Page 73 of Rules for Heiresses
“Brother!” An instant blush filled her cheeks as she dropped into a curtsy. “Goodness, I do apologize. I meant ‘Your Grace.’”
A stunned Courtland faltered. That she would address him as an esteemed relation spoke volumes. The cynic in him warned that it could be a ruse, but the earnestness in the girl’s face was too genuine to be false. Or perhaps he simply wished it to be so. He smiled warmly. “I much prefer the first. How are you this evening, Lady Bronwyn?”
“Quite well, thank you. I’ve only just arrived, abandoned by Stinson who claims he has business to attend to.”
Courtland frowned, and immediately tried to find his brother in the crowd. The man had disappeared from view.
Bronwyn gave a small shrug. “Don’t worry about me. I’m used to it, and I’m well aware that my purpose is to acquit myself to my best advantage and ensnare a suitable husband with my overflowing beauty and charm.” He gave a startled grin at her couched cynicism, and her already red cheeks flamed. “Do forgive me, Your Grace, er, I mean, Brother. I’m not usually so…outspoken.”
“Don’t worry, I’m rather attached to the trait myself,” he said and offered her his arm. Little Bronwyn was turning out to be quite refreshing, much more like him than he’d expected. “Shall we dance then? Display you in the manner fit for a duke’s sister?”
“I would be delighted, but you don’t have to. I’m sure Stinson will return shortly.”
“I insist. It’s my duty as your elder brother.”
Her smile was bright. “Then I accept.”
As he led Bronwyn to the ballroom floor, it didn’t miss his notice how much attention they were gathering from others, especially from the unattached gentlemen in the room tracking Bronwyn with interest.Good. Courtland caught the glance of his wife who was now dancing with Waterstone. Approval shone in her eyes. Approval and something else. Tenderness? When she saw him looking, she tore her eyes away. Whatever it had been, it did not explain the sudden surge of tightness in his chest as if she’d reached in and grabbed hold of his heart.
“Why didn’t you come back sooner?” his sister asked when he led her into the first turn.
Courtland almost stumbled. “What do you mean?”
“Why haven’t you visited us before?”
He frowned and cleared his suddenly thick throat. “I didn’t think I would be welcomed. In fact, I’m surprised you’re dancing with me. I’d expect your mother would have warned you away from me on pain of death.”
“Oh, she has,” Bronwyn said. “But I want to make up my own mind. I’ve heard such stories of you, you see.”
Courtland blinked. “Stories?”
“From Grandpapa before he died. I visited him nearly every day, and we became quite close. Mama encouraged it, thinking it would set us into his good graces, which it did, but not in the way she hoped.” Warm blue eyes met his. “People thought he was addled because of the illness, but it varied by the day. Some days, he was as sharp as a tack. Others, he didn’t know me. On the days he was lucid, he spoke of you a lot.”
The lump in his throat widened once more for his grandfather, who had never given up on him. The notion that not everyone had reviled him was like a fist squeezing around his lungs. “What did he say?”
“How smart you were. How much you reminded him of Papa. How tenacious you were.” She laughed. “That, he said, reminded him of himself. He told me about your accomplishments in Spain, and then in the West Indies, and most of all, he spoke of how proud he was of the man you had become. At first, I was shocked because of course Mama and Stinson had told us all you were dead, and we were very young, but still the house went into mourning. But Grandpapa said you were very much alive and it was to be our secret. I hoped to see you for myself someday, and here we are. He was right. You are everything he claimed.”
He did stagger then. “He didn’t know me after I left England.”
“I think he knew you better than you think.”
He stared at her. How was his sister only eighteen? She spoke with the wisdom of someone much older than that. His mind was spinning in confusion and shock, underscored by a bone-deep yearning for acceptance he hadn’t felt since he was a boy. It unsettled him.
They finished the dance, and he escorted Bronwyn over to where the Duke of Embry stood with Ravenna watching with mirth as Waterstone attempted to convince Sarani to join him in a rousing polka.
“Gents, ladies, may I present my sister, Lady Bronwyn. It’s her first season.”
“Embry,” Ravenna said to her brother brightly. “You must ask the lady to dance. I’m sure Sarani wouldn’t mind, if she’s to dance with the earl.”
“Certainly,” the duke said with a gallant bow. “My lady?”
As they joined the other dancers, the attention of two dukes in Lady Bronwyn’s favor would not go unnoticed, Courtland knew. Now that that was done, he had to get some air. He let out a shallow breath and tugged on his shrinking cravat.
His sister’s revelations battered him. His grandfather—the late Duke of Ashvale—had beenproud. For the first time since boyhood, Courtland’s eyes stung.
“Your Grace? Courtland? Are you well?”
His gaze found Ravenna’s concerned one. “I need—” His voice trailed off in a strangled gasp.
