Page 3 of Pursued Beyond Treachery (Harrowed Hearts #2)

L ord Johnathan Newhurst entered the Waylands’ home and handed his hat to Mrs. Stone.

The routine was familiar. He’d been coming to Wayland Lodge most of his adult life, but the visits had become far more regular after Mrs. Wayland’s passing.

How much comfort he brought the family these last six months, he did not know, but he liked to think they drew as much enjoyment at his coming as he did from being there.

Michael appeared at the top of the stairs and, spying him, bolted down, nearly falling in the process. “Lord Newhurst,” he called out. “Are you come to play with us?”

At the bottom of the stairs, he flung his arms about John’s legs almost toppling him with the force of his little body.

“Whoa there, careful.”

“Do have a care, Michael,” Andrew said from the top of the stairs, then slowly descended as a man of one and twenty might rather than a boy of only ten. He’d become so serious these last few months that John hardly recognized him.

“Have you heard?” Michael asked untangling himself from John’s legs and hopping from one foot to the other.

“Heard what?” Johnathan smiled at the boy's exuberance.

“Nan is going to London so she can get a husband.”

John’s smile faltered.

“You were supposed to let Susannah tell him herself, Michael.” Andrew frowned.

Susannah was going to London? But how, when, why? He supposed he knew the why, but what reason should she have to go in search of a husband so soon? His chest tightened.

“Where is your sister?”

“In the sitting room with Lady Stanford.”

As if to punctuate Michael’s words, giggles floated down the hall from the small sitting room he knew Susannah loved.

She’d taken a liking to the room and could be found there nearly all hours of the day, instead of in the front parlor where most of her family gathered.

It was odd, but when he’d questioned her, she’d mumbled something about an infernal clock.

Having taken him an entire ten minutes to formulate the words to ask about her curious behavior, he opted not to question the answer.

When had talking to Susannah become so hard? Ah, yes. When he’d returned from his tour of the continent years ago to find that she had transformed from a sweet schoolgirl into a ravishing beauty.

Her golden blonde hair had grown longer, allowing for all those intricate curls that always seemed to kiss her cheeks, and somehow her big brown eyes had gotten larger in her perfectly oval face.

And her curves…

Johnathan swallowed hard and gave his head a shake.

It was hard enough gathering the courage to speak to Susannah without remembering she had a handsome figure.

He needed to rein in his thoughts if he wanted to have the wherewithal to inquire why, after all this time, she would ever want to go to London for a season.

It was a dirty, ugly city, but most of all it was full of people. Lots of people who talked incessantly about the most inane topics.

Then again, Susannah loved to talk, and she was good at it. Unlike him. He only had three subjects he conversed decently on: painting, uncommon words, and inventions. Much beyond that and he turned into a stuttering mess—especially with ladies.

The pretty ones were the worst. Hence his ineptitude with Susannah.

Unlike most ladies, however, Susannah did not mind his propensity toward silence. She simply filled in the words he could not find, and that talent was exactly why he’d not let their awkward friendship fall to the wayside.

That and her parents’ kindness after his own parents’ passing.

The Waylands had been like family to him ever since he’d inherited Gimly Hall as a lad of eighteen. He’d not been ready, and his knowledge of how to run an estate had been minimal at best.

Mr. Wayland had taken him under his wing, training him during his breaks from Cambridge, and caring for the property when he was away.

The arrangement had been mutually beneficial as the gentleman had not wanted others to know how dismal his family's finances had become, nor that he’d needed to take up work as an estate manager to bring his own property back into prosperity.

Thankfully, Society only saw his generosity as he tutored a young man in finance and supported him through his grief.

And Mrs. Wayland… thoughts of the sweet lady pulled at his heart and pushed his feet into motion.

“Don’t you want to hear the rest of my story about the toad?” Michael whined.

Johnathan stopped. He’d been so preoccupied thinking about Susannah that he’d not heard one word in ten of Michael’s monologue.

“My apologies Michael. Might I hear the story when I’m done speaking with your sister?”

The boy’s shoulders sagged and the corners of his mouth turned down. “Oh, all right. But I might not be able to tell it to you once Mrs. Crabtree has her tea.”

Michael walked away, dragging his feet.

“Why not?” Johnathan called after him.

Andrew answered for him, “Because Michael will get more lines to write when it hops out of her teacup.”

While Andrew’s mouth stayed placid, the corners of his eyes crinkled as if he were fighting the urge to smile.

Neither boy cared for their nursemaid, and Johnathan could only imagine the enjoyment they would get from seeing the cranky old lady dance about like a cat who’d stumbled onto hot coals.

