“My lady, you should have summoned me. I wouldn’t have minded helping you get comfortable.”
“Nonsense,” she dismissed the maid’s protest. “The laces can be replaced. I regret that the dowager keeps you on your feet most of the day with a thousand biddings.” Brook scooted to the edge of the mattress. She stifled a groan. There was not one part of her that did not ache.
“Do not fret about that ol’—” Gasping, Morna stared at her in horror.
“What?”
The maid chuckled. “Oh, my lady, you gave me a fright.” She clucked her tongue at her own foolishness. “’Twas all the blood, you see. It’s your curse.”
Brook looked down at the front of her chemise. The large
bright red bloodstain was indeed startling. She gave her maid a rueful glance. “I have always considered it so.”
Breakfast did little to restore her spirits. She ached and had the beginnings of a megrim. She blamed her mother and Mother A’Court for the headache. Their blissful assumption that Brook was returning with them to London made her clench her teeth. The servants had already started packing for the journey. Honey and Ivy were fighting again. Brook was not even paying attention to Ivy’s current ire. May was also in an odd mood. The woman kept sending pensive looks at her that were quite frankly annoying. One more problem or irritant was likely to upset the delicate balance of her restraint.
“Before your daughter can contemplate rejoining society,” Elthia, Lady A’Court expressed with authority, “we must see to her wardrobe. Those dresses might be adequate for rural life, but for polite society they are several years out of fashion.”
“Madam, I have been out of society for several years. I saw no reason to waste money on evening dresses and ball gowns,” Brook said, stuffing a spoonful of poached egg in her mouth before she lost her temper.
Sensing her eldest daughter’s disagreeable disposition, Mrs. Ludlow tried to appease both women. “Lady A’Court, naturally Brook will purchase a wardrobe befitting her station. Ham spoke of his desire to reacquaint her with the amusements town has to offer. Together we will see to it that she has everything to make the proper impression.” Her mother patted Brook’s hand. “You always loved new dresses, my dear. You will look radiant in the fashionable colors of the season.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “Mourning colors have always given your skin a sickly cast. Your looks will improve greatly without them.”
“Mrs. Ludlow, no one expects a widow grieving for her
husband to look anything other than sickly,” the dowager said, embracing her favorite subject. “I cannot heartily agree with you and Lord A’Court’s notion of thrusting Brook back into society.”
Brook choked on her egg at the word
thrusting
and slumped lower into her chair. She never thought she would hear that particular word uttered by her mother-in-law. “I agree with Mother A’Court.”
“Bosh,” Brook’s mother said, rejecting her opinion. “You are just shy.”
“However,” the dowager said, calling attention to herself, “if you must insist on this business, then I will not have her shaming her husband’s memory. People are bound to speak of the tragedy of his death. I feel we must resist sharing our sorrow with the
ton
. All of us will be under scrutiny. I pray our decorum will uplift the A’Court name.”
“Why does Ham have to marry Brook?” Honey asked aloud. “She is the A’Court widow. It sounds like bad luck marrying the widow of your namesake. One would think that if he wanted to marry another member of the family, one of us would be up for consideration.”
Mrs. Ludlow pounced on her daughter before Brook had a chance. “Honey Ludlow, what would your father say if he heard your impertinence? For the benefit of clarity, you are not invited to partake in this conversation. Furthermore, you and your sister are too young to marry Lord A’Court.”
If their mother’s lecture had not silenced Honey, the dowager’s jaundiced stare had her swallowing her tongue. Grandmother Byres cackled with glee for no particular reason.
“Speaking of sickly,” May interjected casually, “I have been meaning to comment on your complexion, Cousin. Your pallor is more pronounced this morning. Did the storm disturb your sleep?”
Brook tightened her grip on her spoon. The friendliness
she usually attributed to the young woman was absent, making her wary. “Some.”
“The wind was dreadful,” Brook’s mother wailed. “I awoke in the middle of the night and had to fortify myself with a small glass of brandy.”
Honey straightened in her seat. “It was a banshee, coming to warn us of death.” She mimicked the mournful call of a spirit in torment. Ivy added her voice, creating an eerie atmosphere.
Grandmother Byres, the oldest member of the family, was spooked. She made a fretful noise.
“Girls, we have endured a sufficient amount of your mischief,” Brook said, glaring at both of them. She pointedly glanced at Mrs. Byres, hoping they were clever enough to reason out her meaning.
