Chapter Twenty-Three

"I have to show you something." The next morning Brynne brought Lachlan's gift with her into the front parlor where Evie was drinking coffee and poring over the latest edition of The Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine .

"I'm glad you're here," said Evie without glancing up. "I am trying to decide between these three necklines for the wedding gown I'm having designed. Joanna says they all look the same to her, but her opinion can hardly be trusted given that she wore her traveling habit–her traveling habit!–to marry Kincaid. Claimed it was more practical, if you can believe it."

"I can, actually." Forgoing the coffee for a cup of tea–her nerves were already strained enough–Brynne sat down beside Evie and consulted the different dresses that her brother's fiancée had circled with such vigor that dots of ink had splattered across the rest of the page. "You'll be a beautiful bride no matter what you wear–"

"Well that's not helpful."

"–but a square cut neckline would complement your décolletage and collarbones the best, I should think. It's a simpler design, but won't distract from your face, which should be the main focus once you lower your veil."

"Weston does like gazing at my décolletage."

"So I've noticed," Brynne said dryly.

Evie tapped her pen on the edge of the table, then drew a star beside the dress with the square bodice. "You're right. This is the one. Now I only have to pick the variation of ivory I want, along with the size of the bustle, pearl buttons or gold, and the length of the train. Not to mention–"

"Could we discuss another topic for a moment?" It was either cut in then, or not at all. When fashion was the subject at hand, Evie was capable of going on at great length. Ordinarily, that was something the two women would have in common. But today, Brynne had a much more pressing subject matter on her mind. "Then I promise to give your wedding gown my full, undivided attention."

"That's right. You did say you had something to show me." Evie laid down her pen and linked her fingers together expectantly.

"I also have something to tell you." When she felt her chest beginning to constrict, Brynne inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. "But before I do, I have to ask that you not share it with my brother. At least not right away. I understand it's a large favor–"

"Is not knowing whatever it is hurting him in some way?" Evie interrupted.

"No. If it were, I never would have kept it from him." She blew out another stream of air, then pursed her lips. "Although he may hurt me once he finds out."

"Now I must know. And I won't tell him. Weston is going to be my husband, but you're going to be my sister, and both of those relationships are special in their own way. We may not be blood, but you're as important to me as Joanna and Claire." Evie put her hand on top of Brynne's and squeezed. "I want you to know that."

"Thank you. I…thank you." What else was there to say? She was humbled by Evie's willingness to place her upon the same pedestal as her real sisters, even though they'd had an entire lifetime together while Brynne and Evie had just met. But then love wasn't guided by time, or rules, or expectations. It was a river running down the side of a mountain. Diverging into streams and pools, drying up in places and flooding others, all while consistently trickling towards the ocean. And the ocean was–

Me , she realized in a stunning moment of clarity.

The ocean is me.

Not her father. Not Weston. Not Evie.

Not even Lachlan.

The ocean comprised all of the love she should have had for herself .

Should have, but didn't.

Because along the way, she'd allowed the tide to go out.

Maybe it was when she was diagnosed with anxious mannerisms. Or when Miss Hardgrave discouraged her curiosity. Or her father stopped bothering to even send so much as a birthday letter. Or the girls at Cheltenham Ladies' College had teased her mercilessly. Or the Dowager Countess of Crowley made it clear that a woman's only purpose in life was to marry and marry well.

Her interests, her pursuits, her goals–they didn't matter.

She, as an individual, didn't matter.

All of these little things had chipped away at her self-worth. Her self-love. They'd happened so gradually, so seamlessly, that she had barely noticed. Like a rock being slowly worn down to sand every time a wave washed over it.

Until the rock was gone and her ocean was empty.

And finally, there it was.

The answer she'd been seeking all this time without knowing what question to ask.

She hadn't run from Lachlan because of a supposed affair.

Or because of the children.

Or because of the castle.

She'd left because, deep down, she felt as if she were never worthy of his love. And she had wanted to end things between them before he came to his senses and ended them first. If she was incapable of loving herself, why would she ever expect that a man as good, as decent, as kind as Lachlan could?

"But I was wrong," she whispered as she withdrew the gift he had given her from the handkerchief she'd carefully wrapped it in. "I was so very wrong."

"What is that?" Evie asked, a line of confusion marring her temple.

"A barley stick. My husband gave me one eleven years ago, and this one last night. It's made of sugar, and worth more than all the gold in England."

"Your husband? " Evie's jaw dropped. "I had no idea you were married! Who? How? When? Who? "

Brynne's mouth curved in a mirthless smile. "Perhaps I should start at the beginning…"

When she had finished, Evie sagged in her chair and shook her head in disbelief. "I cannot believe you managed to hide a husband . I cannot believe that all the time we've known each other you have been married ."

"Estranged," Brynne corrected as she refreshed her tea and silently wished it was something much stronger.

"What did you wear?"

"Wear?" she said blankly.

"For your wedding. "

It was such a silly detail, such a small, meaningless note in the novel that comprised Brynne and Lachlan's eleven year relationship, that she couldn't help but laugh. Which was the point, she gathered from the way Evie's eyes crinkled at the corners. For which she was grateful.

"A green dress that belonged to my mother," she shared. "It was very plain, with only a beige ribbon for decoration."

