Emerald Garden (40 page)

“Remember, sir, Mr. Hendrick is under no legal obligation to provide you with names,” Bentley reminded him. “Officially, your father’s title, estate, and businesses belong to Master Desmond. Hence, if your brother forbids Mr. Hendrick from supplying you with information, I fear Mr. Hendrick’s hands are tied.”

“I’ve considered that prospect. I’ll just have to hope Desmond is either too incoherent or too ashamed to notify Hendrick of our falling out. And that, if neither is the case, Hendrick’s loyalty to Father will outweigh his sense of obligation to Desmond.”

“One would think so, sir. Oh, that reminds me—” Bentley reached into his pocket and extracted an envelope. “You received a missive from Mr. Hendrick yesterday.”

“Good. Maybe he’s learned something that will make my whole ugly investigation unnecessary.” Quentin tore open the note and scanned the contents.

“Well?” Brandi demanded.

“Nothing of importance.” Quentin shrugged. “Ellard’s plan is underway, but he’s encountering the inevitable obstacles spawned by summer. Several of his clients and their colleagues are on holiday and choose not to be reached.” Quentin refolded the note. “Unfortunately, this procedure is going to take some time.”

“Why didn’t you stop by Mr. Hendrick’s office while you were in London?” Brandi asked curiously. “You could have spoken to him about Desmond then and there.”

“Yes, I could have. But I chose not to.”

“Why?”

Quentin’s expression grew tender. “Because, little hoyden, I wanted to get home to you as soon as possible. These next few precious days belong to us. Our parents would want no less. The unanswered questions and suspicions are going nowhere, and can be addressed afterward. But for now—” He withdrew the license from his pocket. “I wanted to flourish this before your beautiful eyes, to see your face light up with joy, and—oh, to settle the score on a previous victory.” So saying, Quentin reached into the carriage and extracted a large flat parcel, which he placed in Brandi’s arms.

Brandi’s brows drew together. “What is it?”

“An overdue prize.” He grinned at her mystified look. “Open it and see.”

Needing no further urging, Brandi tore open the package, squealing as she lifted out three delicately cut pairs of breeches: one black, one cocoa-brown, and one fawn-colored.

“I owed you those from our last fishing contest,” Quentin informed her. “Now you no longer have to be impeded by—in your words-—soggy gowns trailing at your ankles and bulky layers of muslin crammed between your body and your saddle.” Watching Brandi’s elated expression, he chuckled. “A most unconventional wedding gift for a most unconventional bride.”

“A bride who can now ride astride as well as any man,” Brandi said proudly. She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips to his. “Thank you, Quentin. In light of the particular contest in question, ‘tis a most generous prize.”

“And why is that?”

“Because, my lord—” Brandi backed away, her eyes dancing with mischief, her breeches clutched in her hands. “Your suspicions were right. I cheated.”

Laughter trailing behind her, she darted into the cottage.

“You’ll never be bored, sir,” Bentley commented.

“No, I don’t suppose I shall,” Quentin agreed. “Bentley—” Soberly, he turned to his friend. “Do you think I’m being remiss in deferring the investigation a day or two?”

“No, my lord. As you yourself just noted, nothing dramatic is going to transpire over the next few days. Mr. Hendrick will continue to probe and Master Desmond will continue to drink. This time, as you proclaimed to Miss Brandi, belongs to the two of you.”

“This time,” Quentin reiterated, shaking his head in bemused wonder. “Tell me, Bentley, how is it that, at what is in some ways the most painful point in my life, I’m able to feel such overwhelming joy?”

“That particular miracle, my lord, has a name.” Bentley gestured for the footmen to unload Quentin’s bags. “How fortunate for you that tomorrow you shall give her yours.”

Chapter 18

T
HE MORNING ROOM WAS
quiet when Quentin stood on its terrace the next day, watching the sun rise. He’d drifted off to sleep at about two last night, only to awaken a few hours later, ready to embrace a future that had, despite his colossal stupidity, found him.

Sipping thoughtfully at his coffee, Quentin found himself wondering if Brandi had slept any better than he. He grinned, knowing the answer already. In all her twenty years, Brandi had never shut an eye on the eve preceding an exciting event. How many Christmas mornings had her sparkling eyes peeked at gifts from beneath heavy lids? How many birthdays had her spontaneous laughter been interrupted by sleepy yawns that escalated in frequency as the day wore on?

