Page 2 of The Duke's Sister's Absolutely Excellent Engagement (The Notorious Briarwoods Book 11)

L ady Margery Barret had done a very unfortunate thing. She had fallen in love with Nestor Briarwood, Viscount Huxton, heir of the Duke of Westleigh.

It was extremely unfortunate for many, many reasons.

Nestor Briarwood was not yet twenty-one years of age and was destined to be a duke. He was also painfully handsome and beloved by all who were around him.

Such gentlemen did not marry young, and they did not marry ladies like her. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. She had an extremely large fortune, and she was the sister of a duke herself. She was actually excellent marriage material, but Nestor Briarwood was an exceptional catch.

A veritable god, so to speak. So far above most mere mortals that they could only ever dream that he might take note of them.

There was no question about it.

He was an Adonis. All of London, not just the aristocrats, loved him, but no one expected him to marry for years. Possibly a decade.

And why should he?

He had no need. He had a twin brother. So there was no pressure to produce an heir, and gentlemen were not expected to marry at twenty years of age. Young ladies, on the other hand? That was a different story entirely.

At eighteen, she was in the full swing of her first Season. A Season that had suddenly gone in a very different direction than she had expected because she had been adopted by the Briarwoods. It had changed her life. Oh, not because her brother, Rufus, the Duke of Ferrars, had been a bad chaperone. Not at all. Her brother was a marvelous man, but both of them had been shaped by rather unpleasant parents and a life that had been absent of joy.

Now she’d been tossed into joy as if it was a pot of delicious jam, and she was swimming about in it, sticky and happy, and often slightly astounded by her situation and luck.

Yet she could not imagine Nestor Briarwood ever falling in love with her. As he sat atop his absolutely stunning stallion, the beautiful beast’s black mane flying in the air, its sleek muscles glinting in the sun, she fought a sigh of pure bliss as she looked at Nestor.

For he too was sleek, muscled, and his dark hair flew in the wind.

The rider was as magnificent, if not more so, than his Arabian.

Now, the Briarwoods were all mad.

Everyone knew that.

Notorious, wild, crazed, fantastic. They were absolutely her favorite people in the whole world. And while she had not been born a Briarwood, she was now at least adjacent to the family because her brother had married one.

Said lady, Portia, stood beside her, looking ever so slightly queasy as her cousins raced around the backyard of Heron House.

She was two months with child and besieged by morning sickness that seemed to last all day. All the ladies in the house proclaimed this as good news, saying it meant the baby was very strong indeed.

Portia looked as if she was on one of her cousin Calchas’s naval vessels in stormy seas, all the time. Green and exhausted but happy, Portia refused to give in. So, she had dragged Margery outside for fresh air and sunshine and to witness her cousins being absolute nincompoops, lest she feel too sorry for herself.

Or so said Portia. For Margery could never imagine her sister-in-law ever feeling sorry for herself.

The young Briarwood men were practicing martial activities, since several of the cousins were either in the Army or the Navy, and they had to keep their skills up after all. And the horses raced across the green, tearing up the grass in a way that would no doubt leave their aunts and grandmother clucking with frustration, for they did all love the gardens.

They would never censure the young men though, for all the aunts dearly wished to see the boys return safely home from the war with Napoleon. So any activity that would keep them safe would be approved of.

Margery loved the way Nestor Briarwood looked atop his horse, his white linen shirt open at the neck, his curly black hair flying about his face like a raven’s wing. He was stunning and fully alive like no one else she knew.

And she let out a sigh of pleasure before she could stop herself. How she wished she could have him, but such a thing would likely be impossible. And so she would have to set her sights on someone entirely different.

Still, she could enjoy the view.

Portia linked arms with her. “Are you excited for the outdoor ball this evening?”

She nodded as she was expected to. “Of course. Of course,” she said.

But she was not. She did not enjoy balls. She did not enjoy dancing. She hadn’t in years. She was quite good at seeming as if she enjoyed balls, but she was never very enthusiastic about them. Long ago, she’d learned that the only appropriate response for a lady of her standing was to look vaguely pleased about the events transpiring. She was not allowed to look too excited.

