"You must be Lord Robert Jamison," she said, stopping several feet away from him. "I recognize you from the sketch Elizabeth gave me."

I wish I could say the same. Surely she did not still mourn her husband? Yet that must be the case as Elizabeth had not mentioned that Mrs. Brown had suffered a more recent loss. Sympathy for her washed over him. Obviously she'd adored her husband, as his death had tragically depleted her. Her eyes, the color of fine, aged brandy, appeared haunted and anxious in her pale face. How sad that mourning had taken such a toll on her. How unfair that a man she so clearly loved had been stolen from her, taking all her laughter and joy with him. She looked tiny and frightened in her stark clothing, as if her state of grieving had literally swallowed her whole. He shoved aside the disappointment and pity he hoped didn't show on his face, then offered her his most charming smile and a formal bow.

"I am indeed he. And you must be Mrs. Brown."

"Yes." Not even a ghost of a smile touched her lips. Her expression grew even more grave as her gaze darted about their surroundings. He watched her, feeling uncharacteristically short of words. He racked his brain for something to say, but she surprised him into further silence by stepping closer to him. So close, in fact, that the tips of her shoes touched his boots and her black skirt brushed his breeches. So close that her scent drifted over him, a tantalizing combination of sea air and-he inhaled deeply-some sort of flower. Before he could identify the delicate, elusive fragrance, she rested her gloved hand on his sleeve and rose up on her toes, leaning toward him.