Edith Layton (20 page)

“At my home,” Brenna said.

“In Tidbury,” Drum put in smoothly, watching Annabelle, “as charming a village as I’ve ever seen. I was there, as were the Ryders.” He saw a flare in the depths of Annabelle’s eyes, and gave an almost imperceptible nod, as though to himself. His voice became cooler. “It was a country wedding, but a well-attended one. I’m surprised you didn’t see notice of it in the papers.”

“Really? One hardly has time to read. It
is
the peak of the Season, my lord,” Annabelle said, her voice tight.

“The Sinclairs were there as well,” Drum went on, “among others you know, of course.”

“Of course,” Annabelle said, but now her pretty little chin went up. “Well, sir,” she said, turning her attention to Rafe, “now you’re back, the mere fact of your wedding does not let you off my hook,” she teased. “I mean to say I’m having another party next week! Yes, at the height of the Season. I’m bound to repay all the invitations I’ve gotten. A soiree merely.
Not a ball. But there’ll be dancing. You will come, surely. You
do
want to introduce your bride to everyone, don’t you?”

“That’s up to Bren,” Rafe said.

Brenna knew him better now. But when he wore no expression and used that voice, she didn’t know his mind at all. She saw how he kept looking at Annabelle.
Well, a man would look at a woman he was talking to,
she told herself.
But what is he thinking?

“Whatever you wish,” Brenna told him, wishing she knew what that was—and not wanting to know, all at the same time.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Rafe said abruptly. “After all, we may soon be neighbors.”

It was hard to judge whose face grew paler, Annabelle’s or Brenna’s. But Annabelle spoke first.

“Why, how lovely. I’m deeply flattered,” she said, with an arch smile at Rafe, and a tilt of her chin as she smirked at Brenna.

Rafe and Brenna sat in silence in front of the hearth in Rafe’s study that evening before dinner. She wrote, he read. It wasn’t a companionable silence for Brenna. She put down her pen. The note home helped somewhat, but she couldn’t dispel her doubts. She glanced at her husband. That bright head was bent over the correspondence he was reading. They’d said few words since they’d met Annabelle, and those few were uncomfortable for both of them.

“I didn’t choose to see the house because of her,”
he’d told her gruffly as they were walking home, after they’d left Annabelle and Drum. “I admit I thought about the wisdom of it when I heard the address. Then I decided it would be stupid
not
to see it because of her. But I’m damned if I do or don’t, aren’t I? What sort of a fool wants to buy a house for his wife simply so he can ogle an old…interest of his, anyway? Is that the kind of man you think I am? Then I’m as insulted as you’re obviously hurt now.”

He stalked on, and before she could answer, added, “I’d never hurt you, Bren. Believe that. Take that house, or another. I don’t care. Whatever you decide is fine. I only wanted you to be happy, set up like a gentlewoman deserves to be.”

Brenna knew she had to choose that house now. If she didn’t, it would look as though she was as afraid of Annabelle’s influence as she was. Her crestfallen silence told him more than she knew.

“Damme, you females complicate simple matters,” he’d muttered. “I don’t want you forever wondering about my motives. The only one I had was for your pleasure. But I’ll never be believed, will I?” His temper flared. “I take back what I said,” he said angrily. “I wouldn’t live there for any money. We’ll find a place that puts that one to shame. You pick it. But make sure it’s far away from any female I ever
looked
at!”

His lean cheeks had grown ruddy as his hair; his jaw clenched hard. Brenna smiled. His fury relieved her more than an abject apology could have done. “Oh,” she said innocently, “then we have to move to the moon, do we?”

Their laughter healed the moment.

But hours had gone by, and now her fears crept back. He seemed himself again. But men forgot arguments sooner than women did. Did they forget past loves as easily? Could Rafe forget Annabelle? She couldn’t. Especially not here.

Brenna glanced around the familiar room. She honestly didn’t mind staying on here. The sporting prints on the walls, the general clutter, even the utilitarian furnishings, didn’t bother her. She did mind the fact that this room reminded her so much of the nights they’d spent here before they married.