"It sounds perfect," said Evie.

"It was." She added a spoonful of milk to her tea, but didn't drink it. Her stomach was too knotted to consume anything, even water. "I think I've acted poorly. No, I know that I have. Lachlan loved me. He does love me, to this day. And I…I have pushed him away. Perhaps irrevocably."

"Never let it be said that loving a Weston is easy," Evie declared with a humorous twist of her lips. "Your brother would have rather jumped off a cliff than admit he adored me. But I won him around in the end."

Yes, she had.

And the notoriously cold-hearted Earl of Hawkridge had never been happier.

"But weren't you afraid?" Brynne asked.

Evie's head tilted. "Of what?"

"Of falling in love."

"If you find the person you're meant to be with, you don't fall in love with them." Her blue eyes shining, she smiled gently. "You fly."

The private offices of Mr. Jacobson and his partners were not available to clients, new or existing, without an appointment. Generally speaking, that appointment needed to be made weeks in advance. As the most highly regarded solicitor in all of London, Mr. Jacobson's time was of the utmost value.

And he charged for it accordingly.

But–as with all things–there were always exceptions, the Weston family being one of them. Which was why, when he was informed that the Marquess of Dorchester's daughter had made an unscheduled visit, Mr. Jacobson left his meeting and met her in the grand foyer of the elegantly appointed townhouse without delay.

"Lady Brynne," he said after he'd personally taken her jacket and gloves and ushered her into the adjoining parlor, an informal space meant to put his higher brow clientele at ease. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Or to be more accurate, no notice at all." Forgoing tea and refreshments, Brynne sat down and neatly folded her hands on her lap. After her enlightening conversation with Evie yesterday, she'd known what she needed to do. What she had to do.

"I am always available to you, my lady. Ready to serve in whatever manner you require." Approximately the same age as her father, Mr. Jacobson was tall and thin. The most notable thing about him was his gray moustache, and the way he waxed the tips so that they pointed straight up like tiny barbs. Everything else, from his three-piece tweed suit to the way he kept his hair slicked back (what remained of it, at any rate) with pomade was ordinary. Plain, even. But his intelligence and sharp legal mind were extraordinary, making him the obvious choice when Brynne had sought someone to help end her marriage. And now he was who she needed to see in order to save it.

"I come to you today with a delicate matter, Mr. Jacobson."

"Delicate matters are my specialty."

"You may recall our discussion surrounding the dissolution of my marriage to Lord Campbell," she began. "We settled upon judicial separation as our best course of action, and you had papers drawn up for both parties."

"Indeed," the solicitor nodded. "Lord Campbell has already returned his."

"He–he has?" she said in dismay. "So soon? But he only just arrived in London."

Eighteen months.

For eighteen months, Lachlan had held on to hope that their marriage could be saved. And in three days he'd signed papers to destroy it once and for all.

Because of her.

She'd done this.

She'd wanted this.

She'd asked for this.

And now, perversely, it was the one thing she didn't want.

"Give them to me," she said wildly. "The papers. I'll–I'll destroy them. Burn them. Throw them in the Thames. It will be as if they never existed, and the judicial separation won't be able to proceed."

Mr. Jacobson frowned. "I am afraid I cannot do that, Lady Brynne. They were filed with the Court of Divorce and Matrimonial Causes this morning. Per your last written directive, that was what you requested me to do as soon as I was in possession of them."

"Yes! No." She clutched her skirt as she struggled to stave off a rush of tears. "I mean, yes, it was what I hired you to do. But I've changed my mind. I don't want to separate from my husband. I don't want to separate from him at all."

"Ah," the solicitor remarked, his countenance impassive. "I see."

"I've ruined it."

"Lady Brynne–"

"I've ruined everything. "

"If I may–"

"Now our marriage is over, and it's all my fault."

Mr. Jacobson cleared his throat.

Loudly.

"I am terribly sorry," she sniffled, dashing at her cheeks. "I never cry, or lose my composure in such an embarrassing manner. It's just that I've handled this all wrong from the very beginning, and I hoped that if I could halt the separation then I might begin to make amends. But I'm too late."

"Yes," the solicitor said gravely. "You are. When I appealed to the courts to begin this filing, I was given a strict deadline of noon today. Lord Campbell met that deadline. You, Lady Brynne, did not."

She gazed at Mr. Jacobson in bewilderment. "I...I don't understand."

"I sent a letter informing you of the impending due date to Hawkridge Manor, but you and it must have crossed on your way here to London. Simply put, Lady Brynne, your husband submitted the necessary paperwork to file for your judicial separation. But you did not."

"I didn't?"

"No."

"But that's…that's wonderful news!" she cried as she sprang from her chair. "Mr. Jacobson, I could kiss you."

His moustache quivered. "I don't believe I have ever been the recipient of such joy for not completing the task assigned to me, Lady Brynne. Can I assume that you do not wish to pursue extending a filing for a deadline extension with the court?"

Brynne swung her head adamantly from side to side. "Please do not take this the wrong way, Mr. Jacobson, but I hope to never see you again."

"In that case, my lady, I bid you farewell…and good luck."

"Thank you," she said with feeling. "I am going to need it."