Mrs. Ludlow clapped her hands rapidly. “Honey and Ivy Ludlow, you may both retire to your bedchamber until you are summoned.”
“Mum,” Ivy implored, frustrated that she had been caught up in her sister’s web of disobedience.
“Not another word from either of you,” their mother commanded. “Go!”
“Although I disapprove of her method, I have to agree with her sentiment. The wind, indeed, sounded like something from the mournful and supernatural.” May deliberately settled her gaze on Brook. “I scarcely slept at all.”
Elthia, Lady A’Court, sniffed. “Storms rarely trouble me.”
“Oh, you poor dear,” Mrs. Ludlow fretted. “Did you suffer through the night with your covers over your head?”
Brook dropped her spoon. She waved away the footman and leaned over to retrieve the utensil herself. Her clumsiness had been deliberate. The wariness she felt around May was bubbling into complete alarm. She was disturbed by the young woman’s uncharacteristically sly expression. Snatching
up the dropped spoon, Brook sat up hoping her mask of composure was in place.
“Actually, I—”
Mrs. Gordy bustled into the room. “Sorry for disturbing you, my lady. You have a visitor. Mr. Claeg is asking to see you.”
Brook did not miss the flash of hostility in May Hamblin’s eyes. It seemed her disappearance last night had not gone unnoticed and assumptions, albeit correct ones, had been made.
“It is awfully early to receive gentleman callers,” Elthia, Lady A’Court, said with disdain. She had long ago judged Mr. Claeg and found him lacking.
The man was inviting trouble coming to Brook in this bold manner. If she had wanted to draw attention, she would have slammed the door when she had entered the house. Putting her concerns about May aside, she addressed the most important one. “Did Mr. Claeg mention his reasons for his visit?”
The housekeeper shook her head. “No, madam. He was most insistent on seeing you alone right away.”
“Very well,” Brook said, gaining the dowager’s disapproval for not turning him away. “Put him in the formal parlor. I will join him immediately.”
“I already tried,” Mrs. Gordy protested. “There is no time for formality, he says to me. He and his horse are on the front lawn, awaiting you. Do you want me to tell him that you are indisposed?”
Everyone seemed curious about Mr. Claeg’s rudeness. May was interested in Brook’s response to his odd request. Avoiding everyone’s gaze, she stood, saying to her housekeeper, “Never you mind. I will address him directly.” Head high, she reminded herself that she had done nothing shameful and exited the dining room.
Brook kept her slow, regal pace until she was out of view.
She then picked up her skirts and ran. Mallory climbed down off his horse the second he noticed her. Holding on to the reins, he walked her around to the other side of the horse, using the animal’s body to conceal them from prying eyes.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, slightly hurt that he had not thought to kiss her. “Everyone knows you have asked for me. What happened to being discreet?”
“I have little time to explain. After I leave here I am racing off to London,” he said, his light blue gaze encompassing her entire body as if he was committing her to memory.
“Why? What have I done?”
“Nothing,” he harshly snapped, reacting to her melancholy. “If I had a choice I would remain by your side, Countess. It is my father.” His throat worked while his speech failed him. “He has had a stroke. It took the messenger more than a week to deliver this message. My mother wrote that she fears that he will not survive his injuries. I
have
to
go
!”
Mallory was the viscount’s only surviving son and heir. It was his duty to leave her. She could not prevent the start of tears from adding brilliancy to her gaze.
“Look, I could not leave Cornwall without seeing you. I needed to explain. I did not want you to think for one moment that I was abandoning you.”
“Of course. Did you want me to wish you a safe journey?” Her attempt at being worldly was failing miserably.
He stepped forward and captured her chin with his fingers. “I cannot guess when I will be able to return to the cottage. To you.” He bent down and rubbed his forehead against hers. “There is another way. One I hesitate to ask but am too selfish to deny myself. Come to London, Countess. I cannot offer promises until I have learned of my father’s condition and what will be required of me. If we are both residing in town, I can satisfy the demands of my family and you. I most especially look forward to satisfying you.” He lifted her mouth up to his waiting lips.
“Mallory—”
“Damn you, say that you will come!” he ordered impatiently. “I have no more time for this. I must get under way. This I vow: Whatever your fears, we can face them together. Give me a chance to prove myself.” He coaxed her with another kiss.
