She was financially supported by her family and respected by her peers. What need did she really have to see the world, or paint for anyone besides herself? She was content here. And if she occasionally felt a tug towards something greater, something more meaningful, then she could simply host a charity luncheon for the orphanage or hold a dinner party to benefit the theater or do any other number of things to prove that despite what Lachlan had said, she was happy.
And she’d be even happier once she was legally free of him.
Using Weston’s gold letter seal to stamp the wax, she left the study and handed off the missive to the first footman who crossed her path in the hallway.
“Please have this delivered to the village before the mail coach leaves for London,” she instructed.
“Yes, my lady. At once.”
The footman hurried off to carry out her orders, and she sought quiet refuge in the parlor, her naked fingers–she’d not bothered to put her gloves back on after writing the letter–splaying across the wide wooden sill that shone with a fresh layer of beeswax polish.
She had every confidence that Mr. Jacobson would soon see the matter of her marriage settled. Hopefully sooner rather than later, as the last thing she wanted–aside from Lachlan showing up unannounced–was a long, drawn out affair that would have steam pouring out of the gossips’ ears and ink splattering across the pages of the London Caller.
A sardonic smile twisted her lips as she considered the irony. Once, not so very long ago, she’d yearned for a life in the limelight. To be seen, and heard, andknown. Not in a way that would invoke a scandal. Oh, maybe atinyscandal. The sort where she tripped and flashed an ankle for all to see, or was caught out in the rain and a handsome lord offered her refuge in his carriage. The kind that would get her noticed and acknowledged without ruining her reputation.
But all it had taken was one London Season for her to discover that she did not, in fact, enjoy the attention that had been lavished upon her as the reclusive granddaughter of the Duke of Caldwell. Attention that had always felt artificially sweet, like too much sugar spooned into the tea. While once she’d dreamed of being a social butterfly when she was a little girl yearning to spread her wings beyond the confining walls of Hawkridge Manor, it wasn’t long before she began to dread the endless litany of social engagements and public appearances.
Theperfectionthat was required of her…it was too much for a single person to maintain. Especially one who already suffered from anxious mannerisms.
Say this, but not that.
Approach that person, but not this one.
Curtsy, dance, smile, laugh, flutter a fan.
She was like a doll in a music box, spinning and spinning on a metal disc…until one night, at the Duke of Hallowell’s annual ball which marked the beginning of yet another Season, she spun straight into the arms of Lachlan Campbell.
Chapter Seven
Six Years Ago
Grotonborough House
Duke of Hallowell’s London Residence
The ballroom wasfilled with theton’selite. The Duke of Hallowell’s ball was an exclusive affair not be missed, and everyone had turned out in droves in the hopes of starting off their Season with a proverbial bang.
Having successfully completed half her dance card, Brynne was resting her weary feet beside a potted fern. A light sheen of perspiration clung to her upper lip, her shoulders ached from holding them so rigidly during the intricate steps of the increasingly popular Viennese waltz, and there was a blister forming on the back of her heel. But to look at her–calm and composed in her rib-squeezing gown of pale lavender–no one would think anything was amiss. Which was exactly what they were supposed to think.
Of its own accord, her gaze wandered across the vast room with its glittering chandeliers, velvet wall hangings, and marble tile floor (which was not at all conducive to dancing). Courtesy of the two hundred some odd guests swarming about like a cluster of bees buzzing around a hive, the ballroom was stuffy, if not downright suffocating. She yearned to escape to the outdoor terrace, but for as long as she remained under the watchful eye of her chaperone, she might as well have set her sights on the moon.
Her chest pressed painfully against the constrictive confines of her boned corset as she took a deep breath. And then let it out on a stunnedwhooshof air when her stare caught on a strikingly handsome lord who towered easily over the rest of the guests.
Five years had passed since she’d last seen Lachlan Campbell. Five years since that magical two weeks when they’d shared their dreams and stared at the stars and promised each other their futures over strawberry drops and half a barley stick. So much had changed in that time…and so much–too much–had stayed the same.
She was now a young woman of nineteen; which made him a man of twenty-one. But as soon as their eyes met, her recognition was immediate and absolute.
Oh, he was larger. Wider. His shoulders and chest filled out the emerald green jacket he wore splendidly, and his thighs…well, let’s just say she began to use her fan quite rigorously. The hollows in his cheeks were gone. His hair, combed and groomed and tied back from his face in a neat tail, gleamed a dark russet in the candlelight. Even his stance was different. More elegant. Refined. He held a mahogany walking cane as if it were an attachment of his gloved hand, and the lay of his broad satin necktie was beyond reproach.
The change from the boy he’d been to the man he’d become was off-putting and, for a moment, Brynne considered disappearing behind the fern…but then he flashed her a boyish grin, and she was relieved to see that beneath all that polish and pomp, he was still her Lachlan.
“Lady Brynne,” he murmured after he’d crossed to her and bowed.
His brogue was thicker, she noted. Swathed in velvet and charred with smoke, the rumble of it against her ear caused her belly to jerk in response. It was the first visceral reaction she’d had to a member of the opposite sex since…well, since forever. This was the beginning of her fourth Season, and the number of suitors she’d been introduced to was bordering on the infinite.
Old, young. Stocky, thin. Bland, charming. Quiet, loud. They’d run the gamut from gentleman to duke and every title in between, but for all their differences, they had a single thing in common: none of them made her breath quicken or her pulse race like Lachlan did.
To have him standing in front of her after all this time…toseethe man he’d become…when her heart pitched inside of her chest and the narrow ribbon of space between her breasts grew both clammy and flush all at once, she forced herself to inhale through her nose and exhale through her mouth as a familiar–and dreaded–tightening sensation filled her chest.
