A few days later he’d touched his ear during a large gathering in the sitting room.
She’d felt proud and mischievous, a heroine, swooping in to rescue the hero from Mr. Perriman.
But then the inevitable house party shooting competition had indeed been got up inside a week. It featured apples propped on posts of different heights and requirements to stand at various distances, and a few timed bouts, too.
Every man present insisted on having a go.
Brightwall won every single round.
She watched him with that rifle, that so-called utensil of his survival: the choreography of loading powder and shot, the lift to his shoulder, the minute adjustments in his stance, his deadly, efficient aim. The resulting destruction. He made it all look as innate as breathing.
But she knew that what she witnessed each time he fired a weapon was in fact a dozen decisions and calculations made in a matter of a couple of heartbeats. She understood that someone who could casually dismiss such a lethal skill was complicated and formidable in a way she might not ever be able to fully comprehend. It underscored completely that he was not of her world.
For the first time she paid particular attention to which of the young lords present were good-natured about their losses and which ones blustered a bit, or went quiet or moped. She supposed gentlemen—the sort raised with money and titles and university educations—were seldom given opportunities to thusly prove themselves. They were told who and what they were from birth. They did not necessarily need tobecomeanything.
Brightwall had winked at her when she’d suggested bringing out brandy for all the losers that evening.
So he’d gone back for that scrap of ribbon clinging to the fine branches.
And he’d kept it all these years.
She stared at it now.
Grief swooped down upon her, and an old helpless fury pressed against her chest.
But through it all, something soft and bright seemed to be struggling to break free. Like a ribbon in a tree.
She had known her own heart in that moment.
Or so she’d thought.
She had given very little thought to the contents of Brightwall’s heart. Why should she have?
How could she have possibly known how he’d felt?
He’d never said a word about that.
He’d merely politely bought her.
Five thousand pounds.
It had torn her breath away when her father told her.
It tore her breath away still.
And because she’d had a few years of loneliness and self-recrimination to reflect, she understood now why she’d done what she’d done on her wedding night.
Still. She’d never meant to hurt Magnus.
And because of that money—because of her—her family was at last thriving. Improbably her brother had put his restless energies and lust for a good argument to good use in America, where he was studying law. He loved the newness of everything there. He had been to visit Brightwall’s New York estate and reported that it was enviable, an elegant home in a classic style, beautifully situated and well-kept by a staff paid from the account Brightwall kept at an Americanbank. Courtesy of Brightwall’s money, her sister had been sent on a journey to sunny Italy, fully recovered her health, and returned to marry one of the titled boys who had once courted Alexandra. She was temporarily living with her husband in the now repaired and restored Bellamy family home while their own new home was built, but they were currently traveling through Italy together. Her father had gone to visit her brother in New York, and had stayed longer than expected: he’d met a woman, her brother had written to her. She seemed lovely.
But Brightwall had played her family like a chess master. The ruthless strategist, the man who could make a dozen swift decisions in the span of two heartbeats, had assessed the Bellamys and their circumstances and their relationships like the battlefield commander he was and knew he could not fail to get what he wanted.
What he’d wanted was her.
I do think we’ll suit, Alexandra.
And because he’d known how she felt about her family, he must have known she’d have no choice in it at all.
