Edith Layton (22 page)

“We got the summons, and so here we are!” the fair Gilly announced when she and her husband came to the door soon after breakfast. “Ready to see you togged up fine as fivepence for any party you go to. Well, only me. Damon’s off to his office, but he’s letting me stay with you and Drum.”

“Summons?” Brenna asked, looking up at Rafe, whose cheeks began to match his hair.

Before he could answer, Gilly spoke up. “Summons? More like orders.”

“Is this why you were writing so many notes?” Brenna asked Rafe.

He nodded. “I thought you might like to know you weren’t alone here.”

“Exactly!” Gilly said with a sunny smile. “You’re new to London, and we’re old friends of Rafe’s. Where else should we be? And it’s a wonderful excuse for me to leave the house. This fellow,” she said, beaming at her husband, “thinks I’m the first female since Eve to produce offspring. He worries like a cat with one mouse.”

“That’s ‘with one kitten,’” Drum said. He’d breakfasted with Brenna and Rafe, and came
ambling out of the morning room to see who was at the door.

“Still correcting me!” Gilly said cheerfully. “In your case,
mouse
is the better word. Anyway,” she told Brenna, “Damon acts like I’m the first female in the world to litter. I know,” she said, sending Drum a sparkling look, “not ladylike. Much I care. But he let me go when I said Drum would come with me,” she went on. “I’m delighted. Rafe said Drum was going to help you choose a gown. Huh! I know a sight more about gowns than he does,” she added on a giggle. “The outside of them, at least.”

“Baggage,” Drum chided her. “Marriage hasn’t changed you, has it? I’d be offended, but it happens to be true.”

“Nothing can change our Gilly,” Damon Ryder said, “thank God! “

There was no way Brenna could tell this merry crew of elegant people that she didn’t need them. Besides, she realized she did.

“Drum may know fashion, but I know Rafe,” Gilly told Brenna, as they rode to the dressmaker in Drum’s fine carriage. “Don’t fret. We’ll pick the best gown in the world, one that suits you and makes him proud too. The thing is to find something you feel comfortable in, something you can forget you have on. Because no matter how lovely the gown, it’s the woman in it that matters most. Now, we’ll look at gowns, and keep Drum from making advances to the
females modeling them, and stay all day if we must to find the perfect one.”

“The perfect one is the one Brenna wants,” Drum said.

“I don’t think that’s so,” Brenna said. “I have to look respectable.”

There was a silence in the coach, until Drum said gently, “You are respectable.”

“There’s gossip,” Brenna said, shaking her head. “You can’t deny it.”

“But that’s exactly what we’re here to do,” he said sweetly.

They looked at a dozen gowns. They joked and laughed, and made Brenna feel at home even in the elegant salon. They liked a yellow gown, admired a pink one, and walked round and round the model in a gold and gray one. Brenna thought any of them would be fine, but when the model walked out wearing a long-sleeved crimson gown, she caught her breath. It was simple and sleek and cherry-ripe red. It had no ruffles, no overskirt, no panels or shirring, only a black design at the hem, and maroon ribbons at the sleeves and high waist. Its silken folds fell in a scarlet flow from under the breast to the tips of the model’s slippers. The simplicity of the gown made it unusual; the color made it remarkable. And too daring and sensuous for her, of course.

“Is that what you fancy?” the observant Gilly asked her.

“Much that matters,” Brenna said wistfully. “It would never do.” But it was just what she’d always wished she dared wear.

“Try it on,” Drum said. “The model has fair hair. That doesn’t show us how you’d look in it.”

Brenna protested, but short of insulting them, there was no way she could refuse. With the help of her new maid, she soon had the gown on. It took an imperious summons from Drum to get her to walk out of the dressing room. When she emerged from the back of the shop, there was a sudden silence. Rafe’s friends stared.

“Yes,” Drum finally said. “It’s that one, and none other.”

“Oh, don’t you look a treat!” Gilly cried, clapping her hands.

