One
October 1822
She wasn’t wearing gray. Of all the things Lord Andrew Bromley had lost control of since his arrival at his childhood home, this proved the most unexpected. Mrs. Amelia Dart. In pink.
Impossible. In the five years he’d known Mrs. Dart, she’d never worn colors other than gray. Occasionally black. Or white. But mostly gray. Neverpink. Of all the things he’d lost control of since his arrival, this one seemed the most annoying.
Likely because Mrs. Dart had always seemed so controlled herself, so steadfast, so capable and reliable. One thing he could always rely on hernotto do—wear pink.
Until now, sitting squashed on the chapel pew between his mother and his sister-in-law Fiona. They were responsible for the pink, no doubt, likely thought it more fitting for a wedding than gray. Mrs. Dart wouldnever. Not even for a wedding. The spike of surety on that point gave him a bit of comfort, soothed the chaos of his pulse, and gentled the clench of his fist. Mrs. Dart had not worn pink of her own volition.
Once his brother’s wedding was over, he’d send her back to her room to change. She’d thank him for it. And the world, his life, could go on as it had since he’d taken sole responsibility for it a decade ago.
He had no time for unexpected pinks. Life contained more pressing matters, after all. He had six letters waiting him in his room. Six clients needing placement, needing refuge, needing a means toward independence. He’d finished his letter to a family in need of a governess for their twin daughters, and even though it would make him late, at least Miss Howhampton was closer to finding a position and a regular meal earned through her own skill.
How much longer would this wedding take? The clergyman, it seemed, would never stop his droning. He’d not even missed a word when Drew had snuck in late to stand near the back. The chapel was bursting with wedding guests, most of whom he had never met before, all here to see Lord Theodore Bromley and Lady Cordelia Trent bound by holy matrimony.
He sighed and caught sight of Mrs. Dart once more, her corkscrew curls bound high atop her head, making her easy to spot.Hissecretary in pink? The woman who’d helped him run his agency for the last five years? Absurd. His fist clenched, and his breathing quickened. His cravat became a noose he tugged at.
God, he hated surprises, and her gown had exploded in his face. He couldn’t control what she wore. Of course he couldn’t. But things would be better if he could.
At the front of the church, Theo and his bride repeated the clergyman’s words, signed the register, then turned and left the chapel to a roar of cheers. Theo smiled. Actually smiled. Like he meant it. When he hadn’t smiled in years—not at least, that Drew could remember. Of course, he had reason to smile now. Theo’s new wife was stunning—a Titian dream with generouscurves. But like any Titian painting Drew had ever seen, he felt nothing looking on her. He smiled and nodded as they passed by but slipped toward the back of the crowd.
Watching a pink gown pass by. Had Mrs. Dart’s cheeks turned pink, too? No. A gown could not change a woman’s countenance.
An arm, heavy and large, settled around his shoulders. “Glad you could join us.” His brother Atlas grinned down at him. Drew was a tall man, as were all his brothers, but Atlas stood taller than them all. Broader, too. And though they’d all experienced their share of disappointment, Atlas’s blue-eyed gaze held far more shadows. The man had seen war, and his body and soul wore the wounds of it.
“I wasn’t going to miss Theo’s wedding,” Drew said.
“Only most of it.” A laugh lilted through his brother’s rich baritone.
Drew shrugged. Watching his brother marry achieved nothing. “I need to spend a few days in London before returning to Manchester. We must leave tomorrow.” He and Mrs. Dart. And she wouldnotbe wearing pink.
“So soon? Come now, brother. There’s been talk of a house party. A small one, mind you, and just until the harvest celebration is passed. Raph is grumbling and saying no, but I think we can convince him to be a tiny bit irresponsible, what with the sale of the townhouse.”
“Why would I want to stay for a house party? I’ve business to attend to.” More than business.Expansion. The word sent a thrill through him as brushstrokes never could.
“Do you never stop working?”
“Not if I can help it.” Work was the only remedy for anything, control the only meaningful progression for man.
Atlas patted his brother’s back with a gentleness most would not expect from a man with such large hands.
Where had Mrs. Dart gone? Drew looked about. Like a rogue glove, he seemed to have misplaced her. Despite the explosive color of her gown. He turned to walk back to the house, but Atlas’s hand tightened on his shoulder.
“Not that way. The wedding breakfast is to be held in town, at the pub.”
“I’m aware.”
“Join us? Please. We so rarely see you.”
Drew sighed and fell into step with his brother. “Damnably odd to have the breakfast in the pub.”
“We do everything odd here, remember? Or have you been so often gone from Briarcliff you’ve forgotten?”
Briarcliff held little for him. He found it too mercurial. Nothing stable to hang onto in its ever-shifting sands. He hated sand. He preferred London. Or Manchester, where his agency was located.
“Besides,” Atlas continued, “Raph insists on benefiting the village whenever possible.”
