Page 61 of Hearts of Briarwall

Lydia had always looked lovely in her gowns, always the picture of fashion with sheer fabrics draped over silk, lace tucked into her waist, and a wardrobe indicative of her wealth and status. But this evening she was more radiant than ever, her cheeks and lips rosy. Her dress was a deep blue, barely held together at her shoulders, her skin creamy above her long gloves and low neckline. A single silk vine of pink- and red-ribbon roses descended over her bodice, caressed her slender waist, and flowed down to the floor. No one, not even Andrew, could mistake her for anything but a beautiful woman coming into her own.

Everything about her reminded him of a summer stroll in a midnight garden.

She lifted her gaze to meet his, arresting all other thoughts but one:Danger. Very. Pleasant. Danger.

The corner of her mouth lifted as if she could hear his thoughts, but a commotion outside the door turned her head. It was only then that he took notice of Violet’s presence. She was lovely in her gown of green silk, but his heart did not stutter at the sight of her. As he wavered between stepping forward or retreating, the door opened. The butler formally announced the arrivals.

“Sir Lawrence and Mrs. Piedmont.”

To Spencer’s surprise, Andrew entered with a decidedly plump, much older woman draped in yellow silk on his arm. Sir Lawrence entered just after and, upon spying Lydia, made a beeline for her. He took her hand, kissed it, and did not release it. Indeed, he held it as he spoke softly, eventually eliciting a smile from her, his own placid countenance brightening.

Spencer noted Andrew kept an eye on the exchange, a look of expectation in his expression even as he held a steady conversation with the older woman.

He followed Andrew’s gaze to Lydia once more. Indeed, she smiled politely, modestly averted her gaze, laughed discreetly. His nails dug into his palms from his hands curling into fists.

Andrew had mentioned that the Piedmonts had come for dinner every month for more than a year. Spencer had wrongly assumed thatMrs. Piedmont was Sir Lawrence’swife. But of course, she would be addressed as Lady Piedmont if that were true. Obviously, she was the man’s mother.

And Sir Lawrence was drawing Lydia’s hand around his arm, situating her closer to his side. She did not look up, but kept her eyes on the carpet, her cheeks burning even brighter. Sapphires sparkled at her ears, matching the subtle shimmer of her gown.

Andrew’s cryptic words came back to him.I’m all too aware that my sister is growing up.

Spencer had made a huge mistake.

Lydia Wooding is an heiress.The observation struck him for the first time since he’d set foot in Briarwall.

And Piedmont is for Lydia.

His stomach lurched with a mix of anger and humiliation. He’d let it happen. Again.

“Spencer,” Andrew called, jerking him out of his own particular circle of Dante’s Inferno. Andrew motioned him forward.

Spencer forced his feet to carry him in that direction.

“Sir Lawrence you know already,” Andrew was saying.

Sir Lawrence nodded. “Good to see you again, Hayes. Looking forward to continuing our discussion from the other day.”

Spencer nodded, present enough to lift his eyebrows in some sort of expression of agreement. He felt Lydia’s gaze but didn’t dare meet it.

“May I introduce Mrs. Piedmont?” Andrew said. “A dear friend of my mother’s.”

Spencer bowed. “Pleasure, madame.”

The woman gave him a nod. “My son has told me much of your motor supply shop idea,” she said. “I find it quite intriguing, though I do admit any suggestion of the middle class possessing motorcars is hard to swallow.”

“What a snobbish thing to say, Mother. Why, Doctor Russel owns a Sunbeam, and he’s as middle class as they come.” Sir Lawrence turned to Spencer. “Present company accounted for, of course. Tell me you own a motorcar, Hayes.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lydia’s jaw drop open. Andrew shifted uncomfortably at his side, but Mrs. Piedmont and Sir Lawrence simply waited for his answer, as if they’d asked him whether or not he summered in France or if he’d ever dined with the prince.

Spencer gathered his wits. This was business. It was what he’d been built for. “I do, in fact,” he said, widening his stance. “A two-point-six-liter Wolseley-Siddeley phaeton.”

He chose to ignore Lydia’s small gasp of admiration, as much as it bolstered his pride in his own horseless carriage.

Sir Lawrence nodded, clearly impressed. “A solid vehicle.”

“Agreed.” He’d worked hard for that car, right up until the day Hayes Livery and Carriage became Johnson Livery and Carriage. Any revenue from the sale of his father’s company and the manor house on Westfield Road went to paying off the debt collectors and securing a future for his mother and sister. It had barely been enough.

But he couldn’t sell investors on the shop idea if he himself did not own a motorcar. It lent him legitimacy he did not have otherwise, no matter how much expertise he claimed.

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