The sound woke Brenna to reality. “It’s very lovely,” she agreed. “But I look too exotic in it.” She wanted to say, “too erotic,” but caught herself in time. She’d seen herself in the mirror. It was a beautiful frock. But it was a wanton’s gown. It clung, accenting every one of her long, supple curves, the color making them look as though they’d been outlined by the devil’s paintbrush. It suited her coloring, and her reputation.
Exotic?
she thought. She looked like a painting of a saint’s temptation, the absolute confirmation of every bit of gossip about her. The woman she saw in the glass certainly would have stripped herself naked and posed in a bachelor’s parlor in order to lure him from his ladylove. At the very least.

“Yes,” Drum said again. “Exotic. Exquisite. There won’t be a man there who’ll doubt Rafe’s reasons for choosing you. Wear it.”

Gilly agreed. They made Brenna buy it, and
argued with her all the way back to her town house, because she’d insisted on buying the pink gown as well. She was certain Rafe would prefer she wear it.

“Try on the red one for him,” was all Drum would say, as Gilly nodded wisely.

“We’ve achieved a gown,” Drum told Rafe when he saw him. “Have her put it on and show you.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow at Brenna.

“Later,” she said.

When they were at last alone that night, Brenna knew she couldn’t wait any longer. She had to try the gown on for Rafe’s private viewing. She went into her dressing room and slipped it on. Taking a breath, she walked into their bedchamber. Rafe was stripping off his jacket when he turned to see. He froze where he stood. He looked at her long and hard.

“Take it off,” he said tersely, at last.

“See?” she said too gaily, because although she knew he’d feel that way, she was still regretful. “I knew you’d hate it.”

“I love it,” he said, taking her into his arms. “I meant, take it off so we can make love without ruining it.”

Later that night, Brenna lay awake as Rafe slept at her side. She couldn’t sleep, though her body was limp. Pleasure could only banish her worries for a little while. She was very worried.

Rafe loved her body; that was clear. But she’d never doubted that. Keeping the company of soldiers had taught her men could easily separate the desires
of their bodies from those of their hearts. So, thrilling as it was, his ardor was not reassuring.

Greedy, greedy wench,
she thought miserably. What more did she want?

She had his name, his easy affection, his ever-willing body too. But all of it was as nothing without his heart.
Well, not really,
she admitted, looking down at the big, tanned hand that cupped her breast, even as he slept. It wasn’t
nothing
without his heart.

But worry tainted all her pleasures now. How would the rest of her life be if she discovered it would always be Annabelle’s body he really wanted? Annabelle whose company he preferred? Worse, Annabelle’s image he yearned to see in his children one day?

How could she ever be happy, knowing she was the barrier between him and his utmost desire?

So she had to put on her new wanton’s gown, go to that party, watch closely and listen even closer. And that way discover once and for all if she was always to be Rafe’s second choice. Or if she really was his second chance at happiness.

“S
tay here? Oh my dear, I hardly think so. The house would burst at the seams,” Rafe’s mama said, looking around the salon moments after she arrived. She’d obviously summed up Rafe’s town house at a glance. Her expression showed only the faintest disdain for its modest size. “Your father, brother, and I will be far better off in a hotel, I promise you.”

Brenna thought she would be too, but made a token protest.

Rafe didn’t. “If you’d let us know you were coming to London, we’d have made arrangements for you, or asked you to wait until we moved into a new house, which we will soon,” he said. “As it is, Brenna’s parents are due. They’re staying with us. So, much as I’d like to argue with you, I can’t. Might I ask what moved you to this sudden visit?”

“Why, we heard they were coming, and
so
wanted to meet them,” the marchioness said as she pulled off her gloves. “It’s been so long since we graced London, we quite liked the idea. Then, too, we heard there were to be many galas this Season. Perfect for Grant. He isn’t getting any younger. It’s time he took up residence here again.”

“Again?” Rafe asked.

“I was here a few times in the past years,” his brother said. “You were away every time.”

