Chapter Text
“I think that Lauren Sinclair likes you,” Kym commented airily one afternoon.
They were seated in the drawing room, Kieran at his desk, Kym sprawled lazily on the chaise lounge. She was picking at a scone and pretending to read an etiquette book, much to his amusement, as his sister’s manners had always been notably atrocious.
Kieran stilled his hand, the tip of his quill still poised over the parchment. “What are you on about?”
“You heard me, brother,” Kym chided, pushing herself up on her elbows. With a long-suffering sigh, he set his quill down and turned to face her. The half-siblings shared the angular, somewhat severe countenance their mother had possessed, though her hair was lighter than his, the navy of a chilled riverbed. Their mouths spoke mostly to their resemblance, both wiry and half-quirked, as though perpetually lingering on the memory of a grin.
“I rather think she likes you,” she added, swiping a scone crumb off of her lip.
“You’re even madder than I took you for, then,” Kieran quipped. “You might recall her calling me perfectly tolerable—”
“That was ages ago!”
“—and not handsome enough to tempt her.”
But the retort sounded weak, even to his own ears. Time had softened the severity of his predispositions towards Miss Sinclair, which were certainly not few in number after their disastrous introduction to one another. It was three months ago, at a ball Sir William Hawkes had thrown to inaugurate his arrival at Netherfield Park.
The room quieted instinctively when she walked in, a fact which could have been attributed to either her status or her looks, which were almost other-worldly in their handsomeness. Her features were neither soft nor demure, but wickedly sharp, catching the flickering light of the candelabra like shards of glass. Her wealth was abundantly evident in her attire, a striking, wine-colored bodice that complimented her complexion devastatingly and tossed the light in gentle, reddened refractions.
While the majority of the party seemed to cower in their indomitable presences, Kym Ladell, ever unbothered by other peoples’ opinions of her, waited the respectable length of one dance and then promptly marched up to introduce herself with Kieran lingering in her tow.
“And this is my brother, Kieran White,” Kym said, slinging her slender arm around Kieran’s back.
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Sir Hawkes replied affably, dipping into a bow.
“The pleasure is mine.” Kieran turned to look at Lady Sinclair, who had not spoken a word since her arrival at the ball. She was, in fact, boring a hole into a spot on the floor as though it had personally affronted her.
“Do you care for dancing, Miss Sinclair?” Kieran asked.
At last, she pulled her gaze up from the floor and onto him. Despite the apparent closeness of their friendship, Hawkes and Sinclair could not have been more different in their dispositions. William’s radiated with the warmth of the sun, with a blithe smile and an easiness of his affectation. When Miss Sinclair's attention drifted over Kieran, however, it felt as sparse and cool as moonlight. “Not if I can help it,” came her flat reply.
An amused grin twitched at Kieran’s lips. “And why is that?”
Miss Sinclair blinked dazedly, as though she hadn’t expected the retort. He was close enough to admire the bewitching color of her eyes, a shade of pale ochre swirled with gold towards the center of her pupil. “I am of the opinion that there are more interesting ways to pass the time,” she replied stiffly.
“And I am of the opinion,” Kieran countered, “That dancing is one of the finest pleasures of life.” He tilted his head meaningfully towards the center of the room, where couples were beginning to take their places.
It was only when she tilted her chin back to appraise him fully that he noticed how close they’d drawn towards one another; her warm breath drifted over his cheek, the vulpine slant of her jaw near enough to touch, if only he were to drift his fingertips over it.
“As I said, Mr. White,” she stuttered, a flush rising in her pale cheeks, “I do not dance.”
“A shame,” Kieran countered softly. “I can only hope, then, that you are able to find some enjoyment this evening, however fleeting.”
Miss Sinclair shook her head jerkily. “Good evening,” she mumbled, dipping swiftly into a curtsy and turning on her heel to leave. With a chagrined glance, Will turned and trotted after her.
For a long, uncharacteristically quiet moment, the siblings watched the two depart with faint incredulity. Kieran would be remiss not to admit that he had found her boldness intriguing. It wasn’t common, after all, for an eligible woman in polite society to be so forward in her expression of such sentiments.
