The Debutante's season
PREVIEW
Chapter One
Lady Scarlett Berrington was the last of her sisters to descend the staircase the morning of her nephew’s christening. Charity and Hyacinth had finished with their toilette for some time now, and waited about listlessly in the foyer for her. Scarlett, though she would fervently deny it, had taken a new interest in her appearance in the past year since her debut.
While she had grown up as a loose-haired, barefooted girl more apt to be found in a tree than elegantly poured over her knitting, the realities of life for a lady of the ton had softened her rough and boyish edges. Though she still carried in her hearty, youthful figure a hint of that fundamental discomfort with all things prim and proper. Her flippant way of brushing a loose curl from her forehead, or turning her gloves inside out as she irritatedly pulled them off in order to accomplish some fiddly task, gave her an air of carefree freedom that perfectly complemented her now extensive and painstaking toilette.
She spent an inordinate amount of time coaxing her thick, dark hair into glossy curls each morning, but she seemed to care so little about the result that she never gave the impression of being vain or superficial. Her beauty had the air of being accidental, a gift of nature, never anything contrived or illusory.
“I only wish Thawswood was somewhere close to town,” Charity was saying as Scarlett joined her sisters in the foyer to wait for Father and Aunt Sylvia. “We almost never get to see Viola, and now that she is a mother we will see her even less. I feel as though we have lost her.”
“Now, that’s not true, don’t exaggerate” Scarlett said. “Merely because she has recently given birth does not imply that she should be confined to her home, never to venture forth again. A mother may ride into London as often as a bride. You make marriage and motherhood sound like a death sentence.”
Charity grumbled. She had, of late, been speaking more and more earnestly against the institution of marriage. An unpleasant side effect of being too often shut up in her boudoir with her books and her little scientific experiments.
“You’d better not be pulling these sullen faces at the christening. Don’t spoil our visit,” Scarlett said tersely.
Charity sighed and tugged on her gloves. As always, she was dressed in drab grey and brown, her chestnut hair brushed smooth and pulled into a coil at the nape of her neck. Simple, she called it. To Scarlett, the unadorned look made Charity look severe and religious.
“I won’t spoil the visit.” Charity said. “I’m happy for any chance to see Viola. I just wish it happened more frequently.”
Hyacinth, the youngest Berrington, looked up finally from the sketchbook which was perpetually open on her knee wherever she sat. Her pencil was still poised over the page as she studied her sisters’ little argument. She peered at them, as she peered at everyone, with a kind of pointed yet silent judgement. Her eyes, strikingly blue as opposed to the hazel of her sisters, saw all. They seemed to look into one’s very soul.
She spoke very little. Scarlett thought she would grow out of her shyness with time, though. She absorbed everything around her and seemed to channel every impression she received into her sketchbooks. Though she was young, still only fourteen, her drawings had the mature subtlety of artists far older and more experienced than herself. Scarlett only hoped that one day she would learn to express herself in words as well as pictures, else she would end up very lonely indeed.
The three sisters could not have been more different. This often ended in arguments and grudges that would carry on for months at a time, but at the end of the day, there was a bond of loyalty between them that was unbreakable, no matter how much their disparate personalities chafed painfully against each other.
“We’d better be on our way,” came the voice of Aunt Sylvia as she came into the foyer, wrapping her pelisse tightly around herself and looking frettingly at the clock that stood in the corner. “We’ll be late.”
“Pray, compose yourselves, ladies; we shall not tarry,” Lord Berrington said, joining them and ushering the girls out of the front door and down to the carriage which waited for them in the street. Inside the carriage it was warm and comfortable, and Scarlett settled into her seat, tucking her chin into the fur lining of her cloak. Although it was newly spring and London was beginning to wake from its wintery slumber, the weather was stubbornly hanging on to the frost and chill of winter, especially in the early morning hours. The long drive to Thawswood Manor necessitated an early departure from the Berrington’s London townhouse, and Scarlett settled into her own wandering thoughts as her sisters chatted with Aunt Sylvia, their voices entwined with the cadence of hoofbeats and the clatter of the carriage.
She gazed out the window as they passed lines of shops and houses, shopkeepers and workers being the only ones out and about that early in the morning. She rarely was out of the house at this hour, but whenever she was, Scarlett relished watching the city that she loved just as it was waking up. She loved when the air was alive with birdsong, and the smell of freshly baking bread filled the streets.
