“His Grace is one of my father’s good friends.”
The mere mention of Levonzy would be nearly enough to give him an apoplexy, but her fingers around his arm relaxed a little. It wasn’t the prospect of the duke, then, that bothered her. “What’s amiss?” he murmured, gesturing for Lester to precede them into the vehicle.
“Nothing.”
He put his hand over hers before she could pull away. “I am unaccustomed to sensitivity,” he continued. “If you want my help, I therefore suggest you be forthright and honest.”
She met his gaze for a moment, then nodded. “Lord Cosgrove came by today. He…kissed me. In a manner of speaking.”
The way her fingers convulsively clenched actually alarmed him. “Which manner?”
Her cheeks darkened. “He…licked my mouth,” she whispered, so quietly he almost couldn’t make out what she’d said.
Lord Lester leaned out the coach door. “Are you two going to stand there chatting all night?”
“Yes,” Bram said shortly.
“But—”
Damned pup. “Shut up and sit down, James.”
With a look of surprised affront, the viscount retreated back into the depths of the coach.
“He’s correct,” Rosamund said. “We should—”
“Cosgrove knows perfectly well the preferred way to kiss a woman,” he interrupted, tugging her closer so he could lower his voice still further. “He also knows precisely what would shock a proper young lady. He’s trying to send you reeling, Rosamund.”
She nodded, but turned half away from him. “He—that—I didn’t want my first kiss to be like that. Certainly not the first kiss from my future…” A tear ran down her cheek as she trailed off.
Something dark and unpleasant wrenched at his insides. If her first encounter with Cosgrove had upset her to this degree, she would be dead by her own hand within a month of her marriage. Why the devil wasn’t she running? “We’d best go,” he said stiffly, shifting his grip to hand her up into the coach. “To Marsten House, Graham,” he instructed his driver, and pulled the door closed.
“I’ve brought twenty quid with me for faro,” James said, patting his pocket. “What are my odds?”
Bram regarded him for a moment. “You’ll return with at least that much, I imagine.”
“That’s splendid. I mean, it’s your family and so I don’t wish to make them turn out their pockets, but you must know I’ve been improving.”
“Your skill is plain to see, Lester.” He faced Rosamund, seated beside her brother. “Do you play, Lady Rosamund?”
“I do not. And if my brother had any sense, he wouldn’t play, either. And neither would you, Bram.”
It was good to hear the anger in her voice, even if it was partly meant for him. And she’d used his Christian name. If she could still muster anger, then Cosgrove hadn’t done more than shock her. Yet. “I think you’ll enjoy this game. I’ll be happy to instruct you.”
“She don’t play,” the viscount broke in. “And she won’t spend her pin money on wagering. Believe me, I’ve tried to convince her otherwise.”
“I’ll provide all of the stake you’ll need, my dear,” Bram said. “You won’t lose a penny. I give you my word.”
She continued to look skeptical, but then she obviously didn’t know him well enough to realize that he very seldom gave his word—and that when he did so, he kept it. If that meant he would have to learn how to be helpful, then so be it.
One of August’s footmen pulled open the coach door as they reached the foot of the steps outside Marsten House. Bram blew out his breath, watching the Davies siblings descend from the carriage. His older brother’s thoughts and opinions had never been of much importance to him, and in the past he’d brought some rather despicable companions, both male and female, to the family dinner—to the point that his nephew and nieces had been sent from the room. For the first time he wondered why August continued not just to invite him, but to insist that he come.
And tonight he wanted his brother to…like at least one of his guests. Not that she’d be allowed back to Marsten House once she married Cosgrove.
“Uncle Bram!”
A pocket-sized blur flashed down the main staircase and thudded against his waist. A second and a third of varying size followed, and in a heartbeat he was being mobbed.
“Good God, what sticky-fingered urchins are these?” he asked. “Does Lord Haithe know you’re living under his roof?”
“Yes!” they answered in a ragged chorus, laughing. The two girls remembered their manners and broke away first, curtsying to Rosamund and Lester.
“Lord Lester, Lady Rosamund, may I present Oscar, Lord Kerkden; Lady Louisa; and Lady Caroline Johns? Short persons, my friends, James and Rosamund Davies.”
Children. Rosamund looked on, stunned, as Lord Bram Johns took the two youngest around the waist, and carrying one under each arm, climbed the stairs to the drawing room.
With his reputation, she’d half thought he wouldn’t know what children were, much less be capable of chatting and jesting with them. His nephew and two nieces, though, clearly adored him. And that deep cynicism he wore like a second coat seemed missing, as though he’d left it at the front door along with his hat and gloves.
She wondered how many of his supposed friends had ever seen this side of him, and why he’d chosen to allow James and her to do so. It seemed very out of character for a man who’d won every wager he’d made at White’s last Season.
“What the devil is this?” James muttered from behind her. “I thought we were playing cards.”
