Brethren of the Coast Box Set 2

by Barbara Devlin

  Just then, Alex glanced in his direction. When she whispered in Cara’s ear, and his ladylove gave him her back, he mentally tucked his halo in his pocket with devilish delight. Diverting to the card room, he sought three unwitting but effective accomplices.

  “Everett.” He chucked Sabrina’s husband on the shoulder. “So good to see you and your countess out and about tonight, given her delicate condition. Tell me, how do you do it?”

  “Evening, Raynesford.” Markham’s welcoming smile faltered. “How do I do—what?”

  “How do you sit here without care?” Lance shrugged. “Daresay, were it me, I would be on pins and needles. Probably would not let my wife, if I had one, out of my sight.”

  “Ah, well, Brie is pregnant, and she is the last person I would ever describe as delicate.” With a chuckle, Everett sipped his brandy. “I can’t keep her under lock and key, as if she were a criminal. You will understand when it is your time.”

  “Yes, I am aware of her characteristic tenacity, as I have known her all her life, which is why I am worried.” Braced for a lightning strike, Lance frowned and prepared to deliver his first attack. “Mind you, I would not interfere in your personal affairs, but never have I seen her so peaked.” For added effect, he glanced from side to side before leaning close to impart the final blow. “Are there complications?”

  “Sabrina is peaked? Do you believe she is ill?” His expression sobered, Everett jumped from his chair, spilling the remaining contents of his glass, which he thrust at Lance. “I told her we should have stayed in tonight, but no—she insisted on attending the ball. Well, enough is enough. I am putting my foot down, and we are going home.”

  While he hated to torture a fellow knight, Lance made a mental note to send a case of his best brandy to the overwrought man in recompense for the untenable but necessary breach of the brotherly code. Poor Sabrina had no idea that a wicked storm loomed on the horizon.

  One down, two to go.

  Upon re-entering the grand ballroom, he scanned the vicinity, located his next apprenticed allies, and wrinkled his nose. The Kleinfeld brothers, known throughout the ton for their ghastly attire and none too graceful ability on the dance floor, engaged in a rousing discourse on men’s fashions. As much as he regretted his actions, he could devise no other solution to his quandary. Simply put, he would deliver Elaine and Alex into the gawky, clumsy embrace—and hope the Brethren women survived unscathed.

  “Gentlemen, how are you faring this evening?”

  The elder Kleinfeld cast a toothy grin. “Lord Raynesford, do join us.” He thumbed the lapel of a garish red coat trimmed with bright gold buttons. “We were just debating the latest trend in men’s apparel.”

  The younger Kleinfeld, sporting a hideous purple version of his brother’s equally offensive garb, proudly proclaimed, “I say it is past due for us to indulge ourselves as the ladies have done for so long.”

  “I concur with your assessment.” Lance examined his own conservative black formalwear. “I only wish I were not the provincial that I might take such daring liberties with my wardrobe.”

  “You could do it, Raynesford.” The Elder smacked him on the shoulder. “You must be bold. Perhaps orange would suit you?”

  “I will speak with my tailor, first thing.” Lance forced a smile, averted his gaze, and adopted what he hoped was a convincingly forlorn expression.

  “Forgive me, Raynesford.” The Younger neared. “But you seem a bit out of sorts.”

  “Alas, I am at a loss.” Lance sighed dramatically. “I am in need of assistance in a delicate matter and too proud to ask for aid.”

  Both brothers clicked their heels and stood at attention.

  “Whatever it is, Raynesford, we are at your service,” the Elder offered.

  “I do not know.” He tapped a finger to his chin and feigned hesitance. “You see Lady Prescott and Lady Seymour, two of my charges for the evening, are most desirous of a dance. But in my current state, I am unable to accommodate them.”

  “Say nothing more, as it would be our honor.” The Elder glanced at his brother and waggled his bushy brows. “Perhaps a twirl about the ballroom in the arms of two dashing rakes will lift their spirits.”

  “Well, if you are certain it is not too great an imposition.” It was all he could do not to laugh.