As the horses trotted on, they rolled past familiar lanes and parks, passing the houses of friends and rivals, until gradually there began to be more space between buildings, and open land stretched out from the comparatively empty road. Scarlett had no romantic illusions about country life. When she and her sisters were little they had spent their summers at the country estate, and she always hated the long empty hours and looked forward to spending the winters in the city.
She couldn’t understand how Viola could bear to live at Thwaswood Manor, that cold and distant fortress on the lonely and windswept hillside, especially after having lived so long in the city. To Scarlett, London was a bit like heaven. Life was like an opera there, everyone dressed in their costumes playing their part in the grand spectacle of the ton. Whenever they went to live in the country, it was at though the color and life had been sucked out of everything.
As they drifted past a landscape that was becoming gradually more sparse and dull, Scarlett’s thoughts turned to the recent past. Her first London Season had been, not a disaster, but certainly a trial. The eldest Berrington daughter, Viola, had gotten into a scandal on the night of Scarlett’s coming out ball. It wasn’t Viola’s fault, but that didn’t change the disastrous effects of being caught with the Duke of Thawswood in the gardens with her dress half off.
The ton had gone wild with rumors and gossip in the wake of Viola’s hasty marriage to the Duke, and the black mark on their family name couldn’t help but rub off on Scarlett herself. It was a hard thing, to be so marked during her first season on the marriage mart.
She’d carried a deep resentment for her older sister that whole summer. Looking back at it now, Scarlett still held that she had a right to be angry, and yet it was a welcome relief to no longer be at odds with her sister.
As they at last arrived at the modest parish church near Thawswood, its visage captivated Scarlett, etching its gothic allure into her imagination as it appeared to emerge from the sodden, marshy ground itself. She was reminded instantly of a romance she had borrowed from her closest confidant, Clara, that past month. It had been a tale of a troubled artist who found himself burdened by the weight of his own insecurities and fears. His struggles and challenges were greatly embellished in the text, and Scarlett had felt the need to hide this particular volume in the bottom of her sewing box. But in the end, it transformed into an uplifting story of redemption when, predictably, he met a woman whose quick wit and steadfast kindness ispired him to rise above his troubles and embrace life filled with creativity and passion.
She was still wrapped in the hazy comforts of her daydreaming as they piled out of the carriage and were greeted at the door by Viola, carrying her plump and pink little boy in her arms
“There you are!” Viola exclaimed, smiling widely. Childbearing had thickened her arms and rounded her face. It became her. Scarlett had always thought her sister’s bone structure a bit too sharp anyway.
“Don’t you look lovely,” Aunt Sylvia cried. “Motherhood suits you.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” His Grace said, coming up behind his wife, placing a shawl over her shoulders and kissing her temple. Viola blushingly brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead and shook off the compliment. They made a handsome couple, with Ewan’s rakish black curls and Viola’s peaceful, maternal glow.
The Duke of Thawswood, Scarlett’s brother-in-law was a darkly handsome man, who had such reputation in London as to be known commonly as the Beast of Thawswood before marrying her sister. There had been rumors, at the time, that he was so ashamed of his disfigured sister Isabel that he kept her locked up in Thawswood Manor, forbidding her to leave or to even be seen by anyone.
The sister in question, Lady Isabel, was now seated most happily in the front row. Her only ‘disfigurement’ being the persistent rasp of her voice and a pale network of scars that trailed down the side of her neck. After being rendered mute by a carriage accident, she’d not spoken for years until about a year ago; her voice still retained a gravelly, strained aspect and she rarely spoke above the faintest whisper.
Lady Isabel grinned as Scarlett took the seat next to her.
“We are so happy you could make it,” she whispered.
“Of course we wouldn’t miss it,” Scarlett answered quietly as more parishioners filtered in to witness the christening.
The priest, a short and wrinkled old man with thick lensed spectacles pushed up to the bridge of a beak-like nose, arrived. As the christening ceremony of her new nephew began she was left with little fodder for her imagination.
