Page 66 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

At the appointed hour, Emily had barely stepped into the entryway when the Eastwoods arrived. They came into the cottage, and Lady Hartwell greeted her as though they were old friends reunited after years of separation. Even though they had seen one another before dawn that morning.

“My dear Lady Emily,” she exclaimed, taking both of Emily’s hands and inspecting her with the air of a florist cooing over a rare bloom. “You look pale, yes, but still as sweet as a daisy after rain.”

Emily tried to restrain her smile to something polite, but it proved difficult. “That is kind of you to say, my lady.”

“Oh, I only speak the truth.” Lady Hartwell squeezed her hands gently, then looked at her sons. “Roman, Lyness—I warn you now, my future daughter-in-law is bound to be my favorite. I will not tolerate anything but the best of treatment for her.”

That made Emily’s face heat with a blush, and her stomach twisted with sudden nerves. Indeed, a betrothal to Lyness meant becoming part of the whole family. She cast the baron a glance, uncertain how to act for a moment.

To his credit, he bowed and met her gaze evenly. “It is precisely what I expected, Mother. Lady Emily will have my full brotherly support.” There was likely much more to his words than what Emily heard and saw. He stepped back with the resigned air of a man well accustomed to his mother’s edicts. Lyness, however, stepped forward with a warmth in his eyes that nearly undid her composure.

It surprised her, to react so strongly to him in such short order. “Mr. Eastwood,” she murmured with a self-conscious smile. “Thank you for escorting me to the races this afternoon.”

“It is my pleasure, my lady. But please. We are with family. Call me Lyness,” he reminded her.

Goodness. That made the heat in her cheeks increase. She was likely as red as a strawberry.

Jack came in from a side door, moving more like a soldier than a gentleman at his ease. He bowed to the company. “Thank you for your attentions to my sister, Lady Hartwell. I hope the races prove entertaining this afternoon. We will join everyone later, at the theater.”

That pricked at Emily’s confidence. She held a hand out to catch her brother’s arm. “You are not coming to the races with us? Is everything all right?”

“My wife has a small headache,” he said to the others, then made eye contact with Emily. “Juniper is laying down to rest,” he said softly. “But she wishes you well on your outing.”

“We had best not doddle, then,” Lady Hartwell said. “Give your wife my best wishes, Mr. Sterling. I look forward to seeing her this evening.” So saying, she slipped her arm through the crook of her eldest son’s, while Emily accepted Lyness’s escort, and they all walked out of doors.

They were in the carriage in short order. Lady Hartwell ushered Emily inside first, insisting she take the more comfortable corner. The baroness settled beside her. Lyness followed, sitting across from Emily, and then his brother completed their party, arms folded tightly across his chest.

“There. Now we are all perfectly situated,” Lady Hartwell said as the carriage lurched into motion. “Lady Emily, if at any moment you wish to rest your head upon my shoulder, do not be shy. I am quite used to delicate flowers wilting during Race Week.”

Emily managed a small laugh. “I hope not to wilt, my lady.”

“Oh, we all wilt,” Lady Hartwell declared brightly. “The trick is finding the person who knows how to straighten your stem again.”

Roman made a sound that was half-sigh, half-plea. “Mother.” His normal composure disappeared for a moment, a crease appeared in his forehead as he looked at Lyness.

“Oh hush, Roman, it was entirely appropriate.” She glanced toward Lyness, then at Roman again. “Do not glare at your brother simply because he has more sense than the rest of us.”

That startled Emily. “More sense?”

Lady Hartwell nodded warmly. “Of course. The moment I heard the truth of the matter—that my Lyness declared your engagement because he cared for you—I thought, Yes. That is exactly the sort of thing a young couple needs. It is not a conventional start, but it is one built on regard and respect.”

The carriage seemed to shrink around Emily.

Lyness went scarlet in front of her.

Roman exhaled sharply through his nose. “Mother⁠—”

But Lady Hartwell was undeterred. “I do not meddle, I merely observe,” she said, hands folded serenely over her reticule. “And I have observed that my younger son is at his best when he cares for someone. He is very like a sunflower turning toward light.”

Oh dear. Her cheeks would never cool if this continued. She glanced toward Lyness.

He met her gaze for a moment—long enough for her to see the rawness there, the quiet earnestness, the hope within his eyes. Then he turned to the baroness. “Careful, Mother. You may make Emily come to regret her association with us if you begin your flower metaphors too early.”

“Not at all,” Emily said softly. “You will recall, I have a great interest in flowers of my own. There is nothing to regret.” She certainly did not regret her attachment to him.

Though she did not know what she felt, not yet—not through the fog of exhaustion, headache, and shock—but she knew it could not be regret. “I am glad he was there,” she said softly. “That they both were.”

Lyness’s eyes widened a fraction. Roman looked between them, something unreadable flickering across his features—not anger, not quite jealousy. Something quieter. Something Emily did not have a word for. Had she erred in giving them both credit for her rescue?