She remembered the conversations they’d had then, her brother, Rafe, and herself. How she’d admired Rafe from afar. It was too easy to recall the wistful sorrow she’d felt knowing she’d no chance to attract him. Because he’d been courting Annabelle. Those were the days when the mere mention of Annabelle’s name was guaranteed to make his expression soften and his gaze go far away to some place she could only imagine.

Would it still?
she wondered.

She was haunted by Annabelle tonight, even if Rafe might not be. She shivered, not because of the light gown she wore.

There was a folly, she thought sadly. She’d changed her warm gown and put on a dark rose-colored one because it was the only one she had that was almost red. It was a summer gown, low at the breast with little puffed sleeves, too scanty and light for such a chilly autumn evening. But it was a color he seemed to like. At least he had this afternoon. When it was worn by
another woman. Now he didn’t seem to notice. She moved closer to the fire.

“Chilly?” Rafe asked, looking up. “Want a glass of wine to warm you up?”

“Oh. Yes, thanks.”

He rose, stretched, and walked to the sideboard. “Here you go,” he said, pouring her a glass from a decanter there. “Red wine for red blood. It matches your gown too.”

She smiled. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

He handed her the glass and sat by her side. “I notice,” he said. He had, but not the color. Her gown was gauzy and sheer, the firelight bright. He could see how the ruddy light outlined her profile, all of it, from the tiny bump on her aquiline nose to the interesting state of the puckered nipples on her breasts. He ran a finger along her bared collarbone and bent his head so that his lips were at her ear. “I just don’t usually comment on gowns,” he said, scenting her perfume, letting his finger gently trace more of that fascinating profile. “That’s more Drum’s style. He can talk a female out of her gown easier than most men could strip one off.”

She shivered again. This time from the sudden shock of heat she felt at his touch. “Cold?” he asked again, his mouth on her neck as his lips lingered there.

“It was foolish of me to wear this gown,” she said breathlessly. Her body was tingling; she knew his touch for what it was, a preamble to lovemaking. She desperately wanted that for the joy of it, and tonight for reassurance as well. But she had to speak before
her body spoke for her, because it was a different kind of reassurance she needed now. “It’s for the summertime,” she said, “but I saw how pretty Annabelle looked in red. I have no winter gown in that color, and I—I wanted to look pretty for you, Rafe.”

“Pretty?”
he chuckled, as his lips followed his finger on its journey. “God help me if all women looked so pretty.”

He took her in his arms and laid her down on the settee. He followed, his mouth on hers. They kissed, they clung. She saw his hair burning copper in the firelight as his lips touched her breast. She raised her hand from his neck and stroked his hair, with wonder. “You’re the one who looks best in red,” she said on a quivering breath.

He raised his head and smiled. “Dinner be damned,” he whispered. “A moment,” he said, rising. He went to the door and locked it.

She watched him blow out the lamps and return to her. She didn’t need more than the firelight to see how moved he was by her. If she didn’t have the evidence of his kisses, the tight fit of his breeches made it clear. She was thrilled she could move him so easily. It only seemed fair, since he could so effortlessly capture her senses too. She eased off her gown as she watched him slide out of his own clothing before he joined her on the couch again. Skin to skin, they shuddered at their first touch. It was always a shock of pleasure, more so tonight. To make love outside their own bed was somehow dangerous and exciting.

She looked into his eyes and saw the heat in them
before he shuttered them and bent to pleasing her. But she was already pleased. To make love here would set the seal on this new love of theirs, she thought as she arched her neck and caught her breath as he entered her at last.

But for all it was, was it love? she wondered. Until his lips and his hands and his body brought her a different kind of wonder, and mercifully banished all thought as he took her to exultation.

T
hey sat and ate breakfast in easy silence, like an old married couple or dear old friends. Or the new lovers that they were, exhausted but content for the moment. Rafe read the paper, Brenna the post. She smiled at her mama’s letter and chuckled at her brother’s. Rafe looked up with interest.

“It’s from Eric,” she told him, handing it to him. “He’s coming to visit, and instructs us to find him the most beautiful females in London—although not necessarily the most marriageable.”