Her eyes rested on the duke. Seeing him now, still darkly handsome but with a warmth in his eyes and expression that seemed to glow the hotter when he gazed at his wife, Scarlett’s heart filled with hope. He had such a frightening figure before meeting Viola. He’d been known to have a hot, unpredictable temper and was famous for his biting remarks. But now? The man who stood before the priest with his newborn son in his arms, gazing with eyes full of love and gratitude at the glowing personage of his wife, had been utterly transformed.
Scarlett’s family loved to jest with her about her taste in books. Charity especially disparaged all novels for being a waste of time, to say nothing of her thorough disgust at the romantic novels that Scarlett loved. Her father and aunt often chided her, reminding her with varying degrees of gentleness that real love and marriage was not like her stories.
But if that were so, then how could they explain Viola and the Duke of Thawswood? If Viola had managed to have such a thrilling and adventuresome love story, then why couldn’t Scarlett hope for the same?
Her mind drifted to the coming months, her second London season. The ton had moved on from the scandal of her sister, and Scarlett knew her chances were better this year than last. Her heart fluttered timidly in her chest, wondering what the coming year would bring her.
Chapter Two
Lord Roland Aldwick had the look and general air of a boy despite his six and twenty years. He had once heard of himself that he had “the look of a poet about him.” If he had, it was owing only to the fact of his having longish, curly hair. But he never forgot that comment, hoping that it was true. That particular Roland was a gentleman who yearned to possess the air of a poet and that speaks volumes about his character, as much as any evaluation of his genuine literary prowess, whether it be present or lacking. The criticism that he was often more enamoured with the idea of something than with the reality itself would have stung him deeply, particularly because it was often uttered by his younger siblings.
“Another book came for you,” Joanna said as Roland sat down at the large family dining table. Joanna was a pretty girl of thirteen, still wearing her hair in child-like plaits despite her need to be treated like a real lady.
Roland jumped up from the chair as though it were full of hot coals, his eyes darting about the room for the highly anticipated parcel.
“It’s in my study. Sit down, Roland.” Came the stern, sonorous tone of Lord Glenridge. The earl was a forbidding man. Formal. Traditional. Roland had never seen his father without his cravat meticulously tied beneath his square jaw. Once, when Roland was a boy, he had teased his sister that their father slept in his boots and waistcoat. She believed it for many years but the truth came out one distressing night when she had suddenly run a high fever and Lord Glenridge had been summoned from bed. Joanna had later confessed that the sight of their father in his nightshirt had been at least as traumatic as her fever itself.
Roland did as he was told, masking his impatience as he took his customary seat next to Marcus, his younger brother.
“Remember what we agreed,” Lady Glenridge said. “No more books at the table.” She was a warm lady, of the sort for whom advancing age only brings further charm to her beautiful appearance. She had a gentle, maternal voice that was softened by the sure confidence that whatever she said would be immediately obeyed. Her children—and many in the ton—were rather in awe of her. A fact of which Lord Glenridge was visibly proud.
“Yes, Mother,” Roland replied sheepishly, consciously ignoring the smirk on Marcus’ face. The youngest of the Earl’s sons at eighteen years, and a jokester from birth, young Marcus was the recipient of the bulk of paternal admonishment in the household, and he understandably found no small pleasure in seeing someone else on the receiving end of one of Lord Glenridge’s withering looks.
The Glenridge family rarely spoke at the table. If anything, Lord Glenridge would hold forth on some point of political or ecclesiastical interest to him, to which his wife and children would serve as captive audience. But the Earl was not a man disposed to indulge in much pontification unless he had something of particular importance to say. And so many family suppers were passed in silence.
While the quiet symphony of cutlery clinking against bowls and plates was a tune too familiar to be uncomfortable, the silence at the table had taken on a melancholy tenor after the untimely death of the eldest Glenridge son, Adrian, that past autumn. A typhoid fever had taken him suddenly, and his chair at the Earl’s right hand now sat empty, having never been removed.
Adrian had been Glenridge’s clear favorite. The earl had seen in his heir a miniature of himself, and had invested much time and expense in his moral and intellectual education. The result had been a young man of uncommon mind and strength of character, as ambitious as he was assured of his own illustrious future. That such an energetic and promising man could be cut down so suddenly seemed like a cosmic joke. An accident of nature causing an odd sort of grief where the ones left behind had their souls thrown into confusion at the sheer absurdity of the loss.
That Roland himself—with his boyish hair and inclination toward daydreaming—had become the heir of Glenridge had been an unspoken point of anxiety in the household. Until now.
