Although for a very different reason.
The Duke of Oxford was a renowned art connoisseur, and over his fifty-seven years he’d amassed a collection that rivaled the Dulwich Gallery in South London. For public events, he opened his private gallery for those who wished to stroll amidst the works of Rembrandt, Marillo, Canaletto, and even Poussin. Every year, there was something new to find, and Brynne always waited with bated breath to discover what grand painting Oxford had deemed worthy enough to add to his collection.
Now, however, instead of experiencing a tingling wave of anticipation, she just felt…flat.
Like a skirt without the benefit of crinoline.
Fortunately, Evie was excited enough for the both of them.
All but bouncing in her seat, the American leaned precariously out the square carriage window, her blue eyes shining in the torchlight. “Do you think we might get there quicker if we walked?”
With a muffled sound of vague alarm, Weston hauled her back in. “We’ll be there presently,” he said, and Brynne pretended she didn’t see the familiar way her brother’s hand splayed across the small of Evie’s back. “But not if you’re a puddle of silk on the ground.”
True to Weston’s word, the line moved relatively quickly and they were soon able to disembark from the town coach and join the glittering swell of gowns, and cravats, and jewels that spilled between the enormous pillars guarding the front of the manor. But when they were set to enter the massive French doors that led into the ballroom, Weston grasped Brynne by the elbow and pulled her aside.
“Are you feeling well?” he asked with a twin’s intuitive concern.
“Fine,” she said, tugging her arm away from him and straightening her satin gloves. Ivory with an embroidered hem of Chantilly lace, they complemented her citrine dress. “Why do you ask?”
“You’ve not been yourself since you returned from Hawkridge.”
“I’ve only been back for a day,” she pointed out. “And already attending a ball. Once I’ve had a moment to settle and unpack, I’m sure you’ll see nothing amiss.”
But he didn’t appear convinced. “You’d tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn’t you? Just because I am engaged to be married doesn’t mean I do not have time for my sister.”
“You’re engaged to be married. Youshouldn’thave time for your sister,” she corrected lightly. “Have you told your bride-to-be how lovely she looks tonight?”
With the knowledge that eyes would be upon her, some in approval, some in silent judgment, Evie had chosen her gown with care. A deep violet with a chiffon bodice, puffed sleeves, and a wide grosgrain sash that emphasized her petite frame, the dress was as much a work of art as the paintings hanging on the walls.
“She is exquisite, isn’t she?” Weston’s eyes glowed with warmth and pride as he gazed at his fiancée. It was a noticeable change. Before Evie had turned his life upside down, the Earl of Hawkridge had regarded everything and everyone with a cold aloofness that bordered on contempt. He hadn’t onlynotbelieved in love, he’d actively fought against it. Until a spirited American had thawed all of that ice and laid claim to the heart hiding underneath it.
“Go,” Brynne said firmly, giving him a small push. “I’ll join you shortly.”
But instead of following Weston and Evie through the French doors, she went straight down the massive hallway and then turned right, using the light emanating from polished brass sconces to guide her away from the laughter and loudness in the ballroom to the near-silent solitude of the Duke of Oxford’s viewing gallery.
There was no one else in the room, and she hadn’t been expecting there to be. People did not attend a ball to look at art. They came to be lookedat. Which they couldn’t be if they were sequestered away in a separate wing of the manor.
Mahogany paneling covered the walls, offering a muted backdrop to the dozens of paintings that comprised Oxford’s vast assortment of art. The furniture was minimal; a rosewood chaise upholstered in red velvet here, an armchair in silk brocade there. This was not a place of idle gathering, but of reverence. Hallowed ground to appreciate beauty that transcended time itself.
A sumptuous, hand-knotted carpet devoured the sound of Brynne’s footsteps as she wandered from one ornate gold frame to another. Trying towillherself to feel something–anything–for works of art that would have usually stolen her breath and left her with a sense of wonder far larger than herself. Wonder she’d only ever experienced when looking at a Rembrandt…and when she was a girl in a meadow, gazing up at her first constellation.
Maybe shewasill.
But not with a sickness or disease that any medicine could fix, unless doctors had found a way to mend a broken heart.
For eighteen months, she’d used her anger at Lachlan to bind the pieces of it together. But now that her anger was gone, so too were the bandages that had kept her heart from falling apart. And now it felt as if it were going to fall right out of her chest. Such was her pain from missing him. From missingthem.The way they’d been when they were good and how they could have been if they’d successfully navigated their way through the stormy seas to become great.
Your choice,she reminded herself.Your decision.
Scholars didn’t write about the adventurers who remained safely in the harbor, but for every James Cook that discovered a new land, there were a dozen more who never lived past their first voyage.
Maybe she just wasn’t destined for open waters.
But that was all right.
Ithadto be all right.
Or else yesterday she’d made the worst decision of her life.
