“Lord Campbell’s father is the Marquess of Kintore,” she provided.
“Is he?” Lady Crowley said with obvious skepticism.
“Aye, that he is,” Lachlan said cheerfully. “Inherited the title when some dobber fell off a ladder. Made for quite the fanfare in our little village. Which ye really should visit, Lady Crowley, if ye ever find yerself in Northern Scotland.” His gaze slipped to Brynne. Held. Darkened. “The wild heather is beautiful this time of year.”
As a rosy blush unraveled across her cheeks, Brynne ducked her head to the side. She’d been the recipient of flattery before. So much of it over the past four Seasons that the words had become empty and hollow. But whereas the compliments of other gentlemen made her feel as if she were simply another box to be checked in the hopes of making a good match, Lachlan’s filled her with a warm, soft glow.
“Should I ever find myself with absolutely nowhere else to go, Lord Campbell, I may indeed consider Glenavon,” said Lady Crowley, her dry tone carrying just enough humor to lessen the sting of her artfully placed barb. “Are you residing there currently?”
Lachlan shook his head. “I’ve rented a townhouse in Mayfair, and will be in London for the rest of the Season.”
“That’s splendid!” Brynne blurted. When both Lachlan and Lady Crowley stared, her blush deepened and she mumbled, “I mean…that is to say…”
Were she a girl again and Weston a boy, she would have poked him with her elbow and he would have rolled his eyes as they would have skipped off to their next adventure. But here, swathed in heavy silk and surrounded by curious onlookers, the last thing she was able to do was what she wanted.
Prim, proper, and poised, she recited silently.
The three hallmarks of a well-behaved lady.
Which she was trying very hard to be.
For her father.
For her brother.
For the memory of her mother.
For Lady Crowley.
For her peers.
For everyone, really…except for herself.
And it was silly. Absurd, even. But in that moment, there was a part of her that was half-tempted to take Lachlan by the hand and race out those terrace doors and never return. They’d go to Paris, or Rome, or even set sail across the ocean and see what America’s finest cities had to show them. She’d bring nothing but her canvas and paints. Lachlan nothing but that devilish brogue of his. They would make their money from her art, and live in a rundown but charming flat above a baker’s shop, and wake to the sweet smell of bread every morning.
There’d be absolutely nothing prim, proper, or poised about such a life.
She’d never be able to show her face in Polite Society ever again.
But oh, howwonderfulit sounded.
Then again, dreams always did.
Which were all that her imaginings were, she told herself firmly. Nothing more than ridiculous fantasies, no doubt caused by a lack of oxygen to her brain courtesy of the corset squeezing the air from her lungs.
“I am sure what Lady Brynnemeantto say,” Lady Crowley interceded smoothly, “is that her brother, Lord Hawkridge, shall no doubt look forward to calling upon a former schoolmate. He is here, somewhere, if you’d like to speak withhim.”
Her enunciation…and the meaning behind it…could not have been clearer.
The half-Scottish second-born son of a laird, even a laird-turned-marquess, wasnotto be considered an eligible suitor for the Duke of Caldwell’s only granddaughter. Neither he nor Brynne’s father were in attendance, or even in London for that matter, but their expectations were all but written in ink on the inside of her wrist all the same. She was to marry a man of equal or (preferably) superior rank, which Lachlan decidedly wasn’t. Which meant that any time spent speaking with him was time being taken away from her future husband. Never mind that she’d already met, and danced, with every other male occupant in the ballroom under the age of sixty at least thrice over the course of her previous Seasons.
In addition to maintaining Brynne’s spotless reputation, Lady Crowley had one job to do. Make amagnificentmatch. The kind that would set thetonback on its heels for years to come. And given her vaguely repugnant expression, Lady Crowley did not envision Lord Lachlan Campbell as a magnificent match. Or even an almost-magnificent match. Or even an if-you-closed-one-eye-and-squinted-sideways-magnificent match.
And if he wasn’t a match, then he was an impediment.
An impediment that needed to be removed from Brynne’s path.
Immediately.