“It is high time for you to find a wife and begin your domestic career, son,” Glenridge intoned in his usual serious way.
Roland’s bite of beef caught in his throat and he coughed, reaching for a glass of water. He thought he heard Marcus chuckling and fought the urge to kick him under the table.
“Get a hold of yourself, boy,” Glenridge said, but not without a hint of actual concern in his voice.
“I’m fine,” Roland croaked. “Swallowed wrong.”
Glenridge raised a heavy brow, the closest he ever came to rolling his eyes. Roland took more water and regained control of his breathing as Joanna, also, stifled laughter.
“Frankly, I fail to see what good your tours abroad have done for you. All this cant about finding your purpose and exploring various avenues of talent…it’s all very well and good for a second son who’s not expected to do more than make his own way. But you will one day be the Earl of Glenridge, and with that title comes responsibilities.” The Earl stopped to take a sip of wine, letting his words hang in the air. He placed his glass back down unhurriedly, knowing that no one would interrupt him. “A man needs stability, and stability is best built by a wife and family. Lack of stability in life leads to dissolution and the squandering of time and resources”
“I don’t think my studies in Rome were a waste of time and resources, Father,” Roland said, smiling in that innocently charming way that got him out of so many scrapes. “Mr. Lorenzo says that I have some real skill in portraits.”
Joanna giggled across the table, and the countess made her stop with a touch of the hand.
“So you mean to carry on the title by means of being a painter of portraits?” Glenridge asked pointedly.
“Oh, no. I’ve quite given up painting. I couldn’t bear to spend my days painting ugly men and constantly being pulled between capturing a good likeness and not offending my client. It’s all rather gruesome, the vast expense of art necessitating that all its devotees be old men with more wealth than soul—”
Roland would have carried on with his opinions on the geriatric defects of the art world, but he caught his father’s eye and knew to hold his tongue. He had secretly been planning to ask for leave to spend the summer studying literature in Europe with an old tutor of his, and he wanted to avoid hurting his chances by annoying his father.
“Well, happily for you, a career in painting is far from likely. The same goes for poetry.” Glenridge glanced at his wife then, indicating that they’d spoken of this matter beforehand. “Indeed, I know about the plans for the continent this summer, and my answer is no.”
He fixed Roland with a look that wiped the appeasing grin right off his face. “You will spend the summer here in London, choosing a wife, and getting to learn how to be worthy of your inheritance.”
A somber silence filled the room as all thoughts turned to the empty spaces in their lives where Adrian had once lived.
“I understand,” Roland said quietly, though every fiber of his being cringed away from this responsibility.
*
Later that evening, Roland arrived at The Green Dragon, a club of middling reputation among the ton. It wasn’t the best place a gentleman could be known to frequent, but it certainly wasn’t the worst either. To Roland, it was a welcome spot to get away from the stifling formality and sombreness of his home life, without straying too far from the safety that such a home provides. He was there to meet Mr. Matthew Campbell, an old childhood friend who was recently married.
“Good evening, Glenridge,” Matthew said with only a hint of good natured sarcasm as Roland sat down at his table. There was a game of cards being loudly played nearby, with a small crowd of young men rallying around and spectating. Roland didn’t mind having to raise his voice to be heard over the din. This sort of lively atmosphere was just what he needed.
“Oh, not you too,” he said, groaning. A brandy was placed in front of him and he sipped it gratefully.
“The Earl as mean as ever?” Matthew asked. “Don’t tell me he won’t let you go to the continent this summer.” Matthew’s expression became sympathetic. The look suited his features which, having always been handsome, had recently taken on even more of a healthful glow. It was no mystery why his friend looked so well that night, having recently been married to Elisabeth Tipdale. She was universally beloved in the ton, the rose of every ball, but she had only ever loved Matthew. Thus, he was widely known to be the happiest husband in London.
“He says I must stay for the season and ‘choose a wife.’ As if it were merely a matter of choosing someone!” He took another drink, this time splashing the liquor against the back of his throat with more righteous vigor.
“He wants to see you settled down quickly. It’s only natural, after what happened.” Matthew said.
“Well of course, but I don’t see why that means I must marry right away. Surely even Father understands that this is not a decision to be made lightly. Why, look at the old man himself! He was nearing forty when he married.”