  “Think nothing of it.” The Younger waved dismissively. “You may rely on us.”

  Lance strolled at a close but discreet distance from the two dandy peacocks. He bit his lip as each gangly buffoon made his request and subsequently led an unsuspecting Elaine and a wary Alex into the crush.

  Which left Cara at his mercy.

  With a narrow stare, she asked, “Was that your doing?”

  “I beg your pardon?” he replied with angelic innocence.

  “How could you be so cruel to Alex and Elaine?” And then realization dawned. “Oh, no. And you set Everett on my sister, too.”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  Lance adjusted the lace trim of his sleeve and rued the fact that she read him so well, yet even his future bride could not anticipate the surprise he had struggled in earnest to prepare. “I do not know what—”

  “Shame on you.” Cara elbowed him in the ribs. “That was neither nice nor heroic, much in opposition to your namesake. My poor brother-in-law was beside himself with worry, and he did not allow Sabrina the opportunity to say goodbye before he all but carried her home.”

  “And if I know Brie, she will compensate admirably for any discomfit I have caused.” He shuffled his feet and arched a brow. “But I am not sorry because I long for your company without hindrance.”

  “I am not certain I like the sound of that.” Nevertheless, Cara rested her palm in the crook of his arm. “And if the ladies ever discover the depths of your unscrupulous behavior, they will never forgive you.”

  “Nonsense, they are Brethren.” He bent and whispered in her ear, “Trust me?”

  “Not by a long chalk.”

  “Smart lady.” He grinned. “Come away with me, sugar kisses.”

  “Oh?” She averted her stare and appeared disinterested, but the pressure of her fingers declared otherwise. “Where?”

  “Some place more private.” He steered her toward his intended destination and chuckled when she arched a brow. “I have a surprise for you, and you will enjoy it.”

  “Indeed?” With nervous agitation, she glanced about and bit her lip, as he led her down a side hall. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I know you as well as you know me.” Myriad emotions danced in her expression. Curiosity, anticipation, and, dare he think it, excitement. Lost amid the dim light of the cavernous mansion, he sighed in relief when he discovered the door for which he searched. Retreating, he peered from side to side, because he would brook no interruptions, and set the oak panel wide. “Ladies first.”

  She took a single step and jerked to a halt. “It is dark in there.”

  “We have a fire in the hearth, and that will suffice.”

  “For what?” She frowned.

  “Patience is a virtue, lady mine.” He tapped her nose and handed her over the threshold. Feeling his way, he fumbled with the key in the lock, waited until the music from the ballroom reached a crescendo, which he hoped would mask the telltale click, and set the bolt.

  In an instant, Cara whirled and stomped a foot. “Lance, what are you about?”

  “I promise, my motives are honorable.” With palms raised in mock surrender, he prowled in a half-circle, but she remained fixed, as he shuffled two chairs, creating the open space he required. “On my word as a gentleman, I want only to share something special.”

  “I gather this is Lord Chomley’s study?” she inquired in a bare whisper.

  “Aye.” He kissed the crest of her ear as he hugged her from behind.

  “Do you think Dorothea Chomley will appreciate your relocating the furniture?” She inhaled a shaky breath.

  “I will return ever
ything to its proper place before we depart, if it pleases you.” He rotated her in his grasp. “But for now, I should very much like you to close your eyes.”

  “What for?” She furrowed her brow.

  “Indulge me, dearest and loveliest Cara.” Lance rubbed his nose to hers. “Just for tonight.”

  “All right.” She acquiesced and inclined her head. “Now what?”

  “Listen carefully,” he said in a low voice. “Can you hear the music?”

  “Yes.” She shivered in his embrace, and desire charged the field.

  How Lance ached to claim her, to push Cara to the Aubusson rug and lose himself in the lush paradise of her body. In a momentary lapse of judgment, a proposal traipsed the tip of his tongue. In the nick of time, he drew rein, as he had sworn he would not broach a betrothal until he was assured of victory.