“Well,” Kym murmured dryly. “That went well, I think.”
The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, until, after several dances, Kieran grew so weary that he felt quite certain he’d faint without a break. He inclined his head so that it was level with his sister’s ear, his voice low enough to be hard over the music. “I’m going to get some air in the garden.”
Kym spun, spilling a drop of champagne onto her corset. Her dark gaze was blown wide with fervor, as though she couldn’t bear to miss a single detail of the evening. “Fetch me more champagne on your way back, will you?”
Kieran plucked the flute from her hand. “I think you’ve had enough,” he replied flatly. “Behave while I’m gone.”
Kym beamed toothily. “As though I’d do anything but,” she chirped, twirling into another dance.
After getting turned around on more than one occasion, as the estate was as sprawling as it was intimidatingly elegant, Kieran finally found the entrance to the courtyard. It was, of course, immaculately kept, consisting of spiraling pathways bordered on all sides by fragrant blossoms. As he bent to inspect a honeysuckle, he noticed that Sir Hawkes and Miss Sinclair had evidently had the same idea to take their leave. They were seated on a bench facing the babbling marble fountain, partially obscured from Kieran’s view by a gilded rose trellis.
“Will you really not dance?” William asked. “I, for one, have found it very invigorating.”
“You know that I do not care for dancing, William,” Lauren replied coyly. “And besides, your judgement of the activity is clouded by your infatuation with that Kym Ladell.”
Kieran stilled. He knew, of course, that it was impolite to eavesdrop, but there was something in Lady Sinclair’s pointed tone as she spoke about his sister that gave him pause.
“She is very handsome,” William replied. “And very … spirited.”
Kieran smiled fondly. Most people were permeable to Kym Ladell’s charms, himself included. She had made a practice of leveraging them to get her way ever since they were children.
“Spirited indeed,” Lauren agreed. To Kieran’s surprise, her tone sounded sincere.
“And her brother,” William continued. “He was very agreeable, was he not? I’m sure he’d take kindly to a dance with you.”
“He is perfectly tolerable, I suppose,” Lauren replied dryly, “Though not handsome enough to tempt me.”
Kieran’s smile waned at that.
“With your standards,” William replied, guffawing, “I dare say that there is not a man on this planet handsome enough to tempt you.”
Lauren huffed. “Now you’re getting it, my dear friend. I am simply endeavoring to be wary enough for the both of us, lest you believe someone has fallen for your heart when it is your wallet they’re truly after.”
Kieran, certain that he had overheard quite enough, whirled out of the garden. And thus precipitated what was, in mild terms, a tumultuous relationship between the two of them. He could not recall meeting another person so severe in their perceptions of people, so willfully prejudiced. He vowed to loathe her from the moment she turned her nose up at the mere prospect of sharing a dance with him.
The only problem was that, lately, loathing her seemed to be getting harder to do.
“Like I said,” Kym replied around a mouthful of scone, “That ball was a long time ago.”
The state of affairs between them had softened, somewhat. The last time he had seen her was at a ball at Hertfordshire, and they had, by some miracle, managed to last the entirety of the evening without arguing.
“I cannot say with any certainty that her regard for me has improved.”
Kym hummed noncommittally. “Perhaps you will see her when you visit Lukas and Lila.”
Kieran swiped the rest of the scone off of her plate and tossed her a quizzical look. “What?”
“A letter arrived just this morning from Rosings Park. They’ve invited you to spend the fortnight with them in Kent.”
Kieran chewed thoughtfully. “And how does that involve her?”
Kym sighed petulantly, swatting at his hand when he made to grab for her cup of tea. “Must I spell everything out for you, brother? Tristan Sinclair is Lukas’s benefactor.” When Kieran blinked blankly at that, she added, very slowly, as though he was a proper simpleton: “As in, Lauren Sinclair’s uncle. God, you really are a dolt—”
“Lauren’s uncle,” Kieran murmured, turning towards the window. It was raining gently outside, swathing the grounds of Longbourne in pleasant watercolor hues. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” Kieran replied dryly. “Oh. It’s often used as an exclamation—”
“I know what it means. Pemberley isn’t far from their estate. It seems rather likely that you’ll see her during your time in town,” she mused, her words syrupy.
