few years ago. It is a tragedy she stopped hosting.”
The gentleman was clearly distracted. He offered Mother a brief glance before his gaze flicked back to the crowd. But he was…beautiful.
Dark hair swept off his wide forehead. Matching thick brows topped equally dark eyes. His skin was pale, and his jaw hinted at the ease with which he could grow a beard. He was shorter than me, shorter than Hugh, too, and stocky. But the cut of his crisp black-and-white waistcoat hinted at a muscled form beneath. Nothing about him was delicate; his expression, his appearance, his grooming, his apparel—it was all severe, sparing, and breathtaking.
This. This was what all the stories talked about. The swirling, fluttering, tightening of my chest, the dampness blooming on my palms, the way the air had thickened to a soupy consistency that made breathing difficult. Somehow, when I inhaled, the air wasstill fleeting, insubstantial. There was too much of it in the room and not enough in my lungs.
“She’s still—” he started. His voice was a musical tenor. And his hand gestured between us in a moment, flicking to one side before clenching in a fist at his waist. The gesture was enough to ensure I noticed sturdy, strong fingers beneath a white glove. “She is still mourning my father,” he finished, his lips twisted all the way to one corner of his mouth by the end.
“Oh, and once again, please pass along my deepest condolences. I lost my dear Henry some years ago, but the grief is as sharp as it ever was,” Mother simpered.
“I will. I’m certain she will be grateful.” His gaze flicked about the room, still distracted.
“Your Grace, may I have the pleasure of introducing my youngest son, Thomas Grayson?” Mother followed the request with a proper curtsy, deeper than I thought her capable.
She then excused herself, slipping off with a significant look tossed back to me.
I was supposed to do… something. But what was anyone’s guess. Because with Mother away, the air filled with an overwhelming, masculine, cedar scent. It shoved useful thoughts clean from my head.
“Pleasure,” he murmured in my direction, still glancing uneasily around the room.
“The honor is all mine,” I replied automatically with a bow.
His silence settled like a wall between us. Several gulps of his woody scent left me painfully aware that I was gaping like a dolt, but I was still too overcome for intelligent conversation.
“It was a lovely ceremony,” I added, trying again. The comment was inane and entirely false. I’d never seen two people less enthused with the prospect of wedded bliss.
“Yes, quite,” he returned as his attention shifted back to me. “Remind me again of your relation to the bride?”
I blinked, head aflutter. “She is my sister. Of but a few hours.”
“Oh, right. Yes, of course. So… you are not familiar with the layout of the house then?” he asked, gaze returning to the crowd.
I was fully gaping now. “Not any more so than anyone else. Are you looking for something, Your Grace?”
His gaze finally found mine and caught there for a minute. His eyes were so dark, I was absolutely certain they were brown—near black—and not some other color I only assumed was brown. For reasons I couldn’t name, it was essential to me that I know what color they were, truly.
“No… yes…” he broke off, studying my entire form with a critical eye. “No,” he finally settled.
Dismissed. Thoroughly, completely, unambiguously.
“Right… I’ll just be on my way then,” I muttered, a forlorn note creeping in. But I was unwilling to force my company on him.
Rosehill sighed as he shifted his weight onto his heels. Then his head tipped back to the ceiling, eyelids shut.
When he finished his ritual, his gaze found mine and pinned me in place. “You haven’t noticed any… escape routes? Have you?”
“Escape routes?”
“Never mind. It’s— Davina!” he called out to someone behind me, beckoning them forward with both hands.
A lovely girl in a fine frock of an indeterminate color stalked to his side, her arms crossed and expression unimpressed.
“You summoned?” she asked, mouth twisted into a pout. Then her gaze flitted toward me. “Who is this little cricket?”
I— What?Cricket?
