Maybe it was when she was diagnosed with anxious mannerisms. Or when Miss Hardgrave discouraged her curiosity. Or her father stopped bothering to even send so much as a birthday letter. Or the girls at Cheltenham Ladies’ College had teased her mercilessly. Or the Dowager Countess of Crowley made it clear that a woman’s only purpose in life was to marry and marry well.
Her interests, her pursuits, her goals–they didn’t matter.
She, as an individual, didn’t matter.
All of these little things had chipped away at her self-worth. Her self-love. They’d happened so gradually, so seamlessly, that she had barely noticed. Like a rock being slowly worn down to sand every time a wave washed over it.
Until the rock was gone and her ocean was empty.
And finally, there it was.
The answer she’d been seeking all this time without knowing what question to ask.
She hadn’t run from Lachlan because of a supposed affair.
Or because of the children.
Or because of the castle.
She’d left because, deep down, she felt as if she were never worthy of his love. And she had wanted to end things between them before he came to his senses and ended them first. If she was incapable of loving herself, why would she ever expect that a man as good, as decent, as kind as Lachlan could?
“But I was wrong,” she whispered as she withdrew the gift he had given her from the handkerchief she’d carefully wrapped it in. “I was so very wrong.”
“What is that?” Evie asked, a line of confusion marring her temple.
“A barley stick. My husband gave me one eleven years ago, and this one last night. It’s made of sugar, and worth more than all the gold in England.”
“Yourhusband?” Evie’s jaw dropped. “I had no idea you were married! Who? How? When?Who?”
Brynne’s mouth curved in a mirthless smile. “Perhaps I should start at the beginning…”
When she had finished, Evie sagged in her chair and shook her head in disbelief. “I cannot believe you managed to hide ahusband. I cannot believe that all the time we’ve known each other you have beenmarried.”
“Estranged,” Brynne corrected as she refreshed her tea and silently wished it was something much stronger.
“What did you wear?”
“Wear?” she said blankly.
“For yourwedding.”
It was such a silly detail, such a small, meaningless note in the novel that comprised Brynne and Lachlan’s eleven year relationship, that she couldn’t help but laugh. Which was the point, she gathered from the way Evie’s eyes crinkled at the corners. For which she was grateful.
“A green dress that belonged to my mother,” she shared. “It was very plain, with only a beige ribbon for decoration.”
“It sounds perfect,” said Evie.
“It was.” She added a spoonful of milk to her tea, but didn’t drink it. Her stomach was too knotted to consume anything, even water. “I think I’ve acted poorly. No, Iknowthat I have. Lachlan loved me. Hedoeslove me, to this day. And I…I have pushed him away. Perhaps irrevocably.”
“Never let it be said that loving a Weston is easy,” Evie declared with a humorous twist of her lips. “Your brother would have rather jumped off a cliff than admit he adored me. But I won him around in the end.”
Yes, she had.
And the notoriously cold-hearted Earl of Hawkridge had never been happier.
“But weren’t you afraid?” Brynne asked.
Evie’s head tilted. “Of what?”
