"I am so glad you will be in town a few more days, Eleanor," Moira remarked. "You will have to come dine with Wynthrope and me."
"Yes," Wyn chimed in, casting a bright glance at Brahm. "Of course, we'll have to invite another gentleman for a fourth."
Bastard.
Moira laid a hand on her husband's arm. "How about Nathaniel?"
Wynthrope grinned. "An excellent choice."
Brahm gritted his teeth. Nathaniel Caylan was blond and handsome, wealthy and damnably easy to like. In fact, women seemed to adore him. He did
not
want Eleanor to be one of those women.
He did not want her to leave either, even though he had decided the night before that he had to let her go. Letting her go running to another man— a man who could dance properly, no less— was not what he had in mind. How could he stop her? Even if he made an ass of himself by admitting his feelings, there was no guarantee she'd stay. In fact, she looked very happy about going.
Of course she was happy. He'd treated her abominably ever since her arrival. And then there was that fiasco last night. She'd tasted like heaven on his tongue. His heart rolled over in his chest and his groin tightened at the mere thought of it. There could be no denying that she had wanted him as much as he wanted her, and then he'd left her. That must have seemed odd to her, even if he had given her pleasure and denied his own before leaving.
"Excuse me," he said, rising to his feet awkwardly even with the aid of his cane. No doubt Nathaniel Caylan would have done a more graceful job of it. "I think I will retire."
"Retire?" Wynthrope's tone was incredulous. "But it is still early."
Brahm fixed him with what he hoped looked like a smile, but felt like a snarl. "I am tired."
He said his farewells and left the room, cursing his leg and every other inadequacy as he limped down the corridor. His anger grew as he walked. As he climbed the stairs to his room, his cane thumped heavily on each and every stair. By the time he reached his room, he was practically smoking under his cravat and in terrible want of a drink. A good stiff one.
He wasn't tired. He simply didn't want to sit there and listen to Eleanor make happy plans of all the things she would do once she left his house. Damaged reputation or not, it appeared that she was going to embrace life and all it offered. Meanwhile, he would go back to life as it always was. He would look after his properties and his tenants, and survey the few husband-hunting misses tossed in his path with the same disinterest.
He wanted no other woman but Eleanor, and for the life of him he did not know why. What was it about her that made her so very special? He could not narrow it down to one thing. He only knew that when she was near he felt whole and content. He had a reason. Without her, he was an automaton, going through life but never truly living.
Stripping off his jacket and cravat, he seated himself in the chair by the window and tried to pass the time by reading. He sat there for what felt like hours, reading but a few pages. His mind kept wandering, kept drifting to thoughts of Eleanor.
When the knock sounded on his door, it was hardly a surprise. It was Devlin, no doubt coming to check up on him. "Come in."
It wasn't Devlin. It was Eleanor.
He didn't bother to stand. "You should not be here." Damn, but the woman had no compunctions about coming to his room regardless of the hour.
"I know." She closed the door behind her. "I thought we should talk."
Sighing, he closed his book and set it on the table before him. He forced his expression to remain impassive. "Is there something we need to discuss?"
She smiled at his attempt at ignorance. "Many things, but mostly I want to apologize."
Apologize? "For what?" Yes, what now? Perhaps she blamed herself for there not being enough salt on the fish at dinner. Or perhaps the moon wasn't high enough in the sky. Lord only knew what the woman had found to blame herself for this time.
She came closer, finally settling into the chair opposite his. The lamp there lit her face. If he lived to be one hundred, he would always remember her features by lamplight. "For not trusting in you, or myself for that matter. I am sorry for everything I said that night at my father's house."
Not quite what he was expecting, and much more appreciated. "What did you say that wasn't true? You would have a difficult time trusting me. Anyone would. There are times when I do not trust me either."
She hung her head. "You asked only that I give you the chance to prove yourself, and I took back my promise after granting you that one boon. I reacted out of fear and foolishness, and I hurt you. For that I am truly sorry."
Brahm stared at her, swallowing hard. She was sorry. But did she love him? "You do not have to apologize, though I appreciate it. Perhaps it was your heart's way of making you realize that you did not want to marry me after all."
"No. That wasn't it." There was conviction in her voice. Strong conviction.
Good God, he had been holding his breath. It rushed out through his flared nostrils. He wanted to speak, but was too bloody scared to ask what he wanted to know.
Leaning forward, she placed one long hand on his lame leg. The warmth of her touch radiated throughout the damaged tissue and bone. If he was of a more religious bent, he'd think she had just healed him. "I am sorry that the situation drove you to drink."
He shook his head at the remorse in her voice. "You should not blame yourself for that either. It was my decision."
"I know, but I helped you make it, I think." Her gaze was clear and honest as it met his. She straightened again, leaving his leg cool and aching where her touch had been.
This was the least martyrish she'd been since her arrival at his house. It both pleased and wounded him. Pleased because she wasn't blaming herself for things that weren't her fault, and wounded because she was accepting responsibility for things that were.
"Do not do this to yourself," he advised. "Do not blame yourself for someone else's actions. You did nothing. Nothing. Trust me, I know a thing or two about carrying around needless guilt. It never goes away and you can never assuage it. You simply have to release it."