When he fixed her with look at that, Kym blinked up at him with feigned docility, her lip puckered into a round little pout.
“What is your scheme?” Kieran murmured.
“Scheme? I have none.”
“Ha!” Kieran barked, leaning down to flick her ear. “And I was born yesterday, evidently.”
“I only mean to suggest,” Kym added, standing, “That you might find you have more in common with her than you think. I think that she is very lively, and—“
“That’s one word for it—”
“—most refreshing. It isn’t often to happen upon a woman of her birth who speaks her mind so freely.” Kym chuffed his chin on her way out of the drawing room. “Think about it, brother.”
Heeding his sister’s advice, Kieran did think about it during his carriage ride to the Randalls’ estate in Kent that following afternoon. It was true that Miss Sinclair had made an earnest effort to be civil with him upon their last meeting, despite her obvious discomfort with the social setting. She had even broached topics of polite conversation, inquiring about the health of his family and the weather in Longbourne.
The problem was that he could not discern what had precipitated such a change in her disposition. Kieran did not consider himself overly suspicious of people, but she had made her unfavorable opinion of him abundantly clear. He could not scarcely believe that this had changed since their first meeting.
“What are you thinking so intently about?” Lila asked him over dinner that evening. She tilted her head, concern furrowed in her slender brow. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Kieran blinked out of his reverie, grinning faintly. Although they had met as children, Kieran considered his friendship with Lila as close as though she were another sister to him, and she had always had a propensity for discerning his thoughts before he had even articulated them. “I suppose I am distracted,” he admitted sheepishly.
“Well,” Lila replied, spearing a piece of chicken off with her fork. “You’d do well to rest tonight, then. We are to be received by Tristan Sinclair tomorrow.”
Kieran coughed, inadvertently sputtering a mouthful of wine onto the front of his cravat. A maid appeared at his side with a clean handkerchief, to which he nodded his sheepish thanks. “I’m sorry?”
Lukas Randall, Lila’s husband, squinted at him. “What’s gotten into you?” He inquired bluntly.
Kieran sighed, dabbing fruitlessly at his stained cravat. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
Lukas arched a dark brow. “It would seem to me,” he murmured, “That Tristan Sinclair’s name elicited a rather strong reaction out of you.”
“Perceptive as ever,” Kieran muttered, not unkindly. It was impossible to deceive Lukas Randall, particularly when he subjected you to the full force of his wickedly sharp wit.
Lukas was not a terribly emotive man, but his lips twitched subtly at that. “Go on, then,” he prompted.
Kieran sighed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I am…” He paused, searching for a word to describe their enigmatic connection. “Acquainted with Tristan’s niece."
Lila swiveled toward Kieran so sharply that she nearly dropped her fork. “You know Lauren Sinclair? Why, she is the wealthiest woman in all of Derbyshire. Practically owns half of it—”
“Yes,” Kieran replied irritably. “I know.”
“I have never met her, though we know her uncle quite well, of course.” She paused. “How would you describe her?”
Kieran hesitated, finding that he could not, in good conscience, subject her character to the sentiments he originally thought to be true. Her haughtiness had not changed, nor the sharpness of her tongue. But he found himself drawn to her wit, which he had initially mistaken for pretentiousness. “She is opinionated,” he answered slowly.
The Randalls wore identical expressions of confusion, but it was Lukas who spoke. “Opinionated?”
A grin twitched at his lips unbidden. “Quite.”
“I’ve heard that she is very beautiful,” Lila replied wistfully. “Is that so, Kieran?”
“Very much so,” he murmured. His opinion on that particular subject had not changed.
Lukas hummed. “Well, it is unlikely we’ll see her, at any rate. I believe she’s in London on business.”
