Heaving a sigh, she started down the long room. When she had last been here, she had been too overwhelmed to truly take in the scope of the portraits about her. Now, however, she studied every one, seeing Ash in each of them. This one had his dark hair; that one had his strong jaw; yet another had his build. Finally she reached that one portrait that held the most interest for her: Ash’s mother.
She stared morosely at the girl in the painting. A memory surfaced, of the last truly intimate moment she and Ash had shared, that night in her bed after the trip to the beach. He had told her of his mother, and how wonderful she had been, and how he had brought her here to die.
She frowned. But from all accounts, the duke had not died until several years after his wife. Why, then, had a young Ash spirited his mother away from the man to spend her final days here?
And why did all her questions about her husband keep coming back to the tragic passing of his mother?
Bronwyn didn’t know how long she had been standing there, staring at that girl, when Regina’s voice sounded in her ear, snapping her back to the present.
“There you are, Bronwyn. We had wondered where you had gone off to.”
Blinking blearily, Bronwyn glanced about. The shadows had grown longer. It must be nearing time to ready for dinner. Damnation, how long had she been here?
“I’m sorry, Regina,” she managed, giving the girl a wan smile. “I must have lost track of the time. Were you searching for me for long?”
“Not long, no. Your parents have arrived and asked to see you. When we couldn’t locate you, Mrs. Wheeler and I made it a game with the girls to search for you.”
Bronwyn nearly groaned. Her parents? They were the last people she wished to see in that moment, considering the fragile state of her mind.
“I am sorry for worrying you all,” she said. “I’ll be there right away. I just need a few moments to prepare myself.”
Instead of moving off, however, the girl stayed where she was. But her gaze was no longer on Bronwyn. No, it had snagged on the portrait of Ash’s mother. And she looked quite literally as if she had seen a ghost.
“Bronwyn, who is that woman?”
Bronwyn blinked, looking at the portrait of the late duchess. “That is Ash’s mother when she was just a girl.” She frowned. “Why?”
Regina could not seem to take her eyes from the oil painting. “That is the late duchess? But…I’ve seen her before,” she rasped.
Bronwyn’s frown deepened, a tingling starting up at the base of her skull. “What do you mean, you’ve seen her before? Do you mean because she resembles Ash?”
“No, because I’ve seenherbefore. The woman herself. Or,” she continued, scanning the portrait in frustration, “a woman who looked much like her, though much older. And not nearly as happy or healthy-looking as this girl.”
It could be a mistake on Regina’s part, a faulty memory. Yet Bronwyn found herself asking, “When did you see her?”
“I was six years old. No,” she corrected herself, her gaze going distant with memory, “five. She brought a young woman named Morgan to Gran’s cottage. Morgan was heavy with child, and very frightened. She was always crying. And after she birthed Nelly she left, and we never saw her again.”
Tension threaded through Bronwyn like veins through marble. “The late duchess brought Nelly’s mother to your gran to birth her child? Are you certain?”
“Very certain.” Regina tilted her head as she studied Ash’s mother. A small smile lifted her lips. “She was kind. Though she appeared unwell, she nevertheless spoke so softly to Eliza and me, and gave us sweets and dolls. I remember thinking she looked like a princess.”
As Regina continued to gaze at the portrait, Bronwyn’s mind was whirling. She had been told the old nurse was the girls’ grandmother. If so, why had the late duchess brought Nelly’s mother to that cottage to birth her child? Regina had said that she and her sisters all had different mothers. Was it possible the late duchess had brought them all to her old nurse’s home? And why?
As she looked at Regina’s profile, however, she suddenly saw something she hadn’t before: her strong jaw with that slight cleft in the chin. So similar to Ash’s that it took her breath away.
Dear God, was it possible the girl was related to him? Not only related, but perhaps…his sister?
In an instant the truth of the matter became clear, as if she had just swiped her hand across a foggy window and could see the depth and breadth of the landscape beyond. Regina was his half sister. And, quite possibly, Eliza and Nelly were as well. The old duke, a man Ash despised, was their father. And Ash’s mother had protected the girls her husband had impregnated, securing a safe place for them to birth their children.
It seemed outrageous, implausible. Yet the more she thought on it, the more she recalled small things that Ash had said or done that gave more credence to the idea until it was so obvious, she was surprised—and ashamed—she hadn’t realized the truth before now. The girls were his half sisters. And Ash loved them and wanted the best for them. And, somehow, he thought that included keeping himself as far from them as possible.
He said you deserve so much better than him.
The absolute idiot.
Before she could begin to comprehend what this meant or what she should do about it, however, her parents stormed into the room, Lady Tesh and Katrina—and Freya—following. Mrs. Wheeler trailed anxiously after them all, and Eliza and Nelly pulled up the rear. Like a chaotic parade that absolutely no one looked forward to.
“Bronwyn,” her father admonished, striding up to her, his face red, “how could you have kept us waiting so long? Not only have you insulted Lady Tesh, but your mother is also beside herself. You have added onto her anxiety by keeping us waiting an abominably long time. You must apologize at once.”