“Proposals,” he said, his mouth twisting around the word as if he’d bitten into something sour.
Brynne tried not to sigh. A friend had asked her the same question just the other day, and it never failed to embarrass her when she admitted the answer, even though she had done nothing to be embarrassedfor. It wasn’t as if she had invited the proposals upon herself. If anything, she’d done all she could to discourage them. But no matter what she did, they kept coming, as predictable as rain on a Tuesday.
“Sixty-seven,” she said with great reluctance.
Lachlan’s eyes widened. “Sixty-seven?Bluidy hell. Why havena ye accepted one?”
“Because I’ve been waiting.”
“For what? The blessing of the pope?”
You, she replied silently.I’ve been waiting for you.
She hadn’t. Not really. Not consciously, at any rate. For how could a tulip bulb possibly know it was waiting for the sun until it burst through the soil and felt the light on its petals for the first time?
They spun apart again.
Came together.
“For someone who wants to marrymeand not my dowry, or to curry favor with my father or grandfather,” she said matter-of-factly.
While Lachlan’s mouth stretched in a grin, his eyes remained somber and serious. “Poor Bry,” he said quietly. “What’s a wealthy, beautiful heiress with the world at her feet tae do?”
“Find a husband who will not place me on the nearest shelf to collect dust with all of his other trophies.”
The music swelled into the final crescendo, and then faded into silence as everyone ended the waltz with a bow or a curtsy, before breaking apart to either find their next partner or seek refreshments from the silver trays piled high with food and drink that were being circulated around the room by footmen dressed in matching black livery.
Brynne glanced over her shoulder to see that Lady Crowley was already approaching with all the unflinching determination of the Royal Navy bearing down on Cape Trafalgar at the height of the Napoleonic Wars. She looked back at Lachlan, and bit her lip in apology.
“Thank you for dancing with me. It was…it was good to see you again. Truly.”
He’d not yet released her hand, and used it to tug her even closer. “Why does that sound like a farewell?” he asked, his breath fanning across her ear and causing a shivery ribbon of awareness to ripple down her spine.
“Because it is,” she said regretfully. “We may see each other from afar, but I fear my patroness will do everything in her power to prevent us from being this near again.”
Amusement flickered in his gaze. “The pretty English princess canna lower herself tae associate with the common Scottish folk, is that it?”
A dull flush painted the nape of her neck a deep crimson. “If Lady Crowley knew you–”
“If yer patroness knew me, she’d be running, not walking, over here tae rescue ye.” He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles in a subtle caress that made her knees wobble. “It’s all right, little songbird. I understand how the game is played. Perhaps if I had a proper title, and an estate tae go with it–”
“Those things don’t matter to me,” she interrupted.
He canted his head. Gave her a slow, measured stare. “Dinna they?”
Didthey?
Given that she did not aspire towards superficiality, Brynne wanted her reply to be a firm, unequivocal “no”. But as she looked deep within herself, she found the answer was far more complicated than that.
In a perfect world, a woman would be free to follow her heart with no consequences or repercussions. But this wasn’t a perfect world, particularly for women. Inthisworld, where appearance was everything and a person’s title was the most important thing about them, women’s heads were too often at odds with their hearts.
Brynne liked to believe that there was a time and a place, somewhere in existence, where shecouldtake Lachlan by the hand and theydidrace out those terrace doors. But this ballroom, this music box that she kept spinning around and around in, was neither the time nor the place, and a lump formed in her throat as she backed away from him.
“I am sorry, Lord Campbell.” She searched his gaze, willing him to understand that there were some things–most things–beyond her control. And she was far past the days where she might sneak outside to meet him in the moonlight and count the stars until dawn.
“We’re not children anymore, are we, Bry?” He shook his head before she could respond. “It’s all right.”
The staccatoclickof Lady Crowley’s walking cane was nearly upon them. Distress creased Brynne’s brow. Every strike of polished ivory against marble tile was one less second she had to spend with Lachlan, but there was still so much left unsaid! In four Seasons, this was the first genuine connection she’d felt. Normally, once a waltz had reached its conclusion, she couldn’t escape fast enough. But this time was different. This time, she wanted to stay. For a moment. For a minute. For an eternity. And she hated that she couldn’t. More than that, she hated that the decision wasn’t her own. It was being made for her. By Lady Crowley. By a father who wasn’t even here. By a grandfather who would never–ever–permit his granddaughter to marry the second-born son of a Scottish Highlander.