Quentin’s smile grew tender, recollections flowing through him like warm honey. Brandi, his rare and beautiful Sunbeam—how miraculous were the extraordinary ways in which she hadn’t changed.

Equally miraculous were the extraordinary ways in which she had.

Their evening together in the woods had been the most excruciating combination of heaven and hell Quentin could imagine. Even now, his body burned as he recalled the unprecedented, unbearable ecstasy of her bare skin melding with his—her nipples contracting beneath the onslaught of his chest, his hands, his mouth. The wonder of her response had nearly been his undoing; her satiny wetness welcoming him with a desire that matched his own, her delicate inner muscles contracting around his fingers, the awed amazement in her eyes when she’d shivered in his arms.

It had been Brandi’s first taste of passion, and while it was but the first glimmer of her awakening, it had driven him to the brink of insanity.

God, he wanted her. He’d never known wanting this fierce—primitive in its urgency, humbling in its basis.

So this was love.

Watching the steam curl slowly from his cup, Quentin marveled at the extent of this newly born emotion—an emotion that affected not only his heart but his thoughts, his plans, his future.

His life had been the army; home was where it took him. As for the Cotswolds—that had been the peaceful haven that awaited his visits, together with family, friends, and a tousle-haired hoyden who warmed his heart like a burnished ray of sunshine.

A burnished ray that had intensified, grown stronger, more ardent, until it permeated every fiber of his being.

And suddenly, his Sunbeam was his life.

That reality struck home, spawning a hunger Quentin had never anticipated, much less encountered.

Roots. He wanted roots. Not just a home, but a life that was his. A life, and a wife.

And children.

The thought of filling Brandi’s body with his seed, watching her swell with his child, ignited a primal need for possession that pounded through Quentin’s loins, surged through his soul. He wanted a houseful of little Brandis, their laughter echoing through the halls of Emerald Manor, their spirits as pure and exuberant as their mother’s.

Gulping down the rest of his coffee, Quentin made peace with a decision he’d never thought to make.

It was time. When England was ready, so was he.

“Good mornin’, my lord.” Herbert paused near the small section of garden alongside the terrace. “I didn’t know you were up.” A wry grin. “Although I suppose I should’ve guessed. It is your weddin’ day, after all. And your bride-to-be certainly didn’t spend much time sleepin’. Her lamp’s been burnin’ for over an hour. I suspect she’ll be visitin’ the gazebo anytime now.”

“I suspect you’re right.” Quentin grinned back. “And what is your excuse for strolling about at dawn? You’d best not be working—not on so important an occasion as today.”

A chuckle. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my lord. No, I just figured I’d head out to the gazebo—in case Miss Brandi wants to talk.”

Quentin nodded, a spark of gratitude lighting his eyes. “You’re a good friend, Herbert. You understand Brandi very well.”

“Actually, sir, she’s a lot like your late mother—at least in the way she loves and nourishes everything around her. Whether it was gardens or people, Her Grace was the one who could make them thrive. It’s the same with Miss Brandi.”

“I never thought about it in quite that way, but you’re right.” Emotion knotted Quentin’s chest. “I remember Mother’s claim that, other than herself, Brandi was the only one who truly appreciated the magic of Emerald Manor. I can see how accurate a statement that was every time I witness the unrestrained joy Brandi exudes when she’s here. ’Tis the same elation Mother used to emanate.” A reminiscent smile. “I can still remember—Lord, I couldn’t have been older than eight or nine—the jubilation on Mother’s face when we’d arrive at Emerald Manor for a visit, the way her eyes would begin to glow the instant the carriage rounded the bend and passed through these gates. She’d flourish like the gardens themselves.”

“She sure did.”

“This cottage was the most precious gift Father ever gave her. Nothing came close.” Quentin gazed about nostalgically. “Tell me, Herbert, did things stay as I recall? Did my parents continue to spend as much time here as they did before I went away?”

“Yup.” Herbert nodded. “When the duke was workin’ at Colverton or travelin’ to London, the duchess came by herself—with Miss Brandi in tow, of course. The two of them would putter in the garden for hours, talkin’ and laughin’. Of course, Her Grace was happiest when the duke accompanied her, which he did as often as he could. I swear your mother’s love for the cottage must have been catchin’, because just this summer His Grace started visitin’ a few times on his own. But mostly it was either the two of them together, or the duchess and Miss Brandi.” Herbert scratched his head. “It’s a happy house, my lord. And you and Miss Brandi are gonna keep it that way.” A pause. “You are gonna live here, aren’t you?”