Matthew laughed lightly and leaned back in his chair, balancing on its two back legs. “With all your romantic notions, I rather thought you were already eager to fall in love. I wonder that your father suggesting you do just that, should cause you such evident distress.”
Roland shifted in his seat. “It sounds much worse when Father says it. He speaks of it as nothing more than a duty. Which is easy for him to say, when he married someone like mother, but suppose I don’t choose so well? Suppose I make a mistake and marry the wrong girl? I’ve never intended to marry anyone at all unless I loved her, and I don’t see why that must change just because I stand to inherit the title and the estate. I never wanted any of that to begin with.”
Matthew didn’t answer right away, his sympathetic gaze being answer enough to what Roland was leaving unsaid. The truth was that his grief over the loss of his brother had been complicated by his anger at his brother for having left him with this responsibility of being heir to the Earl of Glenridge. It was a post that he feared deep down he was not fit for, and which he had never dreamed of wanting.
“You want to fall in love, Roland,” Matthew said, gently but not so much as to be condescending. “But your match isn’t in Italy or Germany. And you certainly won’t find her by listing aimlessly about the continent. She’s here. In London.”
Roland, in the comfort of being understood by a friend, began to relax somewhat. He smiled at Matthew. “What makes you so sure? There’s a world full of interesting women beyond our own shores.”
Matthew merely shook his head and smiled. “No, your bride is in London. I’d bet my hat on it. Because you are right that marriage is not something to be taken lightly, but it is also possible to take it too…heavily.”
Roland broke into laughter “What on earth does that mean?”
“Only that if you expend all your energy imagining grand celestial romances, you are apt to lose sight of the real life romance that has been right under your nose all along.” Matthew said.
“Forgive me for not taking too seriously the love advice of newlyweds,” Rolant countered. “Your lot is understandably optimistic, but one man’s good fortune does not predict another’s.”
Matthew was about to come back with a rejoinder, but a general cry had gone up in the club at the sudden arrival of Lord Tristan Steele. He was a gentleman who rarely came to The Green Dragon, apparently finding its atmosphere too stiflingly wholesome for his taste. And if he did make an appearance here, it was only because he had been thrown out of the less reputable establishments in town.
This time, however, he clearly had some business with a man there, as he staggered across the room and, without so much as a word, launched his fist into the nose of Will Crawley, one of the gamblers at the next table.
An uproar erupted immediately and more punches were thrown amidst sworn words and accusations pertaining to an actress apparently named Lisette. Roland and Matthew did not consider it wise to get involved, and slipped out of the club into the chilly dark outside.
“Getting late, anyway,” Roland said, calling for his phaeton.
The friends bid each other good night, but just as Roland was climbing into his phaeton, Matthew stopped him.
“Think on what we talked about. I know you were looking forward to your summer abroad, but I think it will be more exciting here at home than you may expect.” he said.
Chapter Three
Scarlett turned her face toward the sun, letting her bonnet fall back on her head a bit. It was the first truly warm day of spring, and she relished the breeze that, instead of biting frostily at her nose and cheeks, caressed her face gently.
“Doesn’t it feel wonderful?” She asked her closest companion, a young lady of her own age named Clara.
“I’m so glad that winter is now truly past. I don’t think I could have survived another round of ugly, muddy snow.” Clara said. She was a practical girl, one of many perfectly acceptable young ladies of the ton, who had a respectable pedigree if not any great wealth. For a girl of such friendly sensibility, such an emphatic proclamation was quite out of the ordinary.
“It’s good you came out with us then,” Scarlett said in some surprise. “I didn’t realise how the dark months had affected you.”
The Berrington girls and Aunt Sylvia had made an excuse of needing to do a bit of shopping in order to get out of the house on such a fine day. They had stopped off at Clara’s home to invite her along on their way.
“We must stop at Peregrine’s while we are here,” Charity said, catching up with Scarlett and Clara as they walked by lines of shops.
Scarlett laughed. “Where do you think I’m going?”
Peregrine’s wasn’t the largest or most illustrious bookseller in London, but it was the favorite of the Berrington’s, owing to its eclectic collection. One could find a bit of anything there. The building itself was tall and narrow, with three storeys stacked atop each other and connected by cramped staircases.