“Yes, he’s come to London time out of mind,” the marquess said silkily, “and come home empty-handed as many times.”

“Empty-handed?” Rafe asked, not understanding his parents’ matching smiles.

“Without a wife,” Grant said abruptly.

“So you can imagine how pleased we are that he’s here on the hunt again,” his mama said. “Seeing his younger brother sharing wedded bliss inspired him, perhaps.”

“Perhaps it was the thought of his younger brother breeding before he did that encouraged him to such rashness,” Rafe’s father said dryly. “After all, now he can clearly see time waits for no man. Even if he is firstborn.”

“Hardly,” Grant said, with a forced laugh. “I’ve always known that if anything happened to me, Rafe would inherit the title. Rafe lived in the cannon’s mouth so long you conveniently forgot it.”

“We scarcely forgot,” his father said. “Weren’t you the one who always complained about how your mama pored over the reports from the front all those
years? My dear boy, get your arguments in a row, if you please.”

“Aren’t they?” Grant asked. “You insisted on this journey, after all. And insisted on coming along this time too, though God knows why.”

“You don’t have to invoke the Lord’s name,” his father said, with a smile to show how little he meant his pious rebuke. “You should know too. It’s the Season. Such a lot of things for your mama and me to do here now.”

“Rather say, such a lot of things I have to accomplish in a short time, and you want to be sure I do,” Grant said bitterly. “If I happened to fall victim to a fever or a footpad, or a bad tooth, it’s Rafe—or any son he begets—who’ll step into your shoes. That possibility is suddenly abundantly clear to you now, isn’t it? So I see your need for my haste. But I remind you,
I’m
the one who’ll pick a wife. Or not.”

Brenna’s hands closed into such tight fists she felt her newly grown fingernails dig into her palms. These three were still locked in a cruel knot, constantly snarling and biting at each other. Maybe they didn’t realize how their comments could hurt Rafe. Or maybe they did, and didn’t care. But she did, and though he kept his face expressionless, she knew Rafe did too.

“There’ll be a number of eligible ladies at Lady Annabelle’s party,” she said quickly, to stop them before they uttered another hurtful thing. “Why, the lady herself is available, and just the loveliest woman in London, all say.”

They turned their attention to her. But she had no
eyes for them. She saw Rafe’s expression. She swallowed hard. “Though I don’t know if we can get you an invitation at this late date,” she murmured, shaken to her soul. Rafe’s face was unreadable now. But she’d got a glimpse of some powerful emotion, and realized what she’d done. She’d only said it to divert them. She hadn’t considered the implications of what she’d suggested. That he should lose Annabelle was bad enough. But dear God! What if she’d set the wheels in motion for his brother to marry her? What pain would that cause Rafe? And herself?

“The lady Annabelle?” the marchioness asked, her eyes brightening. “But isn’t that the very woman
you
were courting, Rafe? Before that incident…before you met your lovely wife?”

“She is, the same,” Rafe said tersely.

“And inviting you to her soirees now, is she? What a gallant female,” his father said. “Do you know this paragon of forgiveness and discretion, Grant?”

“I’ve seen her, of course,” Grant answered. “Only that. It would be hard not to. She’s generally acknowledged to be the Toast of the Season. But I dislike being part of an admiring throng.”

“I wonder how thronged she is now, my dear,” his mama purred. “To my recollection, she’s been the Toast for years. Fairly stale toast now, I should think.”

“Fascinating,” the marquess said, glancing at his sons. “I should hate to miss such a social event. Can you get us invitations, Raphael?”

Rafe nodded. “Your names will be enough to make you welcome. I’ll send a note to Annabelle.”

A silence fell over the room. Brenna didn’t know what else to say; her tongue felt as heavy as her heart did now. They sat in the salon. The bright sunshine that flooded in through the windows couldn’t dispel the edgy tension her visitors brought with them, or the anxiety that gripped her. She was grateful for the stir she heard at the door, and got up quickly, looking for any excuse to leave the room. She didn’t need one.

