Page 9 of To Follow her Heart

Stop it.

The fleeting image of a pair of sparkling dark eyes flickered somewhere in the depths of his soul and he slammed the door on it. Damnation. He hadn’t thought of her in months, had banished the memories and the ache in his heart. He’d thought he’d cured himself.

Sybil caught his eye and sent him a sympathetic smile, full of understanding. Sometimes he wished he didn’t like her or her sisters—that he could hate her, hate all the family—but she was just as much a victim of her father and uncle’s tyranny as he was. They all were.

Luke took a deep breath and studied the landscape beyond the carriage window. He was going into English society at last; that was something to be grateful for. Luke had become adept at counting his blessings. Though he’d not met St Clair or anyone else who would be there before, having been kept away from English society, he’d read the scandal sheets. The earl sounded an interesting character, at least. A man who’d seen life, rather than being coddled like an egg.

Going abroad had offered Luke a little more freedom than he’d experienced since the man opposite had snatched him from his idyllic life in Ireland, which was something. That the bastard had exiled him there in the first place, damning his father and the rest of them by default to obscurity was ironic, but it had been an idyllic life.

Don’t think of it.

He forced the memory away. He would not allow himself to remember the pretty orchard in spring with the scent of newness in the air, the taste of green, everywhere bursting, budding, full of life and hope and….

For Heaven’s sake!

“What’s that?”

Luke jolted as Mr Derby addressed him, a suspicious scowl in his eyes.

“N-Nothing, sir,” he said, appalled that he’d spoken aloud. God, he hadn’t slipped like that in years.

“Hmph.” Mr Derby folded his arms and looked away from him. Sybil stared at him in alarm before returning her attention to the scenery once more.

Luke let out a slow breath and told himself to get a grip. No more memories, no more wishful thinking or what-ifs or daydreams. Kitty was gone, his love for her nothing more than maudlin sentimentality. He’d banished such thoughts many years ago when he’d realised nothing but madness and misery would come from them.

He was resigned. He had been for years. He was duty bound, and would do his duty. Marriage to Lady Frances first, beget an heir and a spare second, and then….

Then he would run.

Chapter 3

Dear Kitty,

Ruth and I are so looking forward to seeing you and all our friends. We hope to be with you at Holbrooke House on the 22nd so pray do not have too much fun before we arrive. Do get all the best gossip for me though!

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Bonnie Campbell to Miss Kitty Connolly.

20th August 1814, Holbrooke House, Sussex.

Kitty smiled at Matilda’s maid, Sarah, turning her head this way and that.

“Goodness, I would never tell my Aileen, as she’s such a darling old thing, but you do have a wonderful way with hair,” she said, admiring her reflection. Her dark curls were piled up in an artful tumble at the top of her head, with a few glossy locks allowed to fall at her temples.

Sarah beamed with pleasure. “Well, Miss Hunt is so stylish I have to keep up to date, Miss Connolly. Always looking for something new, we are.”

“Heavens,” Kitty said, laughing. “Poor Aileen would have palpitations at the idea.”

“’Tis a shame, miss, when you’ve such lovely hair.”

Kitty shrugged, casting her reflection one last wistful look. “Yes, but she dotes on me you see, and… well, she’s such a comfort I should be lost without her. She’s been with me since I was a baby and quite regards me as her own. My uncle mentioned retirement last year and she wept so piteously he swore never to mention it again. I was glad of it too,” she admitted, before giving a Sarah a mischievous look. “But it is fine to look the high kick for once.”

“And you do indeed,” Matilda said as she entered the room, giving Kitty an approving once over. “What a beautiful gown.”

Kitty smoothed her gloved hands over the white satin fabric. It was the finest she’d ever worn. It had little puff sleeves trimmed in blue with a pale blue drapery of delicate crape over it, pinned at the shoulder with a sapphire studded clasp.

“My father is feeling generous, as it appears as his new mill is proving a huge success,” she said, smiling a little. “When he heard of the invitation Harriet had given me, he insisted I must have a dozen new gowns. No doubt he means me to ensnare an earl with it,” she added with a bitter laugh. “As if St Clair would look at me! He’d be roasted from here to London for selecting an Irish bride, and one with a dowry from trade, no less,” she added, with a theatrical tone of horror in her voice.

“Stuff,” Matilda replied with a sniff of disgust. “But should you want him to, anyway?” she asked.