Kieran glanced up from his plate at that, surprised by the unanticipated pang of disappointment he felt at the news. It wasn’t as though he’d been expecting to see her, after all. “Does she often travel?”
Lukas nodded. “We shall make a trip to Pemberley before you leave Kent. The estate is just up the road.”
Kieran’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh. I don’t think that will be necessary—”
Lila frowned. “Why ever not?”
A silence fell upon the room as the two peered at Kieran inquisitively, waiting for him to elaborate on his statement. “Well, you know…” He waffled, gesticulating vaguely with his palm.
“I dare say I don’t,” Lukas quipped.
“Miss Sinclair. She’s so…”
“So?”
“So… rich,” Kieran fibbed weakly.
Lukas snorted. “By God, I hadn’t thought you so prejudiced, Kieran.” He took a sip of his wine, eyeing him speculatively over the rim of the glass. “I can only hope that you won’t be so vocal with such sentiments when we dine with her uncle tomorrow.” There was, in truth, no logical reason for him to be opposed to seeing her. They had even departed on favorable terms upon her last visit to Hertfordshire.
And yet, he could not quell the peculiar thrill at the prospect throughout the rest of their meal that evening.
Tristan Sinclair turned out to be exceptionally pleasant company, and notably absent of the predispositions which Kieran found were common of people of his station. His estate, Rosings Park, was austere but not overly so, with elegant furnishings and a quaint, understated charm. After dinner, they settled in the drawing room for a night cap while Lila played a tinkling rendition of Robin Adair on the pianoforte.
“Do you play, Kieran?” Tristan asked.
Kieran turned to him with a sheepish grin. “Very poorly, sir.” His mother had subjected him to several torturous years of lessons in his youth before finally accepting his incompetence in the hobby.
“Oh?” He quirked a brow. “Does your sister play, then?”
It was all he could do not to snort. “No, sir.”
“He is being humble, sir,” Lila commented as the song ended, peering at him coyly over the top of the piano. “Kieran plays very well.”
Tristan’s eyebrows shot up. “You must play something, then,” he urged.
Kieran, horrified, glanced at the piano, then back to Tristan Sinclair’s expectant face. “I assure you, I cannot play—”
“Nonsense,” Tristan replied affably, waving his hand. “Indulge an old man.”
“But—”
“Play Grimstock, Kieran,” Lila interjected, drifting back over to the couch. She turned to Tristan and smiled sweetly. “He used to play it when we were children.”
Kieran cast a dismayed look around the room and found that Lukas’s face was contorted into an expression that suggested he was precariously close to fainting with laughter.
With a long-suffering sigh, he dragged his feet throughout his grim pilgrimage to the pianoforte and then dropped stiffly onto the bench, inspecting the ivory keys intently, as though willing them to spontaneously animate.
“Prepare yourself for something dreadful,” he muttered, stumbling into the first notes of the ballad. It wasn’t a complicated tune; in fact, it was one most children could play, but he was so out of practice that his hands could hardly recall the chord shapes.
The party lapsed back into polite conversation around him after that, though Kieran only half-registered the words, being as focused on his horrendous playing as he was. When someone came to accompany him some ten minutes into the piece, he didn’t notice their presence until they were right behind him, their slender shadow stretched like putty over the top of the piano.
“Is it that bad?” He inquired without looking up, assuming that his newfound companion was Lukas or Lila.
But the voice that spoke was not the one he had been expecting. “Not at all.”
Kieran startled, erroneously hitting a discordant C that rang dreadfully throughout the quiet room. His gaze snapped up to collide with Miss Sinclair’s, who was watching him with her head tilted, as though he had just asked her a perplexing question. She looked as radiant as she had the last time he had seen her; her auburn hair was twisted into a simple chignon at her nape, and she wore a gauzy, understated emerald frock that might have looked plain on anyone who wasn’t her.
“Miss Sinclair,” he breathed. “I thought you were in London.”
Miss Sinclair cleared her throat. “I decided to leave next week.” And then she added, somewhat hesitantly, “Is your sister well?”
