Chapter 26

It was becoming... uncomfortable. And Lucas was not the only one to notice.

Tate joined him on a sofa in the far corner of the drawing room. The men had reunited with the ladies after dinner not fifteen

minutes prior, and already he was out of sorts.

"You know I enjoy a good bit of entertainment, but this is disturbing even for me." Tate dropped to the chair next to Lucas.

"Your charm must be irresistible. MissStanley cannot resist it."

Lucas scoffed and raked his fingers through his hair. His blood still rushed through his veins—a result of the possessive

manner in which MissStanley had just clung to his arm. He all but had to force her to loosen her grip. "Is it that obvious?"

"Don't look so sour, Avery. After all, congratulations are in order," ribbed Tate. "There can be no doubt you're the man she's

set her eyes on. And to think you said you weren't interested in matrimony."

"And I'm still not," Lucas hastened to add.

"You might want to tell her that."

News of Miss Stanley's misfortune had spread through the gathering, and now it was the premier topic of nearly every conversation. It was heartbreaking to see someone whom he'd counted a friend come under such distressing circumstances, but even though he harbored empathy for her, he would not be the man to swoop in and save the day.

"Likely she sees me as the easiest target." Lucas stretched his booted leg out and leaned against the back of the chair.

"Oh no. Why would you say that?"

Lucas only glared at Tate. Seeing as Miss Stanley had no fortune, none of the other men would consider her. Lucas, however,

likely seemed a more realistic option. He was established but did not have enough to tempt the wealthier ladies. This entire

situation was not a game of hearts. It was a game of numbers.

"Is that pessimism I sense? From you?" Tate challenged. "Never thought I would see the day."

Lucas supposed Tate was right. Normally he bucked pessimism in any form. He simply didn't have time for it. But the discovery

of the fake chinoiserie had rattled his normally steady outlook. Cloverton Hall was bursting with all sorts of artifacts other

than chinoiserie that would bring in a fortune, but if word got out that the chinoiserie was, in fact, counterfeit, it would

cast a bleak, unforgettable shadow on every other piece. The validity of everything under this roof would face even more scrutiny.

What was more, the scandal that his father had been involved in had already dealt a serious blow to Avery & Sons. If Lucas

was involved in uncovering the counterfeits, it could throw him into another scandal—one he was not sure his business could

survive.

He yanked at his cravat and adjusted the lapels of his tailcoat. The fire in the broad hearth was burning much too warm, and the weight of Miss Stanley's gaze on him—again—was inescapable.

If he was honest, though, it was more than just MissStanley's forwardness or the chinoiserie debacle contributing to his

chagrin. The atmosphere was different tonight. Everyone laughed louder. The wine flowed more freely. Looks were more brazen,

and behavior was laxer.

He looked for her... again.

MissBrannon had dominated his thoughts. He'd sought out opportunities to be near her ever since they all converged in the

drawing room before dinner, but to no avail. Her reception to him earlier in the library had ignited a hope in him that even

though other areas of life seemed to be sputtering, she might become a part of his life that would flourish.

But she'd seemed unusually elusive this evening. Her manner—her darting glances and the subtle twitch of her jaw—suggested

that she, too, was uncomfortable with something.

He spied her. She was hurrying toward the veranda door.

He would not sit around and wait.

Lucas jumped from the chair. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

Lucas didn't respond to Tate but followed Miss Brannon through the open doors to the veranda and found her standing at the thick limestone balustrade, staring into the night's blackness. The weather was changing, and a cold, damp gust swept in from the garden, disrupting the loose curls that had escaped her chignon and rustling the tassels on the shawl pulled taut about her narrow shoulders.

She did not turn as he approached, so he stepped next to her, shoulder to shoulder. He leaned forward to rest his hands on

the balustrade. "I have another confession, MissBrannon," he said, not looking in her direction.

"What, another one?" A hint of amusement tinged her tone.

He chuckled at the continuation of their ongoing jest. "I fear so. I saw you come out here. You seemed troubled, and I was

concerned."

She tightened the shawl around her shoulders and lifted her hand to still the strands of hair. "No need for concern, Mr.Avery.

