Rafe put Isla to bed in the bedchamber they’d provided her and placed her new doll in the crook of her arm. He kissed her forehead, and she sighed, the sound melting his wicked heart in unfathomable ways. As he prepared to leave, Isla woke enough to reach out and catch his hand, her tiny fingers curling around his.
“Uncle Rafe?” she murmured.
“Yes, kitten?” he asked.
She looked toward the carpetbag that Rafe had set down on the table by the door. “May I see my parents?”
“Of course.” He retrieved the gilded frames and sat on the edge of the bed as he held them out to Isla.
“Can you tell me their names?” Rafe asked.
“My mother was Ellie.” Isla held up her mother’s likeness, then her father’s. “This is Angus.”
“I wish I could have met them.”
Isla glanced up at him, her wide-eyed innocence mixed with an ancient knowing. “You smile like Papa. I remember his smile.” Rafe couldn’t help but grin. “Like that.” She set the miniature of her father down on her lap and placed a dainty hand to Rafe’s cheek, exploring his smile with the sweet curiosity of a child. Her touch sent a flood of warmth through his chest, and in that moment, he knew he was lost to this child.
At that moment he did something he’d never done before in his life. He made a vow that he actually planned to keep. He would protect her from the world. He would slay her dragons. He would be a father to her in whatever way he could for as long as he was needed.
“Time for you to rest, scamp. We’ll leave for Brodie’s castle in a few hours.” He pulled the blanket up to her chin and carefully set the portraits on the table beside her bed, facing her. “They’ll be watching over you and bring you happy dreams.”
Rafe kissed the girl’s brow again before he stepped out and closed the door. His body shook as powerful waves of emotions rolled through him. Regret that he hadn’t met Isla’s mother, sorrow that the child was an orphan, and love . . . love for the child that was strong as any love he’d ever felt for his family members.
He wanted to take Isla home, to make her his daughter, but she needed proper parents and a stable life. He wasn’t suited to raising a child. She was better off in the care of Brodie and Lydia, who knew just how to care for her. But right now? Right now he could be here for her. It would have to do. The grief in him was so raw and agonizing that it robbed him of his breath for a few seconds, and he clutched his chest, trying to regain control. He was a man cursed to never have a life that matched his siblings. Rafe didn’t want to change, didn’t want to become a normal gentleman with a normal lifestyle, but those desires meant that a stable life, with a wife and children, had always been unlikely for him. Could a man have familial happiness without sacrificing adventure and excitement?
Portia stared out at the sea off Brighton’s coast. Her face was devoid of emotion, even though she was experiencing a rush of thoughts and hurts. Aunt Cornelia held a parasol over her head while she and Portia stood off a mile away from the water. In the distance, men frolicked like boys in the waves. Farther down the shore, rolling bathhouses for the ladies backed slowly into the water. Women covered head to toe in bathing costumes tiptoed down the ladders into the shallows to experience the ocean. Their squeals of surprise at the brisk, cold water would have amused her at any other time, but all joy within her had withered away.
“Now, this is a lovely spot. Don’t you think, my dear? An excellent place to distract us from worrying about your father or your poor dear sister.” Cornelia, while genuinely concerned for Lydia’s well-being, had taken the time to remind Portia frequently that the entire situation was her fault. Whatever terrible fate that befell Lydia was to be on Portia’s head.
Well, if Lydia hadn’t stuck her nose where it didn’t belong, hadn’t tried to free the man Portia had already laid claim to, then none of this would have happened, would it? So who was really the one to blame?
Despite the frequent dour reminders of Portia’s bad behavior, her aunt seemed quite happy to be in Brighton. Cornelia’s spirits had been lifted when she had run into an old love earlier that day, some tired old earl named Donald something or other, as they’d been waiting to enter the townhouse they’d rented.
“Portia, dear, are you listening to me?” Cornelia cut into Portia’s wandering thoughts.
“Yes, the coast is quite lovely,” Portia admitted.
The air was so different from the heavy smog of London and even Bath. Somehow the clean air had helped her clear her head. Despite her admittedly self-centered thoughts of late, she was worried about her sister. She must have been terrified—might still be terrified. And in danger, with that Scotsman who was set on revenge. Surely he’d learned that Lydia had only been trying to help him escape. He must have taken mercy upon her and not harmed her, but Portia had no way of knowing until they heard from their father.
“Would you like to try your hand at bathing this afternoon?” Cornelia asked as they walked along the gravel path, far away from the sand, which would have gotten into their stockings and boots.
“Yes, I would,” Portia lied. Her thoughts weren’t on the beach, but were miles away in the wilds of Scotland.
“You know, in my youth, we were taught to fear nature, to fear the sea and the forests. But what I see of this now is quite picturesque. The sea is thrilling. It makes one stop and think, does it not?”
“Yes,” Portia agreed. “There is an undeniable beauty to it.” She looked to the cliffs that abutted the sandy shore and how they met the rolling surf and the cloudless bright-blue sky. She thought of something the poet Shelley once said: The place is beautiful. All shows of sky and earth, of sea and valley are here.
Cornelia smiled. “You know, child, when you aren’t determined to be a spoiled little creature, you are rather delightful and intelligent.”
Portia bit her lip to stop a vehement retort from slipping out. Instead, she simply replied with an old quote her father used to say about the ocean. “Toward the close of a fine summer’s evening, then the sun, declining in full splendor, tints the whole scene with a golden glow, the seashore becomes an object truly sublime.”
“Quite right, quite right,” her aunt agreed.
“Hello!” A shout from behind had the ladies turning.
An older man was hurrying toward them at a brisk pace. Although he was around Cornelia’s age, in his early seventies, he moved with the energy of a much younger man. It was the earl they’d met before. Donald . . . Rhyton, perhaps? Her mind had been elsewhere when the introductions were being made. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember what he was the earl of.
“Oh, my lord. What a pleasure to see you here!” Cornelia beamed at the white-haired gentleman as he reached them.
“My fair Cornelia.” The earl bowed over her hand, kissing it. And he smiled warmly at Portia.
“How are you, Lord Arundel?” Cornelia asked as he joined them on their walk.
Arundel, that was it. Donald Rhyton, the Earl of Arundel. She committed the name to memory now.
“Excellent, now that I have run into you. I was hoping to find you so that I may invite you and your niece to join me at my home for dinner this evening.”