How jealous Brynne was!
Lachlan, too, if the murderous glare he’d cast upon Lord-Only-Talked-About-Trout-Fishing was any indication.
They’d exchanged a few words. Hardly more than a sentence. And then he was gone, taking the woman–Miss Allison Adair, a name Brynne wasnotsoon to forget–along with him.
She’d been furious.
Sad, as well.
Lachlan hadn’t made her any promises after their kiss by the stream. Nor had she asked him to. Because they both knew, without needing to put it into words, that they couldn’t be together. That their worlds were simply too different. But that hadn’t lessened the hurt of seeing him with someone else. Of realizing that he would soon go on to marry, and raise a family, and their encounters–however brief and spread out they were now–might eventually stop altogether.
Then the first letter arrived. And the second. And the third. For the remainder of the Season, she and Lachlan had corresponded on a weekly basis, pouring out all the thoughts and musings and dreams onto parchment that Society prevented them from sharing in public.
She told Lachlan that she was gathering the courage to ask her father if she could spend the next six months training at theÉcole des Beaux-Artsin Paris, one of the finest art academies in the entire world.
He’d shared with her that he was attempting to rebuild his great-great-grandfather’s distillery, and had even gone so far as to line up a meeting with an important investor, which was why he’d come to London…and why he’d been spending so much of his time in Scotland.
Even after he returned to Glenavon–investor’s money in hand–the letters kept coming. When all was said and done, Brynne had all but worn a trench in the middle of the drive from running out every day to greet the post rider.
And now he was here.
Six feet of tall, rugged Scot standing close enough for her to reach out and touch.
When her fingers tingled, she discreetly reached behind her back and gave herself a hard pinch.
“Lady Geiringer.” Politely referring to the brunette standing to her left side with whom she’d been idly conversing before she caught sight of Lachlan, she set about making proper introductions. It was either fall back upon her manners, or fall forward into Lachlan’s arms. And as tempting as that was, she couldn’t even begin toimaginethe scene and the scandal it would cause. “This is…an old family friend, Lord Lachlan Campbell of Glenavon. Lord Campbell, may I introduce you to Lady Geiringer. We attended Cheltenham Ladies’ College together.”
Lachlan, magnificent in a black tailcoat that outlined the broad set of his shoulders and a satin vest in emerald green that brought out the gold in his eyes, slanted her an amused glance. “I was under the impression that all of yer schoolmates were self-absorbed harpies more concerned with finding a wealthy husband than learning anything of substance.”
“That was exceptionally rude,” Brynne chided gently as Lady Geiringer gave a huff and walked away. Although she couldn’t deny his statement held merit. For while they maintained the appearance of civility, it wasn’t so long ago that Brynne had sat in the library at Cheltenham Ladies’ College, hiding her red face in the pages of a book, while Lady Geiringer and her gaggle of…well, harpieswasas good a word as any…snickered and sneered and pointed from the doorway.
“Social misfit” was the term they’d used to describe the awkward, shyly withdrawn daughter of the Marquess of Dorchester. Among other, less kind monikers. Brynne hadtriedto fit in. But while Weston had met some of his best mates while away at academy, including Lachlan, she found herself floundering in a pool of more worldly, more experienced girls who hadn’t spent the better part of their young lives sequestered away in the country.
It was all water under the bridge at this point. If nothing else, her time at Cheltenham Ladies’ College had taught her the value of appearance. How apt High Society was to turn an icy shoulder if you didn’t meet their expectations…and what it felt like to be left out in the cold while everyone else celebrated in the warmth.
As that terrible sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach as her peers laughed at her behind her back wasn’t a feeling she cared to replicate ever again, Brynne had taken great pains to mold herself into someone who was never left out of anything.
Instead of being awkward and shy, she was renowned for her elegance and charm. Instead of being an easy target for mockery and malice, she was considered to be one of theton’spremiere hostesses. Women wanted to be her. Men wanted to marry her. And if she constantly worried about falling off the tightrope of perfunctory perfection that she’d made for herself, it was a small price to pay for the adoration and acceptance heaped upon her.
The two things her father’s money could not purchase…and he was incapable of giving freely.
“She is not going to talk to me for the rest of the evening,” Brynne predicted as she watched Lady Geiringer weave her way through the crowd, disgruntled steam all but pouring out of her ears.
“Aye.” Candlelight gleamed in Lachlan’s hair as he leaned closer, turning the barely tamed mane from auburn to a burnished copper that her hands itched to sink into. “But it worked, didna it?”
“What…what were you hoping to achieve?” She gasped as he angled his body to shield her from prying eyes while he ran the tip of his finger up the length of her arm, lingering on the inside of her elbow where her pulse fluttered with the speed of a butterfly’s wing. “And where have you been? I expected you weeks ago.”
“There was a setback with the distillery. And I sent Lady Geiringer along so that I could have ye all tae meself. I’m a greedy man, Lady Brynne, and I dinna like tae share yer attention.” He slowly trailed his knuckles along the rounded edge of her shoulder, and her entire body quivered when his gloveless hand met the exposed skin above the lace-trimmed bodice of her gown. “How is it ye are more beautiful every time I see ye?” he said huskily.
“I…I…” How was it, she wondered dazedly, that some of England’s most renowned rogues had tried–and failed–to seduce her with flattery and flirtation, yet all it took was a single touch from Lachlan and her knees turned to jelly?
“Dance with me,” he said, his mouth a hairsbreadth from her ear.
“I’ve promised my next dance to Lord–”
Under the guise of sharing an intimate secret, he nipped her earlobe with his teeth, then soothed the bite with his tongue. “Dance with me.”
“All right,” she said helplessly, and his eyes held a glint of possessive triumph as he led her to the middle of the ballroom floor where painted wooden tiles had been set up in a large rectangle to accommodate the couples spinning past in a myriad of colorful silks and satin.
