No. No! She was not going to have an Episodehere, in the middle of a ballroom, with two hundred of her closest peers looking on. Especially when they were already staring, and secretly judging, and watching her every move with the greedy keenness of a circle of vultures waiting to descend and pick her bones clean if she made a mistake. For while thetonadored a respectable lady with nary a blemish attached to her name, there was nothing they loved more than tearing down what they’d propped up.
With a great deal of self-control, she managed to keep her entire body from trembling when Lachlan gently grasped her hand. Brushing his lips ever-so-softly across her satin-clad knuckles, he peered up at her beneath his brow.
“Ye grew up, Bry,” he said huskily, his timbred voice intentionally low so that those surrounding them, including her attentive chaperone, the Dowager Countess of Crowley, a longtime friend of the family, couldn’t hear. “Ye were pretty enough before. But now ye’re as radiant as the sun.”
Radiant as the sun.
“I…” Words failed her. She swallowed once. Twice. “You look well.”
Propriety dictated that he should have released her hand, but he didn’t, and neither did she think to withdraw it from his grasp. For some reason, a flicker of sadness, there and gone again before she could blink, rippled across his countenance. “And ye still look like ye’re in the same cage, little songbird.”
“Cage?” she said, temporarily drawn out of the moment as confusion marred her temple. “I don’t understand.”
“I wouldna expect ye tae.” His thumb slid slowly across her palm, and her entire arm tingled. “Do ye remember, Bry? When we first met?”
How could he think, in a thousand lifetimes, that she’d forget?
It was the happiest she had ever been.
Brynne had attended a countless number of balls in some of the grandest estates in all of Europe. Watched a parade of magnificent theater productions. She’d had an audience with thequeen, for heaven’s sake. And yet the two weeks she had spent with a half-wild Scottish boy when she was but a girl of fourteen were the most precious memories in her possession.
“Yes,” she whispered, captivated by the banked fire burning in his eyes. “I remember.”
Lady Crowley stepped in then. A confidante of Brynne’s mother who’d never had children of her own, she had offered herself up as Brynne’s patroness at the start of her debut Season. Her father, who had no interest in taking part in London High Society, even if it was on his daughter’s behalf, had readily agreed, and Lady Crowley had been accompanying Brynne to all of her various social functions ever since.
A generally calm, placid woman, the dowager countess was a remarkable improvement over Miss Hardgrave. Firm, but fair, she endeavored to keep a watchful eye over her charge whenever they were out in public. In private, she helped Brynne organize her social calendar, sort through the massive amount of proposals she continued to receive, and kept gentlemen callers at bay when the interest was not reciprocated (which it almost never was).
The two women rarely discussed anything of a deeply personal matter–Brynne had never told her patroness about Lachlan, for instance–but they maintained a mutual respect and understanding.
With shiny brown hair threaded lightly with gray, serious blue eyes, and a smooth complexion that didn’t yet betray her age, Lady Crowley was a comely woman who had received her own fair share of proposals over the years. Without hesitation, she’d turned down every one, because (as she’d once shared with Brynne after indulging in a second glass of wine at a dinner party): “the only way a woman of our means can truly achieve independence is by becoming a widow”.
But from the faraway glaze that captured her expression whenever she mentioned her husband, who had perished from an attack of the heart at the tragic age of two and forty, Brynne suspected love also had something to do with Lady Crowley’s decision to never remarry. That is, she remained in love with Lord Crowley…a bond that even death itself hadn’t managed to sever.
“Might you introduce me to your acquaintance, Lady Brynne?” she asked pleasantly even as her gaze focused with razor-sharp intensity on Lachlan. Like a mother gazelle sniffing the winds and sensing danger was near, she placed her hand on Brynne’s elbow, a discreet–but meaningful–measure of protection that did not go unnoticed by Lachlan.
“Lady Crowley, may I present Lord Lachlan Campbell.” As subtly as possible, Brynne withdrew her fingers from Lachlan’s grip. “A…a schoolmate of my brother’s from Eton. Lord Campbell, it is my pleasure to introduce the Dowager Countess of Crowley, my patroness.”
Lachlan bowed again. Slightly deeper this time, as Lady Crowley’s title outranked Brynne’s, who found herself impressed that he’d adopted such gentlemanly airs when just five years ago he’d been teaching her how to jump out of wagons.
“Lady Crowley,” he said smoothly. “The pleasure is all mine.”
“You are Scottish,” said Lady Crowley.
It was a statement, not a question.
A critique, not a compliment.
The corners of Brynne’s mouth tucked in. Anti-Scottish sentiment was not new amidst the British nobility. It heralded all the way back to the Middle Ages, when Highlanders in particular were thought to be warriors and savages. She’d read about the First War of Scottish Independence in a dusty tome she’d found on the bottom shelf in the library. Bloody and brutal, it had spanned nearly three decades, only to be followed five years later by theSecondWar of Scottish Independence.
Entire centuries had passed by then, but the British were known for their long memories, and Scots were generally looked upon with a wary eye for the same reason Americans were. Rebellion–even rebellion that was hundreds of years old–was not easily forgotten, or forgiven. And while Lachlan was no more savage than Weston, and Scotland was as much a part of the United Kingdom as England, there remained a distinct line drawn between the two countries that extended far beyond a simple land boundary.
“Aye.” Lachlan’s dimple flashed as his lips curved in an easy grin. “Born and bred in Glenavon.”
Lady Crowley sniffed. “I am certain I have never heard of it, Mr. Campbell.”
“I wouldna expect ye tae. And not that it matters all that much tae me, but it’s Lord Campbell.”
Brynne was reminded of the day she and Lachlan had first met. Her horrible governesses, Miss Hardgrave, had attempted to delegitimize his nobility in a similar manner in an attempt to make him seem small and less important. It was an old ploy, and a sad one, and she was glad to see that he was not giving it any more credence now than he had then.