“Good afternoon,” a merry voice said. “Am I intruding?”

Eric stood in the doorway.

“Never,” Rafe said. “Come in, Eric—meet my family.”

After he made the introductions, his mama spoke up. “One would scarcely believe you were brother and sister!” she exclaimed as she stared at Eric.

“We’re half siblings,” Eric said, “though wholly devoted.”

“Prettily said,” the marquess commented. “It seems brothers and sisters make better siblings than brothers do. Our two also do not resemble each other much.” His lips curled as he exchanged a glance with his wife.

Brenna shot a glance at Rafe. He didn’t move a muscle when he heard his father’s oblique taunt about the circumstances of his birth.

“Nor are they devoted to each other, I fear,” the marquess added dryly.

Rafe stayed silent. Grant bowed as though acknowledging the comment.

“Oh, but we’re a devoted family,” Eric said, “with enough sentiment for everyone. In fact, I know my
parents are anxious to meet you. Your presence was missed at the wedding, and much commented on. I trust you’re fully recovered now, my lady?”

Devoted?
Her brother, Brenna thought with an inward smile for Eric’s polite barb, would fight the devil himself for his sister. She thought in that moment that her brother and Rafe’s were examples of all that was different in their families.

Eric was tall, blond, and handsome. So was Grant. But there any resemblance ended. Eric bore himself with casual leonine grace; he was a man with great kindness, absolute confidence, and easy laughter. It showed. It attracted more than women; his male friends thought the world of him, and the men who had fought with him all said they’d have followed him into the fire if he’d asked them to. Some had.

Grant, on the other hand, was fair as ice, and about as warm as that too. He was lean and taut, his good looks compromised by his haughty expression. It was good he wasn’t a soldier, Brenna thought, because she couldn’t imagine any man would be at ease if he had to fight beside him. She wondered if females would yearn to be in his company either. And although it was clear his parents favored him, it seemed even they didn’t get along with him.

“Thank you for asking,” the marchioness told Eric. “I’m quite recovered.” But she had the grace to look a little self-conscious.

“I’m relieved. It’s good you’re here today,” Eric added. “My parents are arriving soon.”

“Soon?” a familiar voice boomed from the hall. “Eric, you lie. We’ve arrived!”

Brenna looked beyond Eric. “Papa!” she yipped. “Mama.” And without bothering to wonder what Rafe’s parents would think of her manners, she rushed past her brother and out to the hall to greet her parents.

“How long have you been here? Oh, wicked Eric, you knew! You and your jokes,” Brenna cried as she hugged her parents in turn. There was much laughter and many exclamations. They greeted each other as though they hadn’t seen each other in a year, not just a month. But too soon, Brenna knew it was time to turn and face Rafe’s family again.

Rafe did the introductions.

The marquess inclined his head; the colonel put out his hand. But Rafe’s mama picked up a small gold quizzing glass to inspect Brenna’s mama before she greeted her. Brenna’s face grew hot because of how rude that was. Then she had to hide a grin. Because her mama stared back at the marchioness. She didn’t appear one bit impressed, but instead, very curious. Then she smiled.

From the falseness of that smile, Brenna knew her mama had heard everything that had been said before her husband had made their presence known.

“My lord,” Maura Ford said sweetly as she bobbed a bow to Rafe’s father, “how good to meet you at last. My lady,” she said, inclining her head in a bow to the marchioness. “But there was no need to introduce this fellow to me,” she said, turning her attention to Grant. “Unlike Rafe, one can easily see whose son he is!”

There were gasps, Brenna didn’t know whose, because she’d done it too. Rafe’s eyes glittered; he went still as a standing stone. Maura Ford had managed to shake even Rafe’s parents into a moment of shocked silence. They might hint about Rafe’s parentage at every opportunity among themselves. But this was outright uncivil, coming from a relative stranger. What could her mama be thinking of? Brenna wondered, appalled.

Her mother seemed unaware of her slip. She went on to compound it. “Yes, your eldest is your spit and image,” she told Rafe’s father, “while it’s clear Rafe takes after his celebrated ancestor,” she added comfortably.