She leaned forward once more, but didn't touch him. This time she rested her forearms on her thighs as her fingers twined together. "You are talking about your father's death, aren't you?"
He nodded. They had never talked about it. Usually he avoided the subject altogether, unless he was forced to discuss it with his brothers. Odd that now he felt like telling her everything.
He leaned forward himself, copying her posture. Their faces were no more than six inches apart. His gaze locked with hers, wanting her to see the truth in his eyes. "I have blamed myself for my father's death ever since I was sober enough to take responsibility."
Eleanor blinked. "But it was an accident."
"Yes." He could admit that without hesitation. "An accident that I have often told myself I could have prevented if I had been a thousand things other than what I was at the time."
She tilted her head. "Such as?"
He ran a hand through his hair. "Oh, sober, a better son, a better man. Mostly sober."
A smile curved her amazing lips. "What could you have done if you were sober?"
Wasn't it obvious? "I could have stopped him."
"But if you were sober you probably would not have been with him."
She had a point. "Perhaps not."
She eyed him intently. "Maybe instead of blaming yourself for something you could not control you should just be thankful that you and your father were so close, and that you were there with him his last night on earth."
He blinked. "I never thought of it that way."
Her smile grew. "I know. You do not think of many things the way I do."
Wasn't that the truth. It was also something he didn't want to think about at the moment. He just wanted to enjoy what time they had left together, not make it worse by getting maudlin. "I never got to say good-bye."
"Few of us do."
She spoke like someone with experience. "Did you get to say good-bye to your mother?"
"No. I knew she was dying, but I wasn't with her when she died. I often wish I had been. I would have liked for her to know I was there."
"What would you have done?"
"I do not know. Told her I loved her, perhaps?"
"She knew that."
She frowned. "People always say that. When you die, do you think you will realize who loves you and who does not?"
Yes, she certainly thought about things differently than he did. "Perhaps when we die we take stock of those we love and are simply thankful to have had them love us in return."
She was not done with her philosophical debate. "What about those who loved you without the sentiment being returned?"
Brahm's throat dried. "I suppose we should be even more thankful for those people."
"And those whom you loved but did not love you in return?"
Was she asking about herself? "With any luck I will never know who they were."
Her expression grew soft. "I do not think it is something you will ever have to worry about, Brahm. You are the kind of man who knows where he stands with people."
"Not with you." The words tumbled out before he could stop them.
Again her head tilted. "Do you not?"
"You never told me why you stayed, despite the risk to your reputation." Nor had she told him why she was leaving now that the damage had already been done.
"I thought perhaps you would have figured that out by now. You are not a dumb man."
"I only look intelligent."
She laughed.
Grinning despite himself, he continued, "I could offer a few reasons why you would persevere through my moods and shaking and charming disposition, but I want to hear it from you. Will you tell me? Before you leave, tell me why you stayed."
"All right."
He held his breath.
"I stayed for the same reason that I am leaving tomorrow— because I love you."
She loved him. All the breath rushed from Brahm's lungs as his heart imploded.
"I have loved you forever, I believe," she added. "And that is why I'm leaving. You want me to go, so I will go."
He didn't want her to go, but it was for the best; he knew that. As much as his heart screamed for him not to let it happen, he could not ask her to stay when he could not trust himself to be good enough for her.
"But before I leave, I have a question for you."
His heart leaped into a gallop. If she asked if he loved her, what would he say? If he told her yes, then she might cling to some hope for the two of them, but if he told her no, it would be a lie— a lie that would hurt her. "Fine."
"Will you marry me?"
Chapter 20
M
arry
her?
Brahm shook his head, trying to clear the confusion there. He fell back in his chair, staring at her as he slumped in disbelief. "Did you just propose?"
Eleanor nodded, her smile unsure. "I did. Will you answer?"
He would, but not in the way she wanted him to. "Eleanor, you know as well as I do that we cannot marry."
She looked so crushed, he could have bitten his tongue clean off. "Why?"
He rose to his feet. In his haste he forgot his cane, and his steps were uncertain and jerky without it. "Because I'm a drunk and you deserve better than that. You deserve someone who you can trust, who you do not have to wonder about when he is at his club or with friends. You said as much yourself." He shouldn't have to explain, she knew all of this already. It had been she who made him see it.
"I will never doubt you again, Brahm." She stood as well, as though afraid he might take flight. "I might doubt myself, but never you."
How idealistic she sounded. Could she hear herself? Doubt herself? Did that mean that every time he made a mess of things, she would blame herself? That wasn't right. She would grow to hate him as his mother had his father.
Both of his hands raked through his hair. "This isn't a sickness I will ever recover from, Ellie." It damn near killed him to say it. He had fooled himself for so long thinking that he could be cured if he was strong and patient, but there was no cure, he knew that now. "I am going to try my damnedest to make certain I never drink again, but it is not a promise I can give you. Do you understand?"
"Yes." Her expression was resolute, her spine straight and sure.
"You saw what happens to me when I drink to excess. You saw how low I can fall."