I only needed some air."

The silence returned, but it was not uncomfortable, as so many bouts of silence tended to be. Instead, an unspoken sense of

solidarity simmered between them. "Cloverton Hall is quite different than London, isn't it? Sometimes I come to these things,

and they're uneventful. And other times I feel like I've entered a different world."

She still did not look at him, but her chest heaved in a small sigh. "I think it was a mistake for me to come here. I don't

fit into this at all."

He wanted to protest, to reassure her, but in some aspects, she was right—she didn't belong among these women. She was a cut

above them in so many ways. "Many people do fit in with this sort."

"And you?" She at last turned toward him. "Do you?"

He hesitated. Had that not been the very question that defined his youth? His school days? His efforts to make his business successful? "I suppose that depends on what you consider fitting in. I went to school with them. I interact with them on a daily basis, but our views on life are quite different. As are our goals. Take Tate for example. I count him a great friend, but we will never truly understand each other."

A shadow fell over her face, concealing her expression. "You play the role well."

He smirked and cocked his head to the side. "I will take that as a compliment."

"I meant nothing negative by it," she added quickly. "It is just that you seem so at ease. I feel my discomfort is written

all over me, and I don't know how to conceal it."

"It's a practiced skill. I've had to fine-tune it if I ever wanted to have a client trust me," he said matter-of-factly with

a shrug. "I never really knew your father, but I'm sure he was quite at ease with this set as well. It is part of the business."

"A part of the business I'm clearly not acquainted with."

He looked at her again— really looked at her. Physically, she appeared so delicate, but her personality seemed too big for her small frame.

How odd it must be for her.

If she were a man, she'd undoubtedly have a flourishing business of her own. But as she was a woman, those doors were firmly

shut for her. He thought of his travel and the experiences he'd had. If he'd been born a lady, those opportunities would have

been closed to him.

"You've not asked my advice, yet I will tell you just the same," he offered. "Everyone here—every single person in that drawing room—is driven by fear. Fear of being alone, fear of not being accepted, or fear of being without money. For the most part they all enjoy financial security, but at any moment it could all be snatched away from them.

"Mrs.Milton, for instance. She was one of the most respected, wealthiest women in society, and she and her husband poured

their entire lives into building this place, only to have it pass out of her hands. If you're able, try to find the humor

in it. They are all vying for attention, and whether you believe me or not, you are the foremost threat to them all."

She scoffed adamantly. "I'm hardly a threat."

"Well, from what I've heard, no one knows if you are a rich heiress, a nobleman's illegitimate daughter, or a stowaway."

She finally gave a little laugh. "I'm none of those things. And only you and Mrs.Milton know the truth."

"Well, we know the truth about each other, then." He tried not to stare but noticed how the breeze caught a long lock of light

brown hair and blew it over her forehead. How he longed to smooth it back into place.

"Do you remember the night our fathers parted ways?" Lucas asked, unwilling to let their conversation end.

"How could I not?"

"You were very young." He adjusted his position to lean with his elbow on the railing's edge.

"I wasn't so young that it didn't leave an impression. I'd never heard my father shout prior to that night. And I never heard

him shout after it."

"No doubt you also recall the source of that argument," he prompted. "The Vienna painting."

Miss Brannon shifted, making it difficult to read her reaction. "Yes, I've heard it mentioned a few times."

The sarcasm in her tone amused him. "I'm sure you have."

It was an odd sense of connectedness, to share such a poignant memory. Did she feel it, too, or did he alone struggle to resist

the magnetic pull between them? "I suppose we'll never know what that partnership could have grown into."

"It happened so long ago. Everything that has happened since then has made us who we are."

A sharp bout of laughter echoed from the drawing room. Her preoccupied expression returned. "Mrs.Milton will notice I'm gone.

I should rejoin the party."

She turned, as if preparing to leave the veranda, but he could not resist one last thing.

"For what it's worth, you say you don't belong here. But I believe you are the rival of any woman in the room. And I daresay

you are infinitely more interesting. There is something about a woman who can think for herself that is quite intriguing."