“Prove what?” He was pushing her. Brook detested being rushed or manipulated by anyone. “I have made my feelings clear about returning,” she said weakly. She could not prevent the old fears from choking her, not even for him.
Her response infuriated him. Scowling at her, he walked around to the other side and mounted his horse. “The woman I shared my bed with last night was not cowed by what other people thought about her.” His closed countenance was merciless. “The choice is yours.” He leaned down and seized her by the back of her dress. Hauling her off her feet, Mallory savagely devoured her mouth. He released her when he had finished, letting her fall and find her own balance.
“Choice, you black-hearted villain … what choice?” She wiped her mouth; it stung from his abuse.
His eyes narrowed derisively. “The choice of whether you are my woman or some pitiful lonely widow I fucked for sport.”
She backed away, feeling the blood leaving her face.
“Come to me in London, Countess!”
He pulled harshly on the reins, steering the horse away from the house. The animal stomped and moved sideways, disturbed by the cutting bit. Mallory spurred his steed into a gallop and the animal leaped into the air to avoid another kick. Man and horse rode away, leaving Brook standing alone in the swirling dust. He had warned her; his challenge lay at her feet like a verbal gauntlet.
She truly despised him.
If he had traveled by post chaise, the journey from Cornwall to London would have taken him at least seven days. By horse, he reached his parents’ town house in less than two days. He was dirty, tired, and he had worn out three magnificent horses to answer his mother’s fearful summons.
The Keyworths’ butler, Buckle, wearing formal livery, answered his knock. The servant’s solemn face creased into a grateful smile. “Mr. Claeg. How good to see you, sir. The viscountess was concerned that neither of her messengers had located you.”
His mother had probably feared that he might ignore her curt request to return home. The family had viewed his nature as defiant more than dutiful. “Does my father live, Buckle?”
“Aye, sir. He is resting upstairs with your mother at his side. She will want to know of your return.”
Mallory started to follow him up the stairs. The servant held out his hand. “Madam might need a moment to compose herself. The viscount’s collapse has devastated her. Why do you not go into your father’s study and wait for my return? Pardon me for saying so, my lord, but a bath appears to be in order. I am certain we can find something of His Lordship’s that will cover you properly.”
Descending the stairs, Mallory headed in the direction of
the study. With shaking hands, he realized he was not prepared to face his father quite yet. Some of the viscount’s brandy might steady him, and the butler’s suggestion of a bath was welcomed, too. Mallory’s family had always prided themselves on appearances, and his resembled that of a brigand rather than a viscount’s heir.
He walked through the arched doorway of his father’s study and was stunned to see he was not alone. A woman had her back to him as she peered out the window.
Brook
.
The lady, sensing his presence, whirled around and cried out in startled joy. “Mallory!” She rushed into his arms. “Oh, Mallory, where have you been hiding?” his sister, Amara, demanded. “No one knew where you had wandered off this time and I have been so frightened.” She sniffed and dug into her reticule for a handkerchief.
“You have made my wife cry, sir,” a masculine voice interrupted their tearful reunion. “I have throttled men for less.”
Brock Bedegrayne seemed capable of inflicting any damage he promised. Tall, his lean build reminded Mallory of a hungry wolf. The faint jagged scar on Brock’s left temple was a warning that the gentleman had not spent his youth studying life through books. His blond hair and pale green eyes were a legacy of his mother, Anna Bedegrayne. His younger sister, Wynne Milroy, also shared his good looks. Two years younger than Mallory, Brock had been close to him when they were boys, but they had grown apart. Even as a young man, Mallory had sensed Brock’s interest in Amara had been less than sisterly. Fortunately, the gentleman had waited until she had grown into a woman before he acted on those impulses. Even so, Mallory had wanted to murder Brock for kidnapping his sister and seducing her.
“Bedegrayne, how have you been treating my sister?” Mallory was too weary to add credibility to his frown.
The younger man snorted. “Better than you have been
treating yourself. Sit before you collapse. Amara, get your brother something to drink.”
Amara smiled sweetly at her husband as she passed him and complied with his order. “As you can see, my husband still has the tendency to act like a scolding older brother.” She handed Mallory the brandy she had poured.