After all, one must not appear overeager when one had the sort of power that she did, or at least that’s what she had been taught. And even after years of living free of her parents, it was hard to shed all that training.

Nestor Briarwood raced towards the straw dummy at the other side of the field. He lifted up his gleaming saber and prepared to bring it down in a piercing arc.

Her breath caught in her throat as he leaned forward, perching upon the stirrups, and sliced the saber clean through the dummy’s shoulder.

His cousins let out a cry of approval and took off, and then Nestor’s brother, Calchas, took off on his dappled gray stallion, following in his cousins’ wake.

Each young man, Maximus, Calchas, and Octavian, took turns flying down the course, taking different positions from which to attack the enemy .

Now, it was likely that Calchas, who was a Navy man, would never need such a thing atop a horse, but they were all excellent swordsmen.

Margery adored watching them practice, though she hated the fact that they would all be in danger. Except, of course, Nestor. He could not go fight on the Continent or on a ship, not as the heir of a dukedom.

After they had passed several times, Nestor rode his stallion round, sheathed his saber, and jumped down from his horse.

A groomsman raced forward and took the animal, eager to walk the animal down and put the stallion away for the afternoon. Nestor thanked the boy, then crossed to the long table set out with lemonade and other light refreshments.

It seemed that at all Briarwood gatherings, whether they be formal or informal events, there must be something to be consumed and enjoyed.

He poured himself a large glass of lemonade from a cut crystal pitcher, lifted it to his lush lips, and began to drink.

Margery watched, agog. He was indeed like a god. He drank the liquid greedily. His face transformed with bliss, and his black lashes were crescents upon his hard cheeks. His throat worked as he swallowed, and then he drove a hand through his tousled, damp hair and crossed to them.

“Good afternoon, ladies. Being lazy, are we?”

“Lazy?” Portia called before patting her still slender middle. “How can you say such a thing of my industrious self? I am making a person.” Portia pursed her lips. “And Margery here? It is hard work watching all of you acting like silly nitwits.”

“Silly nitwits?” Nestor echoed.

“Yes,” she said. “Racing up and down, trying to stick a sword into a bit of straw.”

“I personally find it quite fascinating,” Margery said, clearing her throat, knowing that it was perfectly acceptable to offer dissenting opinions here. Though she still found it difficult after years of being trained to be either silent or biddable.

“Of course you do. Even I do,” Portia said with a laugh. “But you must learn to tease them. It will do them no good to praise them. They get praised far too often. They need someone like me to keep them in their place,” Portia said, her lips twitching with mirth.

Margery let out a self-conscious laugh, for her laugh was a bit odd. She couldn’t even imagine beginning to try to put the Briarwood cousins into their place.

Then Nestor turned his dark, captivating gaze towards her. “Do you have a few moments, Margery?” he asked.

She swallowed. Moments? For him? “I suppose I do. What are you in need of?” she asked.

“I need to practice my waltz.” He leaned down towards her and whispered conspiratorially, “Apparently, I’m not in very good form.”

Her breath froze in her throat, and for a moment, she was certain that she would never be able to make a reply.

At last, lest she seem a dolt, she forced a smile and replied, “Oh, I’m sure Portia is a much better dancer.”

“No, she’s not. I’ve seen you dance,” he returned.

“Steady on,” Portia tsked. But then she stroked her stomach and looked even greener. “The outside has done me good, but the idea of turning in circles to the count of one, two, three is most dismaying. And you are better than me, Margery.”

“You see,” Nestor enthused. “I think you could get me back into line in but a few moments.”

Get him in line? She, Margery Barret?

Her heart began to beat wildly against her ribs. He wanted to dance with her . He wanted her to teach him how to dance the waltz properly. Surely, that made no sense. She was a perfunctory dancer. She was not…

“Come now,” Portia encouraged. “He could use your skill, lest he keep dancing about like a stick.”

“I say, I’m not that bad,” Nestor quipped.

Portia arched a brow.

“And then she shall teach me,” Calchas announced as he strode up to them.

“Yes, and me,” Maximus said as he joined them.