But it would not do for Michael to be in the suds again.

“Would you be a good lad, Andrew, and go remove it? I would very much like to hear the end of your brother’s story.”

“But that would spoil the ending,” Michael said, hanging over the banister. “Don’t you want to know what Mrs. Crabby does?”

Johnathan hid his smile, knowing if he encouraged the lad in his mischief, it would only distress Susannah more. She was already at her wits’ end keeping them out of trouble.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Johnathan said, “I think a gentleman would be more considerate of older ladies, especially ones as elderly as Mrs. Crabtree.”

A devilish smile lit Michael’s face, and Johnathan knew he’d misspoke. Heaven help him if the boy quoted verbatim what he’d just said about Mrs. Crabtree. She’d be livid at being called elderly.

“John—I mean, Lord Newhurst,” a light feminine voice exclaimed from behind him.

He did not need to turn to know who spoke. That voice was etched in his mind and planted deep in his heart. And even on the days he did not have the opportunity to hear it in person, it managed to fill his dreams.

“G-g-good morning, Miss Wayland.” Blasted stutter, why did it have to emerge when he needed to sound the most composed?

“I did not know you were coming today.” Without a moment's hesitation she slipped up beside him, and, taking his arm, led him into her sitting room. “Lady Stanford, look who has come to visit.”

Lady Stanford rose gracefully to her feet, her brilliant blue eyes dancing with delight. “ Lord Newhurst , it is always a pleasure to see you.”

What was with all this Lord Newhurst business?

It had been months since Lady Stanford had begun calling him by his given name, an intimacy afforded her by her marriage to one of his closest friends.

Miss Wayland also called him John—although he had noticed she’d become more formal after her mother’s death. There was something afoot.

“Good morning, Lady Stanford. I—” Johnathan paused. In all the months she’d been calling him John he’d not once addressed her so informally even though she’d insisted on it. Was this a commentary on his own behavior? Were the ladies upset that he’d not dropped his formality?

He glanced between their far too sunny faces and his already paralyzed tongue tied itself into knots. One pretty woman was bad enough, but when two looked at him with such expectation, every clear thought flew from his head.

“Proclivity means an inclination or predisposition toward something, most often toward something objectionable.”

They both stared at him. Lady Stanford—nay, Melior’s—brow furrowed, and Susannah cocked her head to the side.

If only the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

It had been weeks since he’d spouted random definitions of words and he’d been sure he was making headway toward ridding himself of the nervous habit. If only they were men. His mouth obeyed his will far better in the presence of his own sex.

“That is an interesting word,” Susannah finally said. “Tell me, did you land on that one in particular because you feel Lady Stanford and I are up to something objectionable?”

His cheeks burned. “No, I-I best be going.” Spinning around, he started for the door.

“Lord Newhurst, wait.” Susannah rushed after him. “I had not meant to make you uncomfortable. Please forgive me.”

He glanced at her. Why should she be sorry? He was the buffoon.

“I do have some news for you,” she rushed to say. “Lady Stanford has offered to sponsor me for the season. Is that not wonderful?”

No, but Johnathan did not wish to offend any more than he already had, so he merely nodded.

“You will be attending Parliament this year, will you not?” she asked.

Another nod seemed the only appropriate response.

Susannah smiled. “Then we shall see each other in Town.”

Her words were so hopeful that he did not want to inform her how little he went about in Society. However, if Susannah was to be in town, perhaps he’d find the pleasures of London more… well, pleasurable.

His attention caught on a blonde curl that brushed against her neck, the light shimmering off its golden surface. He itched to paint it. Could he catch the essence of such beauty?

Slowly he let his gaze traverse her cheek and then her face, memorizing the details. He’d painted Susannah dozens of times but had yet to adequately capture her vibrance.

When their eyes met, he stilled. That familiar energy pulsed through him in the most discomfiting way, but he saw none of the same in Susannah.

She appeared as happy and peaceful as he’d ever seen her.

With an iron clad fist, he pushed his attraction back down, stuffing it in the dark closet he’d fashioned for it.

She only saw him as an honorary brother.

And at seven years her senior he could understand why.

She’d been a little girl when they’d met, not much older than Michael.

Eyes bright with childhood admiration, she’d always come to him with her little problems like a sister would.

Stepping over that line now seemed like a betrayal of trust.

“Michael asked me to come see him before I leave,” he blurted out.

“I see.” The brightness in her eyes dimmed.

“Good day, Miss Wayland, Lady Stanford,” he said and rushed out of the room without looking back.