Unable to resist, he reached out and spread his hand across the swell of her burgeoning belly which even her skirts could not conceal. The child growing in her kicked him. He snatched back his hand and laughed. “The act that planted your daughter in your belly was scarcely brotherly, Amara,” he said dryly.
She smoothed the fabric covering her abdomen, revealing how large his little sister had grown in his absence. “Why do you think this is a girl and not a boy?”
He stared down into her heart-shaped face, knowing those stormy blue eyes as well as his own. Pregnancy had softened her face and plumped up her bosom, though as her brother he was pretending not to notice such things. The glow she seemed to radiate had been there longer, at least since Bedegrayne had returned to her and declared his love. Amara’s shoulder-length mahogany tresses were pulled up into a dignified knot. He had been mildly surprised to encounter her and Bedegrayne at the Keyworth town house. Their father had threatened to disinherit Amara if she accepted Brock’s proposal of marriage. As far as Mallory knew, his parents still had not forgiven their daughter.
“Her quick temper and retaliation remind me of you, puss.”
Brock pushed him into the nearest chair. “Care to wager on it, old man?”
Mallory cocked his left brow. “Later. Sisters get a mite testy when brothers start placing bets on their progeny.”
Amara sank down onto the sofa. “Brock, do not encourage him.”
“How can I resist, dove? He is so weary, he will be babbling in a few minutes,” Brock argued.
Mallory was tired. In spite of their angry parting, he had regretted leaving Brook. He had been deliberately provoking, hoping her ire at him would allow her to focus on him and not her fears. Somehow, he doubted the countess had appreciated his thoughtfulness.
“Where were you, Mallory?”
Since he did not have to open his eyes to have a conversation with his sister, he did not. “Cornwall. West coast.”
Amara made an exasperated noise. “Why there?”
He brought the brandy to his lips and drank. “Pursuing my muse, I suppose,” he said, appreciating his humor even if his companions did not.
“I cannot fathom why you would choose the remoteness of Cornwall to paint,” she said, not understanding why he disappeared for weeks sometimes. “Why, I cannot name one person who claimed a love for such a—”
He opened his eyes when she did not finish her thought aloud. She was looking beyond him; the contemplation on her comely visage would have made a less courageous man wary. “What? Spit it out, puss. I am too tired for puzzles.”
“Nothing, I suppose. I was just thinking of someone I knew who liked your Cornwall as much as you. A random thought.”
“She gets a lot of them, I fear,” Brock admitted, coming up behind his wife and circling his arms around her neck. She pinched him in retaliation for his teasing.
“Have you seen Father?” Mallory instantly regretted asking when both of them sobered. Amara pressed the handkerchief she clasped to her eyes.
Brock answered for her. “Your mother merely tolerates our presence, Claeg. We showed up as soon as we learned of your father’s collapse and she was too distraught to recall that she should turn us away. Since then, we have been allowed
entry into the house simply because of appearances. We wait here in the study. When Lady Keyworth feels we have overstayed our welcome, she sends Buckle to send us away.”
“Mama told me on the first night that she was afraid that if Papa saw me at his side, it might kill him. Why does he despise me so much?” Amara sobbed into her hand.
Mallory forgot about his own fatigue and stumbled out of his chair and onto the sofa beside her. “No crying. You will upset your daughter and she is likely to kick you and ruin your supper.”
Amara laughed as he had intended. She buried her face into his shoulder. “How I have missed you. Will you be staying?”
Mallory would remain as long as his father needed him. He wanted, no, needed, the countess by his side. If she ignored his command and he was satisfied his father’s recovery was in sight, he planned to return to Cornwall. Lady A’Court would not discard him so easily.
“I will be around to spoil my niece, if that is what you are asking,” he said, willing Amara’s tears to cease. His sister was an emotional creature. Tears were part of her nature, whereas the countess viewed them as a weakness, an adversary she had to vanquish.
“Sir Thomas is insisting that the child be male. He will be disappointed if we have not given him a boy to carry on the Bedegrayne name.” Brock produced a handkerchief out of his pocket and cleared all traces of her tears. “You realize, dove, that if my father does not get his grandson he will be badgering me into begetting another child.”
They smiled at each other, imagining Sir Thomas’s antics. “For you, my love, I will endeavor to cooperate.”
