Heartless, women said.
Yet when he stalked into his townhouse and slammed the door with enough force to rattle the windows, he wasn’t cold or icy. In fact, steam was all but pouring out his ears. Yanking off his hat and coat, he tossed them at the poor, bewildered footman before going off in search of his sister, Lady Brynne. After a brief search of the first floor and its many rooms, he found her outside in the rose garden.
Painting.
“You’re standing in my light,” she said mildly when he stopped beside her, arms crossed and chest heaving from the exertion of his fast-paced walk from Hyde Park to the south end of Grosvenor Square.
“Put the brush down for a bloody second,” he growled. “It’s important.”
A delicate blonde with hazel eyes that widened imperceptibly at her brother’s tone, Brynne obediently stopped painting and swiveled in her chair to face him. “My goodness,” she gasped. “Weston, you’re…you’resweating.”
He yanked his handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and mopped his temple. “Your point?”
“You never sweat. Are you…are you feeling ill?” she asked hesitantly.
No one ever questioned how Weston was feeling.
Especially his own family.
They all knew better.
“She’s here,” he bit out, flicking a glance at his sister’s canvas. A shy woman, Brynne had always preferred painting to people, even as a small child. She never traveled anywhere without her extensive array of art supplies, and when the siblings had traveled to London together to attend the Countess of Beresford’s ball, her brushes and paints and canvases had filled half the trunks.
“Whois here?” Brynne said, visibly confused. “Lady Martha? I was under the impression you invited her. Or have you changed your mind about proposing?”
“This isn’t about Martha.” At that moment, Weston couldn’t have cared less about his bride-to-be. Not when there were more pressing matters to attend to. “This is abouther.”
“And by her, you mean…”
Birds hiding in the shrubbery took flight when he threw his hands towards the heavens. “Our sister!”
Brynne blinked. “We don’t have a sister.”
“The American.”
“Oh, you meanthatsister.” Brynne turned back to her painting and picked up her brush. “How nice. Do you think we should invite her over for tea?”
Weston raked both hands through his hair. As dark as Brynne’s was light, it fell to his shoulders in a wave of black. “No, I don’t think we shouldinvite her over for tea.”
If he allowed it, Brynne would have had every injured animal and orphan in London living under their roof.
But Joanna Thorncroft wasn’t injured.
And she damned sure wasn’t an orphan.
He had spoken to her father—theirfather—just this morning. They’d discussed the weather. Weston’s new string of thoroughbreds. The gambling hell opening on Third and Chesterfield. One topic noticeably absent from their conversation?
The Marquess of Dorchester’s bastard daughter.
It was eighteen months to the day that Weston had discovered The Letter in his father’s study. Cursed with insomnia and unable to sleep, he’d gone searching for a book to read to pass the hours until sunrise. A slim volume of poetry had caught his eye;Leaves of Grassby the American poet Walt Whitman.
The letter fell out as soon as he pulled the book off the shelf. Folded thrice over and yellowed with age, it had crackled when he picked it up and carefully laid it flat on his father’s desk to read the delicate handwriting.
My Dear Jasonit had begun, and Weston had almost stopped there. Some days, he wished that he had, as the letter had brought him nothing but trouble. But then, he had seen the date in the upper hand corner, and realized it had been written the year his mother passed, and he naively thought that it was from her. A voice from the past he still secretly yearned to hear, even all these years later. So he brought his candle closer, and as light from the orange flame licked across the old parchment, he started reading and didn’t stop until he reached the end.
My Dear Jason,
First I should like to apologize for leaving as I did. I should have told you, but if I had done that I fear I never would have had the courage to return to Boston. And this is where I belong. Where I have always belonged. I shall treasure our time together, and hope you are able to do the same. I ask that you not follow me, or try to bring me back to you. I am happy and content where I am, and my greatest hope is that you can find the same happiness and contentment where you are. There may be an ocean between us, but you will forever be in my heart and a piece of you will always be with me.