The smell of paper and calfskin leather greeted them as they stepped inside. Charity went at once to the botany books at the back of the first floor, being followed by Hyacinth and Aunt Sylvia. Scarlett and Clara however went up the stairs to where the novels were. The upstairs was more cramped, with smaller windows and less organization. Novels, while popular, were often more cheaply produced and not given pride of place in the book store, but Scarlett didnt mind. in fact she rather enjoyed the slightly clandestine atmosphere of the second floor of Peregrine’s.
She pulled a book off the shelf at random and began to flip through it, skimming her eyes down the page for the telltale phrases and words that would denote a riveting tale.
“Let me guess, another story of a haunted castle and its roguish, wealthy master?” Clara asked, leaning against the bookcase and peering over Scarlett’s shoulder.
“Mmm.” Scarlett hummed, not fully listening. “Not quite. It’s pirates, this one.”
“Oh?” Clara laughed. “That’s a new one.”
Clara picked up a different book which had been left haphazardly on a stack by a previous patron, and flipped through it curiously. “How do these authors come up with such fantastical ideas?”
Scarlett sighed peevishly. “Now you sound like Charity. Have you lost your imagination over the long winter?”
Clara gave her an apologetic smile. “I don’t mean to criticize your taste in reading material. I just mean, well, don’t you think it’s time for us to put away the dreams of our childhood and be realistic? Perhaps you feel differently, but my first season out in London has done much to disabuse me of many a foolish notion of the gallantry of the average English gentleman.
Scarlett placed down the book she was holding and turned her full attention to Clara.
“You must not speak so,” Scarlett said emphatically, her voice lowering as she gazed at Clara with an earnest look. “I firmly believe that much suffering in this world is the result of women settling for less than what they really want. You can’t let anyone tell you it’s wrong to want adventure, love, and excitement out of this life.”
Clara pressed her lips together, looking unsure. “Perhaps that is easier to say when your position in life is already secure. We can’t all be romantics, Scarlett. Some of us have to be practical.”
“Dear Clara, can’t you see how it pains me to hear you say that? You must promise me that you will rather live with me in my house than ever marry for anything less than real love.”
Clara grinned. “Alright Scarlett, I promise. But I only meant that I think real love isn’t anything quite so rarified as it is in these novels.”
“For some, perhaps,” Scarlett replied lightly, turning back to her perusal of the books arrayed on the shelves.
“I want to see the historical books, we will meet you downstairs when you’re ready,” Clara said after a time, and went downstairs.
Scarlett didn’t mind being left to her own devices upstairs, in fact she relished the stillness and the silence, broken only by the muffled sounds of conversations downstairs. As she scanned the titles along another shelf she heard someone moving about on the top floor, where the less popular volumes were stocked. Hearing the footfalls cross to the staircase to come down, she braced herself for polite socialization, smiling in a friendly but detached way.
The face at the staircase took her aback, her mind being flung back into the past at the familiar eyes and the particular curl of jet black hair.
“Roland!” Scarlett exclaimed.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise and, for a moment, confusion. He didn’t recognize her. Scarlett couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up at his disorientation, but the sound of her laugh itself must have reminded him of who she was.
“Scarlett Berrington. Can that really be you?”
His voice shocked her. It was deep now; honeyed, and nothing at all like the high pitched chatter of his boyhood. The Roland Aldwick she knew from childhood, the best friend of her older brother, had been a skinny, energetic boy. He could keep the younger children in an uproar in those days, and could always be counted on to enliven a dull afternoon. Now? Well, if it hadn’t been for those distinctive eyes, deep set and so dark they were almost black, she might not have recognized him. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a smile always bordering on apologetic. His hair was curly and seemed weightless, falling over his forehead in a way that gave the appearance of being charmingly disheveled but not overly messy.
She blushed as he took in the sight of her, clearly doing his own mental comparisons to how she had looked as a child.
“Why, you look—“ He stammered. “Well, it’s been quite some time, has it not?”
Scarlett resented that her cheeks flamed even more at his deliberate silence concerning his opinion of her appearance. She supposed the image of herself as a thin legged little girl with missing teeth would be a hard one to forget. Still, it made her feel quite foolish to stand there in front of him still feeling small when he had grown up so well.
“A long while, indeed,” she said, attempting to sound poised and mature. “I suppose you know that Christopher is on his Grand Tour.”