Mallory smiled, feeling the bitter sweetness of envy. Had his wife survived, they most likely would have had children by now. His thought jumped from Mirabella to Brook. She had experienced briefly the feeling of life within her womb,
until her husband snuffed out its tiny life. She understood loss. A tremor moved through him as he recalled with stunning clarity how it felt to spill himself inside the countess. Not just once, he reminded himself, but twice. Had their passion fortuitously created a child? The notion spun dizzying possibilities.
“Mallory.”
The crisp matronly voice snapped him from his fanciful musings. He saw his mother in the doorway. She had changed very little since he had last visited. Her hair was tidy and the dress might have been worn to receive afternoon visitors. Amara sat frozen beside him, waiting for their mother to acknowledge her only daughter.
“I had hoped you would have received my summons quicker. Nevertheless, in light of not knowing your whereabouts I should be content the letter reached you at all.”
Mallory rose from the sofa. He crossed the room to reach out to his mother, since she seemed disinclined to enter the study. She did not relax in his embrace. “I was preparing for my departure minutes after reading your letter. Father.” He glanced back at his sister, including her when their mother did not. “How is he?”
“Not well, Son.” Lady Keyworth’s lips trembled, betraying the emotion she refused to share with anyone else. She stared blindly at the wall above Amara’s head. “Thank you for coming today. You will understand why I cannot remain and visit. Buckle will show you out.” She touched his wrist. “Come, Mallory.”
Bedegrayne accepted her dismissal with mute fury on his wife’s behalf. Amara was clearly devastated by her mother’s daily rejection. Mallory was tempted to shake his mother and force her to reconcile with the couple.
Amara must have gleaned his thoughts from his brooding countenance. “No,” his sister said, rising regally. “If you will allow it, we will come tomorrow, Mama. Please give Papa my love.”
Mallory and his mother passed Buckle as he entered the study to escort Amara and Bedegrayne out the door as if they were unwanted guests instead of family. He climbed the stairs in his mother’s stiff wake, fighting the urge to confront her on her callous treatment of her pregnant daughter. It took him several minutes to calm down. Amara would not appreciate his meddling. His mother, although misguided, was protecting the man she loved. Upsetting him would not endear Mallory to anyone.
“You said in your letter that he collapsed. Did something trigger it?” Mallory asked, focusing on the present. He planned on sharing what he had learned with Amara.
Lady Keyworth stopped in front of her husband’s private chambers. “My lord did nothing out of the ordinary. He went to one of the commons with his falcon, Ellette. Later he had supper at one of his clubs. He had been preparing for bed when he collapsed. I heard his valet shouting for Buckle. When I ran into the room, I thought he was dead. Mallory, his face was a horrifying blue.” This time she bowed into his embrace and sobbed. He held her, letting her rid herself of the grief she had held in too long.
“You said, Mother, that he is improving,” Mallory prompted once the worst of her grief had passed.
She dabbed her eyes. “Yes. You will see for yourself.” Lady Keyworth opened the door and gestured for him to enter.
There was no sound expect the soft, raspy breathing coming from the man in the bed. The drapes were closed as if the brightness of the afternoon would disturb the ill man. The man whom Mallory recognized as his father’s valet sat in the chair positioned close to the bed. The servant closed the book he had been reading.
“I will leave you now,” he whispered out of respect for his sleeping employer. “I will await your summons downstairs, my lady.” He quietly shut the door behind him.
“Go on and take the chair,” Mallory’s mother encouraged. “I pray seeing your face when he awakens will improve his spirits.”
Mallory sat down, his knees colliding into the mattress. At first glance, his father appeared no different. Lady Keyworth nodded approvingly and sat in one of the chairs pushed against the wall. He had no idea how long he would have to wait until his father awakened. Shifting in the already-uncomfortable chair, Mallory bumped the mattress again.
Lord Keyworth’s eyes were mere slits, as if testing the dim light to see if it pained him. Aware he was being observed, he let his head drop to the right. His eyes widened, but Mallory noticed his father’s right eyelid drooped lower than his left.
“Mawry,” the viscount said, mangling his name. Lord Keyworth spoke as if his tongue had been paralyzed by his apoplexy. Sadness and pity rose up within Mallory for his sire.
“I am here. Mother’s messenger found me in Cornwall. It took me a few days to get here. Buckle has promised me a hot bath, but I wanted to see you.” He found it awkward to talk to this enfeebled likeness of his father. This man looked like a harsh word might crush him.