Even though the idea of good society made his stomach twist.
Ridiculous.
He was two-and-thirty years old.Far too old to fuss about where he belonged in the world.
His sister, Beatrice, who ten years ago had married the Marquess of Leith, was very fashionable herself.And she had begged him to come to London many times.
But he never could accept.
It had never felt right.
He knew Beatrice didn’t see him clearly.
Shethought he was acceptable, but she was his sister.
She was used to him.
For these reasons, Malcolm had never even left Somerset.
He had hardly left this village.
So he couldn’t help but be a bit anxious.Because today London was coming to Parkhorne.
He winced at what these fine people would think when they looked athim, the rough, weather-beaten old bastard of the place.Luckily, he shouldn’t have to interact with any of them overmuch.
Shaking away such thoughts, Malcolm dressed and tried to steel himself for the day, themonth, ahead.
He finished dressing and then looked out of his window, steadying himself with a deep breath.He took in the meadow, which his room overlooked, a sight that always calmed him.
He could make it through the next month.
It was only a society frivolity.
And he would have no part in most of it.
A half hour later, Malcolm Brown strode into the breakfast room at Parkhorne.To his dismay, when he entered, he confronted every one of his siblings and Mrs.Salisbury, already seated at the table.
Avoiding making eye contact with any of them, he slunk into a chair at the far end of the room and began slathering bread with marmalade.
“Good of you to join us, Malcolm,” Beatrice said tartly.“I didn’t know you’d become such a slug-a-bed.”
He gritted his teeth at the jibe.
The reference to him lingering in bed made him think of his dream and the woman in it.
Such comforts weren’t for him—and yet, he had dwelt too long between the sheets because of that ridiculous fantasy.
“I wasn’t aware my presence was so necessary on today of all days,” he bit back.“I thought a house party was being planned, not a harvest.Nor did I think such a happening would require your presence, Bea.Don’t you have a husband and a passel of children in London?Why are you in Somerset?”
“Yes, whyareyou here, Beatrice?Doesn’t the marquess need you?All the scandal sheets say that he will expire from longing if you leave his side,” Philip, the youngest of his siblings, broke in.
“Leith and the children will be here in a week, Philip,” Mrs.Salisbury chided.“You know this.”
“Yes, Philip,” George said.“Haven’t you committed my mother’s entertainment plan to memory?There hasn’t been a more important set of tactical maneuvers since the Battle of Waterloo.”
“Careful, brother,” Severn, who was the same age as George, but a bastard of their father’s, just like Malcolm, said.“You should not jest about traps in whichyouare the bait.”
Severn lived his life, as far as Malcolm could see, as George’s illegitimate shadow.He was all daring slyness to George’s steady sunniness.They were a funny pair, these two brothers of his, who functioned almost as if they were twins, despite really only being half-siblings, no different than the rest of them.But it had never felt that way.George and Severn had always seemed bound by something deeper.They weren’t just brothers but best friends, too.