“His…ancestor?’ the marquess asked carefully.

“Indeed, the illustrious founder of your line,” Brenna’s mama said. “Sir Griffith. The famous ‘Griffin’ of Arrow Court himself.”

“Hardly,” the marquess drawled, relaxing. “I imagine you say that because they were both warriors, in their fashion. But there’s no way to know what our illustrious Griffin looked like.”

Maura Ford laughed, the sound pure and silvery in the quiet room. “Oh, but there is! I don’t know if my daughter told you, but my consuming passion is the study of ancestral bloodlines. Not that I’m one of those people who’ll back you into a corner, reciting my own lineage chapter and verse! Though I could, of course. The entire study fascinates me. I had a letter in
The Gentleman’s Magazine
on the topic once. Perhaps you saw it? Of course, I signed it ‘M. Ford’
since I was very sure a ‘Maura,’ no matter how learned, couldn’t get her words into their hallowed pages!”

She laughed merrily. “I became interested in the subject after Brenna was born. Well, but anyone can see Eric’s a replica of his papa, and Bren is obviously from my side. But the poor child was always being accused of being from some other even more foreign land. I proved it was all Wales, and met many fascinating relatives doing it. History is long, but blood does not lie. And Mother Nature’s lazy and likes nothing so much as repeating a pattern. The long and short is that when Bren wrote to me about meeting your son, I set to researching your lines. I congratulate you, a commendable family. Almost as old as my own. There was a lot to read about. And so the moment I met Rafe I saw he belonged to your house—more than any of you, I might add. Because he’s the absolute archetype, of course.”

“Of course?”
the marquess asked with a puzzled frown.

“Indeed,” she said with surprise. “Surely it was apparent the minute he was born? I’m surprised you didn’t name him ‘Griffin.’ But I suppose his pet name ‘Rafe’ is close enough. These things skip generations, but never entirely leave the line, do they?”

The marquess started to speak and stopped, his mouth partly open. His wife stared. Grant narrowed his eyes. Rafe stayed still. But Brenna realized Eric and her father were holding back laughter. She relaxed and slipped her hand into Rafe’s cold one.
She’d trusted her mama all her life; she wouldn’t stop now.

“My dear sir!” Maura Ford exclaimed. “Sir Griffith—the Griffin? You didn’t know?”

“Obviously,” the marquess said coldly, “not.” He dropped each word like a stone. “What is it, my dear woman, that so amuses you?”

“Well, my dear sir,” Brenna’s mama said, stepping in front of her husband, whose eyes had kindled at the other man’s tone of voice, “the name, for one thing. The heritage, for another. There are many red-haired people in your district, are there not? I could regale you for hours about the Saxons, Gaels, and Celts of similar coloring who settled there well before Hastings. Before the Romans or the Danes, in fact. But the name surely is the key?”

She puffed in exasperation at her audience’s obvious confusion. “Gruffydd is a Welsh name, a variant form of Griffin,” she said patiently, like a teacher with dim students. “That’s your ancestor. And that’s likely why he had the name, not because he fought like a griffin. They were very literal in the old days, you know, not schooled in the classics. I doubt they even knew how fierce a griffin was supposed to be. That’s what first alerted me to it. The rest was simple. ‘Griffin’ also means the same thing as the Celtic ‘Griffith’ and the Greek ‘Rufus.’ And that is, of course, self-explanatory. There you are. There it is. You see?”

She stopped, looking pleased. When she saw everyone gaping at her, she added, much too sweetly, “They all mean ‘red-haired.’ And so, what
with one name or the other, it’s unmistakable. Your Griffin was likely the spit and image of your Rafe, of course.”

“Of course…” the marchioness said after a moment’s silence. She smiled, honestly for the first time, and exhaled a long sigh. “Of course,” she said, raising her chin and looking at her husband triumphantly. “Yes, of course! As anyone
ought
to have known.”