Page 15 of Hearts of Briarwall

Spencer found himself smiling, shaking his head. “Lydia Wooding,” he said, unsure if he’d even known the girl’s name at that point, it being his first visit and Andrew not being particularly interested in his “baby sister” at the time.

He compared that vague memory of a girl about four years of age with light brown hair in thick ringlets and a bow the size of her head to the young woman he’d just met downstairs. From the way Andrew spoke of his sister, Spencer had half-expected a youth in plaits and a sailor dress peering around the corners at him. Not the brown-eyed beauty in the pale rose-and-black gown looking him directly in the eye and asking—of all things—what had changed most since his last visit. When, at that moment, the only answer he could think of was—her.

He was ready to throttle Andrew, who obviously had no idea that his little sister had grown up quite spectacularly. Spencer would have appreciated some kind of warning that he would be staying with a beautiful young woman of age. He might’ve made other arrangements.

He did the math. If Spencer had been eleven years of age upon that first visit to Briarwall, and he guessed Lydia had been four—that would make her approximately twenty years old now.

He closed his eyes and groaned. No. He wouldn’t do that again. He wouldn’t allow his foolish little thoughts, calculations, and hopes to work their way into his head when he felt a certain attraction to a woman. He would not—did not—feel an attraction to Lydia Wooding. It was simply admiration. Nostalgia. Part of the warm feelings of returning to Briarwall after all these years.

It was almost laughable, giving the girl—Andrew’s little sister, of all people—any more thought than that of respect as his hostess.

Spencer paused. No, it was not a laughing matter, because Spencer was here with a business proposal for Andrew. That proposal meant everything to Spencer, and he would not disrespect Andrew or his family or allow himself to be distracted from his purpose.

He shook his head. The last time he’d allowed certain emotions to become entwined in business had proved disastrous. Matters of the heart, he’d learned, had no place in his endeavor to secure a stable future for his mother and sister.

With that conviction, he closed the window and made his way down to dinner.

Upon entering the sitting room, Andrew, Miss Wooding, and Miss Janes stood as if choreographed.

Spencer straightened. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.” Truthfully, he was relieved Andrew had arrived first to join the ladies.

“Not at all,” Andrew said.

“My brother arrived only moments before you, Mr. Hayes. I hope you found everything to your liking. Andrew told me you were fond of the blue room.”

“Yes, thank you. I could almost imagine being on school holiday again.”

Miss Wooding smiled. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

“As far as it concerns Briarwall, yes, it is.”

Miss Janes stood nearest him, and the siblings stood in front of the hearth, below the portrait of their parents. In the low evening light, he was struck by the similarities and differences in their appearances. While Andrew favored the Scandinavian heritage—blue eyes and light hair—of his mother, and Miss Wooding favored her father’s darker complexion, they were both tall and slender—and wearing the same expression of curious patience as were the people in the painting.

“If you’ll excuse me. I was just considering the lovely family portrait you’ve unintentionally created.” He gestured to the painting behind them, and they turned.

“Oh yes,” Miss Janes said, stepping next to him. “I see what you mean.”

While Andrew studied the painting, Miss Wooding turned immediately back to Spencer, her face lit with what appeared to be delight.

It was quite ... gratifying.

“What an artistic eye you have, Mr. Hayes. Andrew commissioned the likeness from a photograph my parents had taken a few months before they passed. I remember so little of them. I was six when they died, you know. You’d think they’d be clearer in my memory, but”—she gazed up at the portrait—“I somehow feel like they know me when I study this painting.”

Her brother tipped his head. “Do you? I had no idea you struggled to remember them.”

Miss Janes leaned toward Spencer and dropped her voice. “Can he be surprised? He practically forbids anyone to speak of them.”

Spencer opened his mouth to question the remark, but she shifted her gaze as the butler entered and nodded to Lydia.

She took a quick breath, then faced them all, clasping her hands. “Shall we go into dinner?”

Andrew held his arm out for Miss Janes. In turn, Spencer offered to escort Miss Wooding, who seemed relieved to take his arm.

As they entered the dining room, Miss Janes spoke to him over her shoulder.

“Is thatcedarwoodI detect, Mr. Hayes?”

He paused in the act of pulling out Miss Wooding’s chair, as did Miss Wooding pause in the act of sitting. Her cheeks were fast turning rosy.

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