Rafe grinned, took the note, and soon was chuckling himself. “We can save ourselves the bother. We’ll have to beat the females off him,” he commented when he picked up the paper again. “Fellow talks as smooth as my brother does, but looks like a Viking. A lethal combination, at least for the ladies.”

“Yes, and that may be why he hasn’t married,” she
sighed, “the way women keep flinging themselves at him! He never has a chance to really get to know one, or know if they care for him for himself and not those looks of his.”

“Poor man,” Rafe muttered. “You mean I’ve been luckier in my lack of looks?”

“Angling for
more
compliments?” Brenna asked archly.

His sudden smile showed he remembered how she’d praised his body during the night. “Yes,” he said, with a significant glance at the footman stationed by the table. “Remember that—for later.”

“Gladly,” Brenna said, grinning. She sighed again, this time with happiness, and opened the next letter. It was written on expensive scented vellum. When she finished reading it she was frowning. She put it down, then picked it up again, holding it gingerly, by two fingers, as though it were some kind of bug.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” he asked, looking up from the
Times
as though he’d heard her unspoken thought. “And why are you holding it like that? Afraid it’s going to bite?”

“In a way,” she said, handing it over to him. “It’s an invitation—to Lady Annabelle’s soiree.”

She watched his face. It went blank. He scanned the lines and looked back at her.

“Want to go?” he asked, watching her reaction.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I belong there,” she admitted, trying not to admit what she was really worried about. “She is, after all, your friend.”

He coughed. “
Friend?
Hardly that. Never that, actually.”

“You wanted to marry her,” Brenna said quietly.

He shrugged and picked up the paper again. He glanced at it, then lowered it, looking over the top of the page at her. “But I didn’t know her well enough to consider myself a friend.”

“Well, that’s just foolish…” she began, and fell still, looking down at her porridge. When they’d become engaged, he hadn’t known her well enough to call her more than a close acquaintance.

“It’s up to you,” he said. He fixed her with a thoughtful stare. “We don’t have to live cheek by jowl with her. But she is fashionable, and we can’t avoid her. Actually, it would be as good a way as any for you to meet the social world here in London. I’d thought to have my friends, the Sinclairs, the Ryders, the Wycoffs, or even Drum—he’s a monster of fashion—introduce you to the people who matter. If that matters to you. To tell the truth, it doesn’t interest me much. But I expect you’d like to know some of the other females here in town, to go to tea with and such. I’d thought we could give our own party when we move into a new house. Going to her
do
is an easy way to see which people you like enough to invite to your party. It’s your decision.”

He picked up the paper again, as though it really didn’t matter to him. But he seldom spoke so long about their future social life; in fact, they’d never discussed it in any detail before. Brenna’s hand went to her mouth, a fingernail to her lips…She realized what she was doing and hastily put her hand in her lap. She’d vowed to break her habit of nibbling on her nails so she could have lovely, graceful hands for
him. Like Annabelle had. But when she was nervous she forgot. She was very nervous now.

“Don’t bother to announce me,” an amused voice said from the doorway. “I smell toast and eggs. They’ll be expecting me.”

Rafe looked up. “I should have told them not to make toast. Like putting fish out for the cat.”

“Give you good morning too, my churlish friend,” Drum said as he strolled into the room, dressed to a shade like a gentleman of fashion. “My lady,” he said over Brenna’s hand, “Am I welcome at your breakfast table?”

“Always,” she said sincerely.

“As ever,” Rafe added.

“I thought that though the honeymoon isn’t over—may it never be,” Drum said, “it’s at least permissible to visit you in the mornings again. I used to run tame at my cousin Sinclair’s house,” he told Brenna as he strolled to the sideboard and inspected the dishes there, “and what must he do but marry and remove to the countryside? After that, I’d no choice. I banded with Rafe, who also found himself without a breakfast partner. We would forage together. It’s a hard habit to break. I hate eating alone. The gents at my club are amusing in the evening, when seen through the bottom of a wine-glass. It’s much better to greet a new day with a friend. Ah, shirred eggs,” he said with pleasure, lifting the top from a chafing dish. “That will do nicely. Along with the ham, a slice of that beef, and some toast, of course,” he told the footman standing by the sideboard.