  Clutching her wrist, he situated her palm on his shoulder. Snaking an arm about her waist, he pulled her near and took her other hand in his, twining their fingers. Replaying the past fortnight in his mind, he envisioned the requisite movements and prayed that his efforts had not failed him.

  Summoning courage, he asked, “May I have this dance, sugar kisses?”

  She flinched, almost sending them to the floor. “What?”

  He chuckled and steered her in a less-than-graceful, somewhat stilted waltz.

  “How is it possible?” Cara clung to him as they completed a full rotation. “You are dancing.”

  “Yes.” Lance grinned. “Well, it is a poor imitation, but it is the best I can do at present.”

  “But—your leg.” And then she did something he never would have predicted. Collapsing against him, she buried her face in his chest and burst into tears.

  “Easy, love.” He cradled her head. “I had thought you would be pleased with my progress. I never meant to make you cry.”

  “Oh, but I am happy.” She sobbed and clutched fistfuls of his lapels. “I always believed you would get better, and we just had to be patient. But to see you like this, as my hero, I am overjoyed.”

  “Tell me truly, am I still your hero?” Even as Lance uttered the words, he cursed himself, yet he remained in desperate need of her validation.

  “How could you even ask such a question?” Cara met his gaze, and he shuddered. “How could you ever doubt your importance in my life? Do you think me some fickle female, that my admiration should wane due to an injured limb?”

  “No, my girl. You are, as always, the eternal optimist.” With newfound respect he studied her, in awe as he uncovered a new layer of her persona, and he caressed her cheek. “And you are the strongest woman of my acquaintance. Thanks to your diligence, unwavering support, and a lot of practice, I seem to be improving.”

  “So who did you partner while preparing for this night?” She shifted and snuggled closer. “Perhaps Captain Collingwood?”

  “Perish the thought.” He grimaced at the mere suggestion. “Elaine stood in your place.”

  “And you thanked her by delivering her into the arms of Archibald Kleinfeld?” Cara clucked her tongue. “Shame on you.”

  “Fear not, as I shall make amends.” At that moment, they resumed their waltz, and his confidence grew with each successful turn about the room. “I will buy her a new bonnet.”

  “One would think dancing with a Kleinfeld merits two bonnets, at least.” Cara giggled. “Can you reverse course?”

  “Indeed.” Although he stumbled when he executed the maneuver and cursed in silence. “Sorry.”

  “Do not apologize.” As they found their stride, she sighed. “This is heaven on earth.”

  “I could not agree more.” Lance brought her gloved knuckles to his lips and held her tighter about the waist.

  When the music stopped, his lady hummed the tune, the name of which he could not recall, and they continued to whirl in concert. And then for some reason he could not fathom, various images flashed in his brain.

  A mischievous grin.

  A snowy afternoon.

  An ice-covered pond nestled amid a crescent of oaks.

  A desperate plea for help.

  A pair of flailing hands.

  The nagging guilt that plagued his existence had resurfaced with a vengeance, and a cold chill permeated his chest. A sea of Prescotts materialized, haunting and taunting, reminding him that he did not deserve the woman in his arms, because he had failed to save the true heir to the Raynesford marquessate.

  A morbid visage of Thomas materialized as an apparition of failure, wagging his finger in reproach. Lance had ruined Cara, so honor demanded he marry her. Yet what little happiness he gleaned from that revelation lay in pieces, scattered at his feet as so many hopes and dreams, when it dawned on him that he had let his cousin drown, and still he claimed the girl.

  Swimming in a miasma of shame and regret, he caught the toe of his shoe on the edge of the rug and lurched forward.

  “Are you all right, my hero?”

  He came alert in an instant and jerked, which threw him off balance. “Bloody hell.”

  Together, they crashed to the floor.

  ONE-KNIGHT STAND

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Lance, are you injured?” Cara rolled onto her back and sat upright. After settling her skirts, she stood.

  “I am so sorry.” He propped on his elbows and frowned. “What a clumsy oaf I have become. Did I hurt you?”

  “I am unscathed but worried about you.” She offered him a hand, which he pointedly ignored. “Here, let me help you.”