Quentin looked momentarily taken aback. Then he chuckled. “Do you know, it never occurred to me that we’d live anywhere else?”

“I’m glad.”

“So am I, Herbert.” Quentin set down his empty cup. “And to that end, I’m off to get dressed for my wedding.”

It was half after eight when Brandi made her way back to the cottage.

Ninety minutes more. After which, she would be Mrs. Quentin Steel.

The reality was staggering, and she’d already pinched herself a half-dozen times to ensure she wasn’t dreaming. Then again, she couldn’t possibly be dreaming, for she’d never gone to sleep.

How could she rest when her entire being was leaping with exhilaration?

She’d tried everything she could think of to relieve her excess energy, but to no avail. First, she’d romped with Lancelot for an hour, then raced him to the gazebo where she’d chatted with Herbert for aeons—more for his sake than hers. In truth, she was far too excited to stay in one place today, even if that place was her most beloved sanctuary. Further, she had no idea why Herbert was suddenly stammering all over himself, spouting something about her new duties and how she shouldn’t be afraid to perform them. She had no opportunity to ask for an explanation, because, abruptly, he switched subjects, brimming with sage advice for her future and how happy Quentin was going to make it, as well as assurances that he himself planned to remain at Emerald Manor for as long as she wanted, now that he knew for certain she’d be living here.

Well, where else would she be living? Emerald Manor belonged to Quentin and, in less than two hours, so would she.

Shaking her head in puzzlement, Brandi strolled up the cottage path, wondering what she might try next to pass the time. How was she going to survive the wait?

“Mrs. Collins is about to organize a search party for you, Miss Brandi,” Bentley commented from the open doorway. “She and your bath water have been awaiting your arrival since seven.”

“Oh Lord, I completely forgot.” Brandi clapped a hand over her mouth. “I did ask Mrs. Collins to have my bath water brought up at seven, didn’t I?”

“I believe so.” Bentley cocked a brow. “However, on the bright side, you need a bath far more now than I suspect you did several hours ago.”

Brandi glanced down at herself and giggled. “You’re right; I’m filthy. Not appropriate for a bride, I suppose.”

“I think not.”

“Very well.” Brandi gathered up her soiled skirts. “I’ll run up and apologize to Mrs. Collins. Then I’ll soak in the tub until I shrivel into a piece of dried fruit. By then it should be nearly time for the ceremony.”

“A wise idea, my lady.”

Pausing, Brandi chewed her lip. “No missives have arrived, have they, Bentley?”

“I’m afraid not, Miss Brandi.”

“You did advise Desmond of the time and date of the wedding?”

“Two days past. In person. Just as two days past he refused the invitation. In person.”

Brandi sighed. “Very well, then. If he chooses to behave like a petulant child, so be it. Today is the happiest day of my life. I shan’t let him ruin it.”

“Bravo, my lady,” Bentley commended. “Now hasten to your bedchamber and emerge the radiant bride. I’ve rehearsed my role in the ceremony and have mastered the fine art of giving you away to perfection.”

“Ah, but have you mastered the fine art of sharing that role?” Brandi teased back. “Or shall I expect you to sniff indignantly if Herbert takes an improper step during our procession to the altar?”

“I shall attempt to control myself, for the sake of propriety.”

Lightheartedly, Brandi scooted up the stairs and hastened to her bedchamber, where she found Mrs. Collins pacing in circles.

“Mrs. Collins?” With a guilty expression, Brandi inched into the room, her contrition intensifying as she watched relief flood the housekeeper’s face. “I’m here. And I’m sorry I worried you.”

“Thank heavens!” the housekeeper exclaimed, wringing her hands.

“I meant to be back by seven,” Brandi returned sheepishly. “But Lancelot was in a frisky mood, and Herbert in a loquacious one. Before I knew it …”

“Stop.” Mrs. Collins held up her hand. “I ought to know by now never to expect the expected from you. ’Tis only that today is your wedding day. So naturally I assumed you’d be eager to bathe and—never mind.” With an indulgent shake of her head, she indicated the tub of water in the center of the room. “In any case, I’ll arrange to have this refilled. After one and a half hours, ’tis tepid at best.”