“But he didn’t.”
Brand shook his head. “No, no he didn’t. He’s growing fond of her, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” She smiled, but there was a hint of concern in her expression as well. Brand could only guess at the reason, but if it was the same thing that worried him, he understood. When Brute returned home with Catherine, what would he and Miss Gifford have to discuss? What reason would she have to come to Radbourne? What goal would they share?
Brand had no answer to any of those questions. Maybe he would need to get a dog of his own—an unruly beast in need of training. His mother would love that.
“Shall we be off, my lord?” said Miss Gifford. “If I am to make myself ready for the picnic this afternoon, I should return sooner than later.”
He gestured in the direction from whence they had come. “After you.”
She signaled to the groom who had followed them to alert him of their plans, then spurred her stallion forward. Brand did the same, not feeling disappointed that their ride had come to an end. The sooner he returned Miss Gifford safely to her home, the sooner he could check the hidden container in the clearing.
ARE YOU INCAPABLE of a sincere answer, my lord? Three times now I have asked you the same question, trying to make myself clearer with each attempt, and still you find a way to avoid answering. My patience is wearing thin, sir, and if you do not provide me with a straight answer this time around, I shall have to take more drastic measures. Do you wish for me to call on Mrs. Harper and introduce myself? If so, continue dodging my questions, although I must admit your answers have amused me a great deal.
But really, my lord, I must know what a man of wealth and leisure might do with his mornings. Do you sip chocolate in bed? Do you peruse the newspaper? Does your valet select your clothing, or do you? Do you go for a morning ride or walk the grounds? Do you breakfast with your parents? Do you follow any sort of routine, or do you like to shuffle things around and keep life more interesting?
Your last note asked if I planned to pattern my story after Mr. Harper or you, and my answer is the same as it always has been. Mr. Harper, obviously. But since I am unable to ask him my questions, they must fall to you. So, for pity’s sake, please cease your teasing and give me something I can use. It seems most unfair that your courtship of my sister continues to progress while my story does not.
Your irritated friend,
Prudence
Brand smiled, liking that she had at last signed her name without the “Miss.” It had taken several exchanged letters to convince her to do it, and she had finally conceded.
After his first note, in which he’d signed “Knave,” she had responded with “Miss Prudence Edith Gifford,” no doubt making a point. In a postscript, she’d added, Knave on its own has a wicked ring to it, and I could never think of you in such a way. Therefore, Lord Knave it must be.
Brand should have let the matter drop, but he couldn’t resist the challenge to convince her otherwise. He told her that true friends did not use such formality, therefore Prudence it must be. And if “Knave” sounded too wicked for her delicate ears, she could choose between one of the following: Brand, The Extraordinarily Saintly Knave, or The Devilishly Handsome Tempter of Women.
She had addressed her next letter to “Brand, the Wretch” and had signed “Miss P” to the bottom.
Brand had laughed out loud before scribbling out his reply.
Prudence,
Pray tell, does Brand, the Wretch sound less wicked than Knave?
Brand, the Wretch
She had responded on the same slip of paper.
Perhaps not, but it is more fitting.
–Miss P
P.S. Will you kindly answer at least one of my q’s? You truly are a wretch.
After that, Brand had, at last, taken the time to answer her most recent questions, though he could not resist the temptation to not really answer them. If he gave her thorough responses, she would eventually cease needing his help and their delightful correspondence would come to an end.
As much as he should want that very thing to happen, he could not desire it. She never accompanied her mother and sister to social events, and although he often hoped to encounter her again in the clearing, he never had. This was his only remaining link to her, and his entire being protested the thought of giving her up completely. Not yet, at least.
But he could not continue to provide her with silly answers to her questions either. As she put it, it was unfair of him.
Brand removed the pencil from the box, wandered over to the fallen log, and sat down to compose another letter. He addressed it to “Prudence,” kept his teasing to a minimum, and sincerely answered one of her questions. The others would have to wait for another time.
PRUDENCE REMOVED BRAND’S latest letter from the container and settled as comfortably as she could on the log, wishing she could shake the guilt that had been her constant companion since that morning. Sophia had asked to join her on her walk, and Prudence had reluctantly agreed even though she wanted nothing more than to rush to the clearing and unearth the container. Less than ten minutes into their walk, Prudence realized that Sophia only wanted to discuss the state of things between her and Lord Knave—something Prudence couldn’t bring herself to listen to. So she’d feigned a headache and returned indoors, only to sneak back out again when she spied Sophia riding away on her stallion with a groom not far behind.
She berated herself for being a dreadful sister, not that she was about to go after Sophia and offer a listening ear. In this one thing, Sophia would need to find another confidant. Prudence could not take on that role. But she could have tried harder to change the subject and speak with her sister about other things—and she would try harder. Another time.
For now, she intended to set aside all thoughts of her sister and read Brand’s latest letter. Sophia saw him on an almost daily basis, be it while working with Brute, attending a dinner party, or galloping across the countryside. Prudence only had this one thing. Was it so wrong to keep it?
