Page 4

“Hells bells, Arabella was right.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You have changed. The Elinor I remember didn’t take herself nearly so seriously.”

Elinor clenched her teeth, reaching for the gold cross that hung at her collar. She ran her thumb up and down the warm metal, remembering Henry’s words before he’d left. Patience, prudence… She mustn’t yell at Alexander, or she’d be no better than Arabella. “The Elinor you remember was a child. Some of us have grown up in the four years you’ve been gone.”

“I didn’t go off to war. I was home for three weeks over the summer and every summer before.”

“Being away from school is not the same thing as being home. I apologize if I barely noted your presence between the parties you live for.”

“It is hardly my fault you didn’t come along. I seem to recall you receiving the same invitations.”

She sniffed. “Not all of us have the luxury of frivolity.” No matter how much she looked like she belonged here, she was a Harcourt. Not a Weston. The wrong party, the wrong whispers, and she’d be dispatched to Bristol without a moment’s notice. Back to six siblings, in not nearly enough space, someone always screaming or crying. Or both. She shuddered at the thought. The Westons’ company, and their stately home in Bath, were all she’d known for ten years—half her life. She had no idea what she should do with herself back in Bristol.

“Says the woman who spent over an hour on eight crooked stitches.”

“You know what I mean, Alexander. One of us had to grow up.”

“You must refer to me. Seeing as how you are the exact same height.” His glib tone blossomed into outright laughter as her cheeks burned.

“We can’t all be giants,” she hissed, her hand balling into a fist again. Her poor skirt would be hopelessly wrinkled. Unless she let go of it and punched Alexander…

“True.” He studied her up and down. “But you could have at least aimed to be more than a gnome.” An old insult between them, a cannonball shattering the last of her patience. She grabbed the small pillow wedged between herself and the arm of the sofa and swung it at his face.

Alexander swore between laughs, holding up an arm to deflect the assault. She managed a few good hits, whacking him square in the face at least twice. Finally, he got hold of the pillow and yanked it out of her hand, retaliating with a single strike. She yelped and fell back, surprised by the laughter bubbling out of her throat. “You ass,” she said, lifting her hand to try to put her curls back in place. Alexander’s grin was incandescent with triumph.

“There you are, Ellie.”

“What in God’s name is going on here?” Arabella stared at them in disbelief from the doorway. Elinor’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, and she turned to Alexander for help. Oh, God. What if Arabella told Aunt Charlotte of our conduct? Or worse, Henry?

“Arabella. You look radiant for someone threatening to die of disappointment an hour ago,” he said, lifting a hand to brush through his curls. Elinor nodded in agreement. Aside from Alexander, Bella was the only Weston child to truly take after her mother. In fact, aside from the three inches of height Arabella had on Elinor, the two of them could—and occasionally did— pass for twins. Yet, Elinor knew Arabella wore the Hawkins features they’d inherited with far more grace and beauty.

“Don’t try to placate me,” she said, rolling her stormy eyes. “I saw you hit Elinor.”

Alexander laughed again and dropped the pillow. “She started it.”

Elinor wrinkled her nose at his impertinence. “I did not!”

“Truly?” A devious smile dawned on Arabella’s angelic face. It wasn’t often she got to scold Elinor—generally matters stood the other way round. “I’m shocked at such unbecoming behavior.”

Elinor’s chest tightened. Fool! You’re stupid to take risks like this. She reached for the cross again, holding it until the corners bit into her palm. “I didn’t—”

“And what would Henry say if he found out you were behaving so poorly?”

Her heart fell into her stomach. Knowing that Arabella didn’t mean it as a slight against her parentage didn’t take the sting out.

“That’s enough, Arabella!” Alexander snapped.

“It’s all right,” Elinor said, her voice soft. Henry would be disappointed if he found out she’d been baited into reacting so violently. He’d been the one to warn her that being anything less than truly virtuous would mean being sent back home to her father’s crowded Bristol hovel. Especially since no respectable man—let alone a vicar—would take a woman with so little inheritance as a wife if she were anything less than a paragon.

“It is not.” Alexander fixed his little sister with a stern glare. “Disappointment is no excuse for snapping at Elinor.”

Arabella held up her hands. “I didn’t mean it. Not really. As if I’d ever tell Henry anything,” she said with an eye roll. “Besides, she tells on me all the time.”

“Because you’re usually doing something stupid, and she’s looking out for you,” he said, standing up and putting his hands on his hips.

“Have you considered that maybe I’m looking out for her, too?”

Elinor nearly snorted but managed to catch the sound behind her hand. She expected Alexander to admonish such a feeble excuse, but he only let out a slow breath. An awkward silence fell, and it seemed none of them knew quite what to say or do to bring it to an end.

After a wretched eternity of several heartbeats, heavy footsteps echoed on the stairway. Edward Weston stopped behind his daughter, his massive figure making Arabella seem smaller. His dark brows knit together in confusion as his sharp, blue eyes looked from son, to ward, to daughter. He had the unmistakable expression of a harried parent who realized they’d stumbled upon their children arguing and wanted to know absolutely nothing about it. “Your mother is ready to go,” he said, his deep voice soft but clear. “And since we all know how much she loves waiting, I suggest you make haste.”