John Brown, the Marquis of Brockway, found himself both frustrated and mesmerized by Virginia Wimbley Ninnis, Lady Maudsley. A man was only allowed one misstep when dealing with such a woman, and he’d committed his sole allotment a decade prior. Ginny had the unerring ability to flay a person alive with one amber-cut glance. And now Griston had the unmitigated gall to encroach on Brock’s single moment to salvage his honor in her eyes.
What possible interest could that rotter have in Ginny? He wasn’t worthy to kiss her silk-covered slippers. She belonged to Brock. Every five-foot, ten-inch height of her. Every delicate bone in her body. Every indelible scar—inside and out—that horrid cad Maudsley had left on her belonged to Brock.
His heart walloped a beating on his ribs. He couldn’t tear his gaze from Griston. He lead her to the refreshment table, talking all the while. All sugar and eloquence. There wasn’t the least bit of solid substance in Griston that Brock could see. The scoundrel was smooth, Brock was forced to admit. Pretty too, if the current run of debutantes and marriage-minded mamas were anything to judge by. Brock hated admitting Griston had grabbed the advantage in that unfortunate exchange—with Ginny’s help, of course. But Brock already proved to himself he was in for the long haul. His and Ginny’s destinies were entwined for eternity, and nothing she could say or do would change that.
The problem, as Brock saw it, was fate and his own clumsy declarations that had botched his good intentions all those years ago. What a lousy excuse. Fate and his own stupidity? His insides tightened with loss. With regret. Yes, he’d been forced to put Ginny from his mind because of a dangerous crisis involving Rachel, his younger sister. God knows his failure had been spectacular. And now Brock lived with the responsibility of the abuse Ginny had suffered at Maudsley’s hands.
But standing here now, he knew it was more than losing her all those years ago. He might not deserve her, but his feelings hadn’t changed over the years. If anything, they’d intensified. He damn sure wanted her back.
Through the open doors, he watched Griston fix and hand Ginny a small plate, smiling his perfect smile, using his perfect manners. Jealousy crashed over him in waves.
“Er, Brock… did you even hear a word?” Kimpton’s voice yanked him out of his green-filled doldrums. Sort of.
Brock jerked his gaze from the touching scene. “What was that?”
“Look, man, Lady Maudsley will be there tomorrow. I said I’ve word of Harlowe.”
Brock reluctantly forced his attention from the man trying to steal away his lifeline back to his friend. Lady Kimpton’s brother had disappeared the previous year with no indication as to his whereabouts, and Brock had been assisting Kimpton in trying to locate him.
Discordant laughter reached across the hall to the open night, manacling his chest in cast iron. Laughter that felt a touch apprehensive-sounding to him, laced with panic. He squeezed his hand into a fist. She was in a ballroom surrounded by a hundred people, make that ninety-eight. Storming in like a charging rhino to rescue her was not something she would appreciate. Still, he kept one eye on her. “Harlowe? What have you heard?”
“Well.” An awkward hesitation followed.
The last any word had surfaced on Harlowe had been a cryptic note to the man’s sister, Lorelei, Lady Kimpton, letting her know he was still among the living, and that was months ago. Needless to say, Brock’s patience teetered on nil. “What?” he demanded, squelching the flinch from the abrasive growl Ginny would no doubt chastise him over. Still, Kimpton had just usurped Brock’s first attempt in months to get back into her good graces.
With colossal effort, Brock forced himself to concentrate. He owed Kimpton for his discretion in allowing Brock to protect Ginny’s reputation and her life from the low-life husband who’d beaten her to a pulp, the blackguard who’d left her to die on her bedchamber floor.
All in view of her own children. Brock’s heart clenched thinking of what those two young innocents had witnessed.
Admittedly, he didn’t know them well, but the connection he’d felt with Ginny’s daughters was sheer honesty. A new fury surged through Brock. How dare Ginny discountthat?How dare she disregard his care for her? His protection of her? She, in fact, owed him. At the least, a sliver of her undivided attention.
Kimpton’s short cough drew Brock’s consideration from Ginny’s hand on that fop’s arm. They stayed in sight, which was a blessing and a curse. “Harlowe’s trail has been cold a year now,” Brock said, his gaze never straying from Ginny’s lovely backside.
“I’m the first to admit that what I have isn’t much, but the information is worth checking out. According to this lead, there was a man left for dead on a road near Goldhanger.”
That startled him. “Goldhanger. There’s nothing there but a long stretch of eroding coastline.”
“Yes. Specifically, the coastline north of Maldon. My sources tell me the man was unrecognizable and had no memory of who he was or how he’d arrived there.”
“Was?” Brock frowned. “Is he de—”
“No, thank God. At least, not at last word.”
Again, Brock’s patience gave way, and again, Ginny’s criticism of his arrogance bled through. He really was an arrogant dolt. “Then how do you figure this man is Harlowe?”
Kimpton grinned, albeit grimly. “He paints. Paintings.”
Surrender took hold. “Ah. That indeed warrants checking out.” There was no question of Harlowe’s artistic skills. Before the man had vanished, he’d managed to send a series of his own paintings to his sister Lady Kimpton, each one depicting a notable traitor throughout history incorporating a menacing scythe. Unfortunately, there were no explanations. Not for the sending of the works nor the reasons for the scythes and traitors. “So, where is he now?”
“That’s the problem. He seems to have disappeared. Again.” Kimpton shook his head. “I can’t bring myself to raise Lorelei’s hopes. I want sound knowledge about this latest development before bringing this information to her.”
“All right,” Brock said slowly. “So, we go to Goldhanger and work our way from there…” Blast. He’d never get into Ginny’s good graces if he had to leave town.
“Excellent.” He stopped. “Hell. There’s that damned house party of Griston’s to attend. I suppose if we leave a day or two early, I can meet up with Lorelei there.” Kimpton’s gaze cut to the ballroom. “The man is too exquisitely dressed, if you ask me. He has that poetical air about him I find less than trustworthy.”
Brock followed his gaze. “You’ll get no argument from me.” Griston hovered over Ginny, and Brock’s jaw tightened.Patience, he told himself. Something he apparently needed in droves.
Brock had no intention of spending an entire weekend in the country away from Ginny. He would go with Kimpton, return to London, and utilize his advantage over Griston to woo Ginny to her senses. “I can be ready early afternoon tomorrow. Will that suffice?” After he managed at least one audience with Lady Virginia Maudsley.