Dear Prudence,
Consider me chastised and repentant. You have exercised enough patience with me and my ridiculous answers that I will not ask you to do so any longer, though I am glad to know you found them amusing. From this point forward, I promise to do my utmost to answer at least one of your questions as sincerely and genuinely as possible in each note. Sadly, I can only respond to one today, but I will do my utmost to answer them all at some point in the near future. In the meantime, would you do me the kindness of numbering them in order of importance to you?
Your friend and confidant,
Brand, the wretch no longer
Question:
If you were to meet a woman who made an impression on you, to what extent might she occupy your thoughts in the days that follow your encounter? Would she occupy them at all?
Answer:
That all depends on the sort of impression she makes. If it is a bad impression, she might occupy my mind a little, like an irritating memory one must push from his mind every so often. If she makes an unremarkable impression, I would probably not think much of her until we met again, at which time I would remember thinking neither ill nor well of her. If she makes a good, but unexceptional impression, I would think well of her, but I would not give her much thought beyond that. If she happens to make a sensational impression, and this is a very rare thing for me, she would occupy my mind a great deal more, especially if she is a woman who should not be on my mind. That is the way of it at times, is it not? When something is forbidden to you, the allure is greater. Or is the allure greater because she is sensational? I do not know.
This time Prudence did not giggle or laugh or call him a wretch in her mind. Rather, she let the paper fall to her lap and swallowed, wiping her suddenly clammy hands across her skirts. What had he meant by that? Had he used the word “sensational” on purpose, because that was the word she had used to describe their kiss, or was it merely a coincidence? And if she wa
s the forbidden woman he spoke of, was he only drawn to her because he shouldn’t be?
Prudence examined her own feelings on the matter and determined the same did not hold true for her. Her feelings towards Brand had nothing at all to do with the fact that she shouldn’t care for him and everything to do with the fact that she did. She liked that he made her feel things she never had before, that he listened, accepted her, and did not think it necessary to change her. And oh, how he made her laugh.
Only she was not laughing now. She was aching and feeling like the most horrible of sisters. Perhaps she should begin signing her name as “Prudence, the wretch.”
No. She should not be signing her name at all on any letter addressed to Brand. She should not be writing to him or thinking of him or secretly wishing her sister would not find so much to like in him. Prudence had been using her story as an excuse to keep their connection going, but in reality, that had very little to do with it. She may have chastised him for not answering her questions, but she had not meant it, not really. How could she when she loved reading his replies?
This must stop.
Ever so slowly, Prudence refolded the letter and stuffed it into the pocket sewn into her shift. Without numbering the priority of her questions or responding to his note in any way, she replaced the lid on the container, set it back in the hole, and slid the rock over top.
It was time to leave Lord Knave alone and allow him to fully woo her sister.
BRAND HELPED MISS GIFFORD into his gig and jumped in next to her, taking the reins in his hands. Out of habit, he glanced at the upper windows of Talford Hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of Prudence. For a brief moment, he thought he spied her peeking out from one of them, but her face disappeared in an instant, leaving only a quivering curtain behind. Disappointed, Brand returned his attention to the horses, wondering why she’d stopped leaving notes and questions and chastisements. He had returned every day for nearly a fortnight, only to find the container unchanged. At first, he had assumed she’d been occupied with other things, but after several days of no response from her, he knew it was something else.
She had stayed away on purpose, and Brand missed her. If only she’d have waved or smiled or at the very least met his gaze.
She is wise to stay away, he thought, though it did nothing to cure his displeasure.
With a little more force than necessary, he whipped the reins to spur his matching grays onward. The gig lurched into motion, causing Miss Gifford to emit a squeak and slide backwards.
Brand muttered a curse under his breath before slowing the horses down and offering a speedy apology. “Forgive me, Miss Gifford. It was not my intention to unseat you.”
“It’s perfectly all right, my lord.” She didn’t sound the least bit put out as she adjusted her skirts. “I enjoy fast-moving horses. I was simply not expecting such a speedy start is all. Your grays are quite lively, aren’t they?”
More and more, Brand was coming to appreciate Miss Gifford’s even-tempered personality. She didn’t upset easily and had always been quick to forgive any thoughtlessness on his part. He found it easy to admire and respect her in many ways, but try as he might, he could not make himself feel anything more for her than that.
There was a time he might have been content with such feelings, but now that he’d been privy to something stronger and more enticing, he yearned for it.
“It is a remarkable day today, isn’t it?” Miss Gifford had tilted her face towards the sun and closed her eyes, no doubt enjoying the warmth it offered, along with the rich scents of fall. Indeed, the day was remarkably beautiful, but her mentioning the weather yet again only reminded him of the distance between them.
Brand suddenly felt an urgent need to discuss something other than the state of the skies or animals. Surely they could connect in some other way. “Tell me, Miss Gifford, if you had an entire afternoon to spend at your leisure, how would you spend it?”
She appeared surprised by the question at first, but then her brow furrowed in thought. After a moment, a small smile lifted her lips. “That depends. Is the day as glorious as it is today?”