“And a rasher of bacon,” Rafe commented. “But it’s actually good you dropped in,” he added as Drum sat at the table. “You’d be the best one to know. We’ve got an invitation to Annabelle’s party, and Bren doesn’t know if we should go.”

Drum’s azure eyes lit with interest, “Indeed?” he said after a look at Brenna’s face. “But she did warn you of it when we met, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” Rafe said thoughtfully, “but when she heard I’d married I’d thought she’d change her mind.”

“I think she’d heard about it before that,” Drum commented, as he inspected the plate the footman brought him. He looked up to meet Rafe’s cold blue stare. “That’s not a criticism. If there’s gossip in London, trust Annabelle to have heard it. She’s the consummate lady of fashion, you know. I expect it was her way of teasing. She’s expert at that, as you also should know.”

Brenna couldn’t see a flicker of change in Rafe’s impassive expression. The two men were verbally fencing. They often did. But this time the subject was of utmost importance to her. She desperately wanted to know if it was to Rafe too.

“Yes, it’s her way,” Rafe said, “but what
you
should know is if Bren would enjoy herself if we go.”

“I?” Drum said in a show of surprise. “But, dear boy, that’s what
you
ought to know by now.”

Rafe made an impatient gesture. “I know Bren, if that’s what you mean. She’s got tender feelings. Annabelle’s always got some private rig running. So what I hoped you knew, since you’re usually a
downy one when it comes to a female’s intentions, is if Bren would enjoy herself as Annabelle’s guest.”

“You mean, would Annabelle torment her in some sly fashion?” Drum asked meditatively. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Well, I think,” Brenna burst in, hardly believing her ears, “that
she
—meaning me—has some say in the matter.”

“Whoever said you didn’t?” Rafe asked, surprised.

“You were talking about me as though I weren’t here,” she answered, sounding wounded.

“Sorry,” Rafe said quickly. “It’s just our way, Drum and I. Many’s the time we hashed things out together, some of them vital to our lives. Anyway, you said you didn’t know what to do.”

“Children, children,” Drum said with a smile, “don’t squabble at the table, please. Now, as to Annabelle and her intentions. I think it’s a thing I could discover for you—on one condition.”

“And that is?” Rafe asked tersely.

“If I can have a cup of that coffee—it smells heavenly,” Drum said with longing.

“Drummond,” Annabelle said as the tall, elegant nobleman bowed over her hand. “This
is
a surprise. Or is it?”

“A delightful one, I hope,” Drum answered smoothly, “though your surprise both pleases and astonishes me.”

She laughed, a trill of what sounded like such pure amusement the other gentlemen paying a
morning call on her looked on with jealous interest. “Lud!” she said, fanning herself with one dainty white hand. “They don’t exaggerate when they speak of your charm, my lord! I’m surprised because I’ve seen you at this soiree and that masquerade, at Vauxhall and the opera and wherever the fashionable assemble since the day I made my come-out. You’ve always had a bow for me but never a personal word. Now, what could have spurred your sudden interest, I wonder?”

“I had my eyes examined,” he said promptly. “A few drops of ointment, and suddenly the world is clear to me.”

“To me as well,” she said with a much-less-amused smile.

“Is it?” he said. “I wonder…”

“As do I,” she snapped.

“You don’t have to. If I could have a few moments of your time, all would be explained.”

“Explained? With no dissembling at all?” she asked, arching one exquisitely shaped eyebrow.

“Though it breaks my heart not to give due praise to your beauty,” Drum said, “no, if you wish, none.”

“Then stay on when the others leave,” she said, as she abruptly turned from him. “I think we’ll both find the interview fascinating.”