  “I have no need of your assistance,” he barked. “I can do for myself.”

  “Do not be stubborn.” She rested palms on hips. “It is no crime to accept aid.”

  “You think me stubborn?” He snorted as he teetered and perched on his good knee. “That is rich coming from you.”

  She humphed and again reached for him. “Please be reasonable.”

  “I said I can manage.” Lance scooted to the desk and used it as an anchor, as he stood.

  “Do not be cross, my hero.” At his terse reply, Cara checked her tone and tempered her response, because she refused to be baited when they had so much to celebrate. “Else you will spoil our special night.”

  “What is so special about my hurtling you to the floor?” He snickered with unmasked disgust. “I am a bungling idiot—no better than a Kleinfeld.”

  “You are not a bungling idiot.” She adjusted his cravat, and even in the faint light from the hearth she noted his scowl. Framing his face with her hands, she said, “And I take issue with your comparison, as neither are you clumsy. You recover from a serious injury, and I know many men would not fare half so well.”

  Lance snorted. “Spare me the motivational speech, as I—”

  Cara set her lips to his in a soul-stealing kiss intended to leave him in no doubt of her regard. Flicking her tongue, she engaged him in an energetic little duel designed to entice, to arouse. When he grasped her hips and pressed her to his fast-rising erection, she moaned in appreciation. While she had meant to soothe his discomfit with a tender balm, her simple gesture soon exploded into a firestorm of passion she could no longer deny or control. With a plaintive cry, she reached for the fastenings of his trousers.

  “Cara, no.” He grabbed her wrists.

  “But I want you.” She fought to break free, yet he refused to relent. With desire burning in her veins, she nipped his chin. “Please, I need you.”

  “You are going to kill me.” Resting his forehead to hers, Lance sighed. “Darling, we should not risk it. As things stand, you could be carrying my heir.”

  “I told you already that I am not pregnant.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I see.” He averted his gaze. “All the more reason not to chance it, given our current dilemma.”

  “You refer to your proposal of—”

  “Shh.” He quieted her with a hand to her mouth. “Not tonight, love. We may be lifelon
g friends, but I cannot guarantee I could be magnanimous in the face of another rejection.”

  “But I—”

  “No, Cara.” He rubbed his nose to hers and then scanned the room. “Besides, I did not bring you in here to seduce you.”

  “I know.” She scored her nails to the back of his neck. “But you will not let that stop you.”

  He chuckled. “Here?”

  “Now.” She nodded once. Then they could discuss marriage, fix a date, and plan their future. At that very second, however, she wanted nothing more than a bit of pre-engagement felicitations of a carnal nature, but the furnishings provided a conundrum, as there was nary a bed in sight. “How will we manage?”

  Lance smiled, all wolf. “Do I look like a giddy schoolboy?”

  “No.” She trailed her tongue along his jawline. “In fact, I would describe your present demeanor as deliciously rakish.”

  “Deliciously rakish? You have become quite the temptress, sugar kisses.” He navigated her in reverse, until she bumped a solid surface. “The Cara I know once refused to swim in the pond at Pembroke without benefit of a nightgown.”

  “I was a young child then, and I have long since shed such youthful reserve.” He lifted her to the desktop, and she slid the inkstand to the opposite end of the blotter. “What are you doing?”

  “I would argue you have shed much more than youthful reserve, but I am not complaining.” Lance unbuttoned his coat and then freed the hooks of his breeches. “And given our accommodations, or lack thereof, and my injury, I must improvise to satisfy my lady’s demands.”

  “Oh, I love the sound of that.” She gasped in delight as he hiked her skirts and nudged her legs, which she spread without hesitation. “Am I your lady?”

  “When have you existed as anything else?” With his palms he skimmed the sensitive insides of her thighs, before slipping a finger into the folds of her most intimate flesh. “Ah, sweet Cara, you are always ready for me.”

  “Is that good?”

  “It is very good.” Just as Lance positioned himself, he paused. “That was the dinner bell. Perhaps we should return to the ballroom.”