And then Octavian, Maximus’s twin, stated, “We shall all form a line. You can instruct us one by one on how to match the music as perfectly as you do.”

Nestor put a hand over his heart. “You are the only one in the family who can dance the waltz properly.”

Margery swung her glance from tall man to tall man. They were all exquisitely perfect specimens. She was the only one in the Briarwood family who could do the waltz properly? It was absolute nonsense.

She snorted, then sucked in a shocked gasp at her own behavior. She drew in a quick breath and rushed, “You are all ridiculous, and I am beginning to fear you are making fun of me.”

Nestor locked gazes with her, those dark eyes softening to an almost amber hue. “We would never make fun of you, Margery. We know that you have not been raised to banter and, therefore, we shall not tease you mercilessly. Not yet. Not until you can tease us mercilessly in turn.”

Her heart skipped a beat at that. She longed for him to tease her so. She wanted to be able to tease him back too, but she had no idea how.

He stretched out his large hand to her. “Come. Come,” he said. “Teach me.”

She glanced around, taking in the formal walled gardens and the long patch of green leading to the woods, and exclaimed, “Here?”

“Is there any better place to do it than out here in the summer air, where the ball shall take place this night?”

Soon, a host of servants would descend to transform the gardens.

The cousins, sensing that they would have to wait their turn and were clearly parched, sauntered to the table, pouring themselves lemonades.

Portia abandoned her and headed over to them.

Though she loved to be with Nestor, she nearly yelped at being so alone with him, for it was no easy thing to hide her love for him.

Nestor looked down at her. “Am I so very appalling?”

“Not appalling at all,” she returned, her voice a little higher than usual.

He smiled at her. “Good. Glad to hear you can stand me just a little. I can’t get it quite right, you know, the turns. And I don’t want to be accused of getting a lady too close to me. Mustn’t cause a scandal.”

“I thought the Briarwoods specialized in scandal,” she breathed.

“Not with unmarried ladies,” he returned. “I will not be getting anyone into trouble this Season. Or any at all, if I can manage it.”

“Will you not?” she whispered, unable to imagine what trouble with Nestor might be like. How wonderful it could be. Though she could never allow such a thing. Not with her upbringing.

He tilted his head down. “Whatever are you thinking about, Margery?” he asked. “Your cheeks have gone the same shade of pink as the roses in Grandmama’s favorite walled garden.”

She blinked and had to stop herself from raising her hands to her hot cheeks. “I’m thinking about how best to teach.”

“Good.” And he stuck his hand out towards her again, though this time more slowly, as if time might stop for them and them alone.

Margery slipped her hand into his, and he led her out across the lawn.

He chose a quiet spot in one of the gardens surrounded by roses and flowers.

And then, instead of allowing her own instincts to teach him, she remembered all the dancing master’s instructions.

She lifted her chin, shoved all passion aside, and said, “Are you ready? Let us count.”

“I don’t wish to count,” he murmured, his hair teasing his brow most playfully. “I wish to feel it. For the waltz is done through feeling, is it not?”

She blinked, trying not to flinch, though a long-repressed part of her ached to sway, full of feeling with him. “No,” she corrected. “If you wish to do it well, you must feel nothing.”

“Feel nothing?” he countered. “Well, then I shall be very terrible at it indeed. And you are a liar ,” he said.

She gasped. “What?”

“A liar , Lady Margery,” he said softly, his lips curling in a dangerously tempting smile. “For I can see it in every ounce of your body, whether you are willing to admit it or not. When you dance, you feel the music like no one else does, and I want you to teach me that .”

What should have been a compliment crashed down upon her, causing a wave of panic to throttle through her stomach and into her throat.

Suddenly, she could not think or breathe.

“Margery?” he prompted, his face changing, his jaw tensing with alarm.

“I… I don’t feel well. You have seen something that you have imagined, my lord. A Briarwood trait, I think.”

And before her mother’s voice could begin to build in her head, she took a step back and turned from the man she loved with all her heart, walking swiftly through the perfect summer garden. And she did not fear that she might cry.

For she never cried. Not even when her heart was breaking.