Drum found the wait fascinating too. He sat in her morning salon and watched the three other men in the room make fools of themselves. Annabelle was gowned in old rose and gold lace; she was really one of the most beautiful women he knew. But even
Aphrodite didn’t merit the treatment she got from the fools in her salon, Drum thought. Did men really think making spaniel eyes impressed a woman? If it did, then the weak-chinned young lordling hovering near her had the key to her heart. If long-winded speeches did it, then the foppish Lord Perry was ideal. And if glowering won the day, Sir Miles was her man—if she didn’t mind fattish gents twice her age. Drum watched, bemused. She was lovely. She was clever. He’d also always thought she was cold, vain, and utterly spoiled. He couldn’t blame her for that. Whether she was also vindictive was what he was here to discover.

When the visiting gentlemen straggled out of the parlor, they had as many jealous backward looks at Drum as they had adoring ones for Annabelle. Only because he had a private audience with her, not because he’d get anything else. The door stayed open. A footman stood outside it. A maid sat in a window seat. But servants weren’t supposed to have ears.

“Simply put, because I gave my word to get right to the heart of the matter,” Drum said before she could ask him, “I’ve come to discover why you invited my friends the Daltons to your party next week.”

Her eyebrow went up. “Is it such a mystery? I often invite acquaintances. If one didn’t, one would never have above a handful of guests. A wise man once said a person can only have as many true friends as fingers on one hand, you see.”

“Still,” Drum said, “one would think a newly wed pair are not the most enlivening guests. All that sighing and eyeing of each other is not very amusing, surely.”

“I saw none of that the other day,” Annabelle said with a pretty air of concentration. “In fact, the newly wed gentleman was only looking at me, as I recall.”

Drum’s slow smile was chilly. “I see. You’ve answered me.”

“I have?” she asked, surprised. “Oh. You think I invited them so I could show the world how easily I could have had him? That is, if she hadn’t stolen him from under my nose by means no lady would attempt? You think I bear a grudge? You think I’m spiteful enough to want to show her she’s won nothing but his name?”

Drum looked solemn, and gravely as a bridegroom, answered, “I do.”

“Do you? Well, but you’ll never know, will you?” she said, her own smile slow and small. “Because I’ll do nothing but be there, and be a gracious hostess. Surely there’s no harm in that?”

“You honestly believe she staged that accidental incident in his hall? And that he still wants you?”

“You do not?” she asked.

“Then it’s good that you invited them,” Drum said. “So you can see how wrong you are. I give you good day, lady. And would wish that your intentions matched your appearance. You really are quite lovely, you know.”

She looked up into that bony, clever face, her smile anything but lovely. “Am I? How strange you only
note it now, when your friend is involved. And he still is, my lord. You may bet on it.”

“I can’t. Because it wouldn’t be sportsmanlike. I never take advantage of any superior knowledge I have when making a wager,” Drum said, and wished he could be sure of it.

The two men didn’t look happy. Rafe and Drum looked up from their deep and whispered conference as Brenna entered Rafe’s study that night.

“What is it? Has anything bad happened?” she asked quickly when she saw them exchange a worried look.

“No,” Rafe said, “don’t worry. We’re just two glum old lads. Come sit with us,” he said, patting the seat of the couch. “You’ll brighten the night.”

“Glum about what?” she asked as she sat beside him.

“It’s nonsense,” Rafe said, picking up one of her hands in his. “Only that maybe we ought to skip Annabelle’s stupid soiree. It’s sure to be full of bores…Well, well, look at this,” he said with interest, looking at her fingertips, with their fragile, carefully shaped, longer fingernails.

“Just a beginning,” she said, pleased and embarrassed. “But why not go? Has she rescinded her invitation?”

“No,” Rafe said, “just that it’s not going to be interesting. No need to trouble yourself getting all togged out for it. We’re going to have our own soiree soon, aren’t we? A bigger, better one too.”

Brenna slipped her hand out of his. She looked down at her newly manicured fingernails.

“Damme, Bren,” Rafe said, “I won’t lie to you. Drum thinks Annabelle’s still…hostile. No need to subject yourself to that, is there?”

“You think she’ll be rude, say hurtful things, insult me?”

“She’s too clever to be obvious,” Drum said. “She’ll do it with subtlety. It may be more hurtful that way. And there’s new gossip.”