She couldn’t stop thinking about the painting.
After Lord Briarwood had vanished like the devil Angelica had branded him, Saffron had dragged her aunt Rosemary over to the painting. She’d expected her aunt to gasp or cry, but Rosemary had met her excitement with cool indifference. It was nothing more than coincidence, she had argued. They didn’t even know the name of the painter, only that the piece was titledRavenmore, and it was new, impossibly new.
“Come away from there before you sprout roots,” Rosemary said as she lounged on a red, leather divan against the wall. “I did not raise a wallflower.”
The woman was as attractive as she had been fifteen years prior, when she had taken in Saffron and her siblings. Perhaps with a touch more silver at her temple, and new wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, but with the same single-minded determination that had earned her reputation as a fearsome matchmaker.
Saffron stepped from the window and sunk into the plush cushions beside her aunt, prepared for another long night of watching her sister flit from one suitor to the next. Whereas Angelica thrived in social settings, Saffron was more withdrawn, preferring to spend her time with her family or alone.
“Your sister is shining tonight,” Rosemary said. “My dearest wish is that you would shine as brightly.”
Saffron tucked her mangled fan into her pocket before her aunt could comment on it. As much as she longed to wear the same beautiful fabrics and jewels that Angelica donned night after night, they did not have the funds. It took all of Saffron’s careful planning to keep them from being cast out of their home. Her childhood dreams of finding a love match had been crushed under the weight of responsibility.
She glanced at the painting on the other side of the ballroom.
What if there was another option?
“It is a passing resemblance, nothing more,” Rosemary said, as if reading her mind. “Now stop fidgeting. You are so distractible.”
Saffron stared down at her clasped hands. “You’re wrong.” She remembered her brother’s face as clearly as if she’d seen him that morning. “We only assumed the man that we buried was Basil.”
The constables had not let them see his face, claiming it had been too gruesome.
“Your brother is dead.” Rosemary shook her head. “Do you not remember how we suffered after he left? After he abandoned us? I cannot see what will come of this fantasy of yours, other than opening old wounds best left closed.”
Her fingers ached from clenching them. She tore her hands apart. What mattered was the money. If Basil were still alive, and he returned, they could petition to reclaim the family’sbaronet title and the fortune that came with it. Angelica’s dowry would be restored, giving her the freedom to choose a husband.
Rosemary hissed in a breath, and Saffron realized that a man had joined the circle of admirers surrounding her sister.
“Who is that?” she asked.
The new suitor towered above Angelica, but when he smiled, it held none of the arrogance of many of the titled men present.
“Mr. Simon Mayweather,” Rosemary said. Her lips twisted in a moue of displeasure. “His father was a merchant.”
“Ah,” Saffron replied.
Translation, respectable enough to stay in Angelica’s assembly, but with neither requirement of title nor fortune.
Mr. Mayweather made some comment, and a flush spread over her sister’s cheeks.
“What is she doing?” Rosemary whispered.
The young man leaned in closer, one hand snaking around Angelica’s back. Canterbury drew himself upright, scowling fiercely. Before the situation could escalate, Saffron bolted from her seat and reached through the gap between her sister and Mr. Mayweather, forcing the man to retreat.
“Sister, your glass,” she said, plucking the empty champagne flute from her fingers. “I’ll fetch you another.”
As Saffron stepped away, Rosemary slid into her place, ensuring that Mr. Mayweather would not attempt to get nearer Angelica again.
She hurried off to the refreshment room, ducking under elbows and lifting her skirts to avoid a spilled glass of wine. Then a path opened in front of her, leading straight to Briarwood. Under the bright light of the chandeliers, his hair shone like liquid gold. He’d buttoned his waistcoat and tied his long hair back with a blue ribbon.
His gaze met hers, and warmth flooded her stomach.
She staggered back, shaking her head. He raised an eyebrow. The crowd on either side was impassable. The muted sounds of conversation floated around her.
He prowled across the gleaming, marble floor and bowed before her. “Miss Summersby.”
The words slithered across her skin, as intimate as a caress. He took her hand and breathed a kiss over her knuckles, squeezing her gloved fingers a tad too tightly.