A smile crept across Roland’s face as he saw right through her attempts at putting on airs. He laughed, the sound of it cracking through the awkwardness of the reunion. His laughter, at least, retained its boyish clarity and lightness. Her blush melted away at it, being replaced with a reciprocating smile borne of the ease of long acquaintance.
“Yes, of course. He does write me letters as well, you know,” he jested. He’d been carrying a small stack of books and now placed them down on a counter nearby.
“And where has he been sending them, in that case? You’ve not been in London almost as long as he has. Where have you been?” Scarlett asked, surging forward to stand nearer.
His smile faltered slightly. “Oh. I’ve been here and there. I did some painting in Rome, but I’ve had to return home for the time being.”
“Rome! Really!” She exclaimed full of happy envy. “How enchanting that must have been.”
“Yes, well. You would have liked it. All those grand cathedrals.”
Scarlett was sure now that there was something the matter. She had not imagined the wavering in his smile. He had become sombre all of a sudden, it was just barely noticeable but it was there.
Then, she remembered.
“Oh, Roland,” she said, reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. “We heard about your brother.”
Adrian Aldwick, the previous heir of Glenridge, had always been too busy to play with his younger sibling and his little friends. Scarlett herself had only met him on a couple of occasions. When they read of his death in the paper, the Berringtons had sent their regards and sympathy, but she had regrettably not thought much more of it. Now her heart clinched at the thought of how it must feel to lose a brother. It was unimaginable.
Roland smiled at her, patting her hand where it rested on his arm.
“Thank you, Scarlett. I’m well.”
His eyes met hers. She remembered how it had felt to be nine years old, trailing after her big brother and his friend, desperate to be included in their game. She’d been in love with Roland then, in that innocent way that little girls fall in love with any unrelated boy they see often enough. It shamed her then, thinking about how obvious a flirt she had been at that young and foolish age. She was certain that her love for Roland had been well known and joked about between the two boys. Perhaps that was why he had refrained from commenting on her appearance. He didn’t want to embarrass her.
The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs broke her away from her thoughts and crashed into the quiet intimacy of the moment. She pulled her hand away and stepped back, placing more space between Roland and her. After what had happened with Viola, Scarlett was scrupulous about not giving even the appearance of scandal.
But it was her own sisters who were climbing the steps, their voices growing louder until they came to the second floor.
“Charity! And little Hyacinth, look at you!” Roland exclaimed, quickly putting aside any hint of sombreness in his expression as he greeted the girls. The little reunion was cheerful and loud enough to pull Clara away from her own perusal of books and she soon joined them, standing near Scarlett and seeming to make a quick appraisal of Roland, to whom she was quickly and genially introduced by Scarlett.
“I must be off now, though,” Roland said suddenly. “To be perfectly honest I wasn’t even supposed to stop off at Peregrine’s, but you know how that is.” He grinned as he picked up the books he had placed down earlier. “I’m planning to be here through the summer at least, so I’m certain to see you all again,” he said as he left down the stairs to pay for the volumes.
“Did you find anything interesting?” Scarlett asked Clara as they shortly followed suit. Her mind was still in a haze of pleasant shock at the sudden reappearance of Roland.
Clara shrugged. “Nothing worth buying. You?”
“Just this,” She lifted the book in her hand. She’d bought the pirate romance after all.
Clara smirked.
“What kind of look is that?” Scarlett asked, giggling.
“Oh nothing. I just wonder that you should still have your heart turned to fictional pirates when you have friends like Lord Glenridge,” Clara teased.
Scarlett felt herself redden. “Don’t be absurd, Roland is as romantic as a common pigeon. Or perhaps a…a playful puppy.”
“I thought he looked rather dashing with those curls of his. He has a charming, brotherly look to him.”
“Brotherly, indeed. A good deal too brotherly to be any match for fictional pirates,” Scarlett laughed.
Seeing Roland again had been a pleasant reminder of a different time, but she had changed too much in the intervening years for the childish idolization she’d once had for him to be rekindled.
“If you say so,” Clara said lightly, and they rejoined the group to continue their jaunt about the city, fully enjoying the warmth and energy of London in those breathless days and weeks just before the season began.
Let me know your thoughts!
I’m glad that you finished reading the preview of “The Duke’s Reluctant Muse”. It will be on Amazon very soon!