“Very well,” Kieran replied.
She nodded once, stiffly. “Good.”
Kieran stood clumsily from the bench, his cheeks warm with flush. “Have you, er, met…?” He gestured at Lukas and Lila, who appeared to be deep in conversation with Tristan.
“Yes, before,” Miss Sinclair replied. “You were very focused on your playing.”
Kieran glanced scowlingly at the ceiling. It seemed cruel that the universe had conspired against him to embarrass himself so fully in front of her. “I haven’t practiced in some time,” he mumbled.
“Well, nothing comes easily without practice. I’ve found as much to be true of my flaws.”
Kieran glanced back at her with a skeptical quirk in his brow. “I find it hard to believe that you have any,” he replied, perhaps more earnestly than he’d intended.
Her cheeks pinkened at the compliment. “On the contrary,” Miss Sinclair replied hastily, “I find that I’m rather flawed in the skill of conversation.”
“Conversation?”
Miss Sinclair nodded. “I do not have the talent of conversing with people whom I do not know. I have always envied those who do, such as your sister.”
“Yes, talking has never been a challenge for my sister,” Kieran drawled. “Her problem is that she happens to enjoy the activity in excess.”
Miss Sinclair chuckled at that, a pleasant, hesitant sound that warmed his chest like a stoked ember. He couldn’t recall ever hearing it before, and it was as stunning as it was unexpected. “It seems so.”
When they lapsed back into silence, her grin waned, and he felt illogically desperate, then, to memorize the way her expression softened in mirth. Her smiles were scarce but dazzlingly brilliant, like light refracting off of a mirrored surface.
“Speaking of which,” she added, somewhat sullen now, “You must know that I feel very poorly about how I acted on the night that we met.”
Kieran frowned. “I assure you that I’ve been refused a dance by a lady before,” he replied airily.
“Not just the dance.” She was wringing the front of her skirt between her fingertips as though it were a mere rag and not what he presumed to be rather expensive chiffon. “Kym told me that you overheard what I said to William in the garden that night.”
Kieran blinked, stunned. He hadn’t known the two had even spoken during their last trip to Netherfield. That scheming imp. “My sister should not have told you that—”
“Yes, she should have,” Miss Sinclair interjected. When she to look at him, her golden eyes were bright with an emotion he couldn’t immediately place. “I hope that you’ll forgive me.”
If there was anything Kieran White loathed more than having his pride wounded, it was being wrong. He was not so humble as to deny that his intuition was his greatest asset. And yet, as he studied her crestfallen expression, he suspected, then, that he had been very wrong about Lauren Sinclair, perhaps in more regard than one.
Kieran reached out and captured her hand in his, drifting his thumb over the knotted line that ran across her palm. He feared that his action was too forward until, after a moment, she relaxed into his grip, her palm folded flush against his like a pair playing cards.
“Consider it forgotten,” Kieran replied quietly.
Kieran couldn’t seem to banish her from his mind for the rest of the evening and into the following day. They hadn’t spoken after their conversation; between Tristan’s inquiries after her travels to London and her exchange of pleasantries with Lukas and Lila, there simply hadn’t been another opportunity.
The following morning found him sitting in the drawing room of the Randall’s home, trying and failing to will himself to focus on the letter he was meant to be writing. He was just finishing his address when a maid stumbled into the room and announced, rather breathlessly, that he was to receive a visitor.
“A visitor?” Kieran questioned, setting his pen down. “The Randalls are in town at the moment.”
“No, sir,” The maid replied hastily. “The visitor is here to see you.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s Miss Sinclair, sir.”
Kieran eyes widened. “Miss Sinclair?” He stood, smoothing a harried hand over his hair. The maid nodded, evidently mute with astonishment.
“You’re certain she inquired after me?”
“Quite, sir,” she replied.
Kieran swallowed thickly, wishing he’d had half a mind to look marginally more presentable when he’d gotten ready that morning. The pads of his fingertips were still stained with charcoal, his boots thick with mud from his morning walk. Then again, he supposed it was just as well; her mere presence had the effect of making anyone else look vaguely drab when standing next to her. “Alright, then.”