“It is as you decide.”
“A day entirely in my power?” She grinned. “I do like the sound of that. Hmm…” Her gloved finger tapped against her lips, reminding Brand of Prudence, only with her it would have been a pencil instead of her finger.
Devil take it. Stop thinking about her.
“Would I have control over the reactions of others—or perhaps their lack of reaction?” Miss Gifford asked.
Brand had no idea why she would ask such a thing but nodded nonetheless. “The day is yours to command.”
“Then I believe I would begin with a vigorous ride on the back of Dominicus without a bonnet or gloves. I might even borrow a pair of my father’s breeches and ride astride.”
The ever-poised Miss Gifford wished to ride astride? Brand would love to see such a sight.
“After that, I would take a pair of scissors to the pillow I have been attempting to embroider for ages now and shred it to pieces. Then I would toss the shredded fabric into the nearest fireplace and watch it burn with delight. If, as you say, I can control the reactions of others, I would tell my mother to swallow her lecture and smile instead, and I would tell Prudence to stop laughing.”
Brand chuckled, enjoying her version of an afternoon. Where had this side of Miss Gifford been hiding, and what had prompted her to throw caution to the wind this afternoon? “Pray do not stop there. What next?”
“I would drink several cups of chocolate and be sincerely tempted to pour what was left over the keys of the pianoforte. But I wouldn’t actually do it as Prudence is quite gifted on the instrument and, though she’ll never admit it because it would please our mother, enjoys playing on occasion.”
Brand wished that Prudence’s name would stop entering the conversation because it was making it difficult to forget her and focus on her sister. But he was coming to learn that the two women were close and would probably always share a portion of each other’s imaginary afternoons. He could not fault Miss Gifford for that.
“I would then go for a swim in the pond behind our house.” She sighed wistfully. “I do so love to swim. It is so… freeing, is it not?”
Brand glanced at her in surprise. She knew how to swim? He could not picture her swimming any more than he could picture her feeling stifled by her life. She seemed so well-suited to her situation. Yet here she sat, yearning for freedom and independence.
“How did you learn to swim?” he asked.
Her cheeks turned a rosy hue as though she’d unintentionally revealed something she would have preferred to keep to herself. She dropped her gaze to her lap, and her fingers nervously played with the folds of her dress. “I, er… our solicitor’s son taught me.”
Brand wondered if he’d heard correctly. “Your solicitor’s son?”
She nodded. “When his father would come to discuss business dealings with mine, Hugh would come along. His mother had recently died, you see, and his father didn’t wish to leave him home alone. He had been asked to wait below stairs, but that first meeting went on for hours and he grew tired of waiting. So he escaped out the servants’ entrance and happened upon me in the gardens. He asked if I would play lawn bowls with him, and we found some empty canisters in a shed and a large rock that was not round at all. We attempted to bowl until my governess called for me. After that, whenever I knew the solicitor was coming, I would sneak away from my lessons and meet him in the gardens. We climbed trees, created imaginary worlds, built a fort, and swam—though we only dared to do the latter when his father warned him the meeting would be a lengthy one. We had the most marvelous time together.”
She smiled at no one in particular, and Brand wondered if she had forgotten that he sat at her side. “He once told me that my hair was his favorite color and that I should stop wearing bonnets because they were always getting snagged in the trees or bushes.” She laughed lightly. “That i
s one of the reasons I enjoy removing my bonnet when I am out of sight of the house. I always remember what he said to me, and I feel… almost beautiful.”
“You are beautiful,” said Brand.
Her eyes darted to his, and her cheeks turned bright red. “Forgive my ramblings, my lord. I don’t know what came over me. You must think me absurd.”
Brand began to chastise himself for not keeping the compliment to himself until he realized the ridiculousness of the thought. He had only told her the truth. She was beautiful, especially when she lowered her guard. What was so wrong with pointing that out? If they married, would he be made to spend his entire life guarding his tongue, even when it came to compliments? And why would he think her absurd? Did she see him only as a toplofty gentleman, incapable of understanding the joys of lawn bowls or swimming? Would they ever be able to move beyond whatever it was that wedged itself between them?
Brand led his horses off the road and stopped the gig, turning to his companion. “What happened to Hugh?”
The question seemed to quiet her anxieties. She stopped fidgeting and peered into the distance, her profile more solemn than before.
“One rainy spring afternoon, my governess caught us coming out of the woods drenched and covered in mud and laughing hysterically. He had been holding my hand to help me through some muck, and she misinterpreted the gesture for something more and immediately reported the incident to my parents. They were so angry and shocked by my behavior. I remember feeling as though I had committed a grievous sin for forming a friendship with a boy of lower birth. For years, I could not understand how something that had felt so good and joyful could have been so wrong.”
Her hands flew to her cheeks, and she shook her head. “Goodness. I don’t know why I am telling you this. I have never mentioned it to another soul.”
“Not even Prudence?” The informal use of Prudence’s name slipped out before Brand could rethink his choice of words, but Miss Gifford didn’t seem to notice.
My Sister's Intended Page 15