She would go to London. She would find him. They would share another longing gaze.
After that, if she were condemned to spend the remainder of her days in Harrows Court Crossing as the wife of a man she did not like, at least she would have the comfort of knowing she had burned hot and bright for one glorious moment.
2
Sunlight peeked through the smudged windowpane, warming the Indian cotton stretched over his shoulders. But Duncan, seventh Earl of Eads, did not move to draw the drapes or open his eyes to appreciate the weather. It mattered nothing to him if the London day shone or fogged or rained. Nor did it concern him if the sounds issuing from the street below his flat were the clatter of hooves and carriage wheels or the shouts of street vendors.
All had fallen away, the present world a vanishing shadow only. With eyes closed, back straight, and legs crossed, he remained still, seeking his center.
Deep within, in harmony and acceptance with all the creatures of the universe, peace awaited him. Like the petals of a flower, held close yet ready to spread with the touch of the morning sun, the core of his being—
“Lily! What’ve ye done wi’ ma pink ribbon?”
“I’ve no touched yer silly ribbon, Effie.”
“I’ll pull out yer hair if ye’ve ruined it.”
Duncan slowly drew air into his lungs with the power of the muscles in his abdomen.
“If ye havena got it, then who has?”
“Mebbe ye lost it when ye stopped to flirt wi’ those soldiers?”
“I didna flirt.”
In tiny increments, Duncan released the breath, holding steady to his concentration, steady and still and—
“Aye, ye flirted. Deny it if ye will, but I’ll no be believing ye.”
“If yer wishing for something interesting, ye might open a wee book once in a while.”
“Then we wouldna need the ribbons, nou, would we, Abigail?”
Breathe in. Slow, steady, smooth—
“Moira?”
“We’d do better to be storing up prayers than dresses to help us all find husbands, Sorcha.”
Slow breaths. Seeking serenity. Seeking peace. Breaths as light as feathers yet deep as—
“No one asked ye, Elspeth, so keep yer sermons to yerself.”
“Confess, Lily.”
“I didna, I tell ye. Did I, Una?”
“Dinna drag me into yer disputes.”
“Moira, the bill?”
“What’re ye reading anyway, Abby?”
“Byron, that immoral—”
“Byron’s poetry isna immoral, Elspeth. ’Tis romantic.”
“Here be the bill, Sorcha. I sewed the sleeves this morn.”
“Thank ye, Moira.”
Breathe.
“Ma pink ribbon!”
“Told ye I didna take it.”
Deeper.
“Ye’d best stow it away till ye’ve guid cause to wear it, Effie.”
“There willna be new ribbons or dresses or anything else—”
“Till a miracle brings us all husbands.”
“
Duncan’s roar echoed through the tiny flat.
Every light feminine footstep went silent. Not a breath stirred except his own, tight and shallow.
Lily giggled. Or perhaps Effie. His youngest sisters, twins, sounded identical to him, even after eighteen months living under the same roof.
But at home in Castle Eads, with plenty of space and too much work, he’d rarely seen his sisters. He’d rarely seen the chilblains on their hands when the hearths were empty and ice clung to the insides of rotted doors. He’d rarely seen the patches in their gowns, the holes in the toes of their shoes, and the dirt beneath their fingernails from laboring as no nobleman’s sisters should. And he’d rarely seen their hollow cheeks when dinner was nothing more than mutton broth and barley cakes.
But in this miniscule flat he’d brought them to a fortnight ago, he saw everything: the creases on Sorcha’s serious brow, the pallor of Elspeth’s sober face, the dampened hope in Moira’s lovely eyes, the white knuckles of Lily and Effie’s hands holding each other’s tight, the avoidance in Abigail’s hunched shoulders, and the sympathy in Una’s smile.
“Allou a man a moment’s peace, will ye?” He unclenched a hand and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Will ye take us to the park today, brither?” Beside Effie, Lily nodded encouragingly. His seventeen-year-old sisters were itching to be out and about.
Elspeth crossed her arms. “So ye can ogle the gentlemen there too?”
“There be no harm in ogling, Elspeth. ’Tis what our brither brought us here to do. Get husbands!”
“There’s a wee bit more to getting husbands than ogling, Effie,” Una said, a twinkle in her eye. She lifted a commiserating brow at Duncan.
He loved all his half-sisters, but secretly Una was his favorite. With her serene and ready humor she reminded him most of Miranda.
Fortunately, Una wasn’t a daft fool who’d thrown herself into the hands of a knave and got herself killed.
“Aye, there’s a wee bit more to it,” he said. Damn if he knew what. Back home no men of worth came calling on the poor Eads sisters. There were only farm lads, shepherds, and traveling peddlers. And all of his sisters, friendly as their mother had been, welcomed every man into the castle as though he were a saint. Only Sorcha and Una had any idea of the harm that could come to them.
Lily and Effie were hungering for male attention; he could see it in their bright eyes every time a pair of breeches walked by. And Moira was a prize an ignoble man might steal right out from her own home if he found the opportunity—dowry or not.
He couldn’t have left them at the castle while he came here in search of suitors. So he’d brought them along in the hopes of finding decent men who’d jump at the chance to marry an earl’s sister, however poor.
“I’ll take ye to the park, lass,” he said.
Effie’s brow screwed up. “Dressed like that?”
Behind her open book, Abigail stifled a laugh.
Duncan scowled. He stood and the tunic fell about his thighs. Woven of soft cotton like his trousers, it fit his size far better than anything else he owned.
He moved toward the chamber he’d used as his bedchamber until a fortnight ago. “Outta ma way nou, or I will.”
Giggles followed in his wake. He cast back a wink. Then he closed the door and stared at the feminine