When the maid opened the door, his first thought was that Miss Sinclair looked as though she’d walked the length from Pemberley to Kent, an illogical assumption, as such an activity would be unheard of for a woman of her station. She looked breathlessly lovely; her cheeks were flushed with exertion, and her hair was uncharacteristically disheveled around her dewy complexion.
With a nod, the maid closed the door behind her, and then they were alone.
As though remembering herself, she shook her head clearingly and dipped into a curtsy. “Good afternoon, Mr. White.” Her gaze drifted over the room as fitfully as a buoy suspended in churning waters, unable to settle.
“Good afternoon,” Kieran replied, tilting his head inquisitively. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I was in the area on a walk,” Miss Sinclair replied, to his perplexity. Pemberley was quite far from Kent, and the terrain was certainly not suitable on foot. “I apologize for the unexpected visit,” she added briskly.
“It’s certainly not unwelcome. Would you like to sit?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
The tick of the grandfather clock punctuated the passing of a silent pause. “I’m afraid that the Randalls are gone on business at the moment,” he added.
“That’s quite alright.”
Rather bewildered, he watched as she began to restlessly pace the length of the room, her footfalls creaking lightly against the floorboards. In a somewhat disorienting observation, he found that the hem of her cream skirts were dirtied with mud. Kieran could not recall ever seeing her so utterly unkempt, and while he was certainly not opposed to the handsomeness it afforded her complexion, he could not discern the cause of her agitation.
“I actually came to see you,” she added. Her eyes were still fixed on the grounds of the estate beyond the bay window, as though she was addressing the hedge bushes.
Kieran tilted his head inquiringly. “I—”
“This is a lovely home,” Miss Sinclair interjected breathlessly, spinning to face him. “My uncle was very pleased to see it go to the Randalls.”
Kieran crossed the room slowly, though he was approaching a skittish animal. “It is.”
“And Mr. Randall seems very fortunate in his choice of a wife.”
“Lila is among the very best of wives and women,” he agreed, nodding. “But you didn’t come here to talk about Lila, did you?”
When they nearly stood toe-to-toe, Miss Sinclair finally turned back to him. Her gaze roved over his face searchingly — for what, he could not discern, but he was startlingly certain that he’d give it to her, if only she asked.
“Miss Sinclair,” he murmured, gently tipping her chin up with his finger. “Would you tell me the reason for your visit?” He drifted the pad of his thumb in a slow figure eight over her cheek, which was downy-soft, as pale and round as an unbitten fruit.
Her exhale washed over his knuckle like a warm tide. “I had to see you,” she sighed, as though the statement was a concession. “I’m sorry for the interruption to your…” She trailed off when he brought his other palm up to the side of her face, cradling her as carefully as though she was made of glass. Her eyelids drifted shut, and in the buttery light of the open window, she looked youthful and seraphic, something imagined by an impressionist painter.
Kieran’s lips were nearly level with the hinge of her jaw when the thud of approaching footsteps shattered their spell like cold water to an open flame. Her eyes flew open, as though seeing him for the first time. He knew that they must have looked like twin pictures of one another, lips half-parted and pupils blown and murky with the memory of their desire.
“I… I have to go,” she sputtered abruptly. She disentangled herself from his grasp clumsily, as though fleeing from something caustic.
“Miss Sinclair—”
“Please send the Randalls my regards,” Miss Sinclair added pleadingly. She trotted out of the room with her eyes downcast, her fingertips curled around her dirtied skirts.
“Miss—”
But his words were spoken to dead air, for she was long gone, slipping through the garden and around the vegetable patch and over the crest of the hill with the grace of a gazelle. Kieran simply stood there, frozen in some combination of confusion and reluctant bemusement as her retreating form waned behind a bend in the road.
Moments after her bewildering departure, Lila appeared in the archway of the drawing room, her bonnet tucked in her hands. “What on earth did you do to Miss Sinclair?”
His eyes were still fixed on the window when he replied. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”