“He said it was to be a family dinner, James. Come along.”
Her brother was clearly dismayed to see children running about, but Rosamund abruptly felt like smiling. And that was quite something, after the day she’d had. How odd that the only person she could talk to, the only one who seemed the least bit sympathetic or understanding, was reputed to be one of the worst blackguards in London. Or it could be that he was simply better at hiding his true intentions than was Cosgrove.
Oh, dear. That was a dismaying thought. Because she didn’t have any idea what her future husband might have in mind for their next encounter, and she desperately wanted Bram to be able to tell her.
As she entered the drawing room, Bram slung the shrieking young ones onto a couch and then sketched an elegant bow to the large man and the tiny woman standing in front of the hearth. She’d seen the Marquis and Marchioness of Haithe on several occasions, but they’d never been introduced. And if she hadn’t known, she wouldn’t have suspected in a hundred years that Haithe and Bram were brothers.
Yes, they had the same fair skin and dark features, but where Bram was lean and sleek like a panther, his older brother more closely resembled a great bear, broad and loud and not at all subtle. Or dangerous, because it would be so easy to see him coming.
“August, Emily, may I introduce Viscount Lester and his sister Lady Rosamund? James, Rosamund, Lord and Lady Haithe.”
The couple exchanged a quick glance that she couldn’t quite interpret, and then the marchioness came forward. “Welcome to our very noisy home,” she said, smiling all the way up to her light gray eyes.
“Thank you for inviting us,” Rose returned, dipping a curtsy.
“Uncle Bram,” the boy, Oscar, broke in, grabbing Bram’s sleeve, “did you bring enough blunt to cover your losses?”
“I brought enough to ensure my victory,” Bram commented, pulling a very full-looking cloth bag from his pocket and handing it over.
James finally perked up. “I say, that looks to be quite a—”
The young viscount dumped out the bag on an end table. Shelled peanuts spilled out everywhere. “Oh, gads,” he exclaimed. “I’ll have a stomach ache for a week! Sterling!”
“Only if you win. Back in the bag with them, midget.” As he finished speaking he glanced sideways, black eyes dancing, to look at Rosamund. “I told you that you wouldn’t lose a penny.”
“Much easier on the purse,” Bram returned. “Especially if you’d care to learn how to play.”
“I know how to play.”
“Ah, yes. Allow me to clarify. I’m offering to teach you how to play and win, James.”
“I say,” her brother responded, edging closer and lowering his voice, “I find that a bit insulting, Bram.”
“Then sit there and lose to a ten-year-old. If I’m feeling amused, I may offer assistance once. Don’t expect me to offer again.”
“But I—”
“August, do you still have that hideous old Turkish tapestry in the library?”
The marquis frowned. “Yes. And it’s not hideous.”
“Oscar, you and Lester divide up my blunt into three equal portions. Lady Rosamund and I will be back in just a moment.” He took her hand, wrapping it around his sleeve.
“Shall I—”
“I know the way,” Bram interrupted his brother. “Lady Rosamund enjoys history.”
“American history, mostly,” she corrected, feeling her cheeks heat. Clearly Haithe didn’t think it wise for her to venture off somewhere with Bramwell, and she had to agree. She was in enough trouble.
“American history? I have several books on red Indians. They’re in the back right corner, beside the Greek vases.”
“Do you?”
“Come on.” Bram tugged her toward the door. “Let’s find them.”
“That wasn’t very subtle,” she whispered, as they headed down the hallway.
“Wasn’t it? Apologies. I told you I didn’t have much practice with that.”
“Yes, but now your family will think you and I are…up to something.”
“We are.”
“No, we’re not.” She pulled her hand free. “Nothing nefarious, anyway.”
He smiled, the expression astoundingly handsome on his lean face. “‘Nefarious.’ That is a splendid word.” Pushing backward, he slipped through a door. “This way.”
Scowling, Rosamund followed him. Whatever he was up to, he still offered her the best chance of learning something—anything—that could help her not feel so frightened and ill whenever she set eyes on Lord Cosgrove. “You are…” She trailed off as she caught sight of the large, square tapestry mounted on the north wall of the library. “That’s magnificent. How old is it?”
“It supposedly depicts the creation of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Very old, I would say. August knows more, but I warn you that he’ll talk your ear off if he has the chance.”
Rosamund looked at the vivid reds and golds and greens woven through the tapestry. Old, familiar curiosity pulled at her, but not because of the ancient artwork before her. “What did you need to tell me?” she asked. “Clearly we’re not here to talk about the tapestry.”
“No, we’re not.” Silently he closed and latched the door, then crossed the room to her. “I didn’t want to do this.” A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Another thing at which I don’t have much practice.”
Her own heart had begun thudding the moment she heard the library door close. “What are you talking about? Have you changed your mind about helping me?”
“No. I’m talking about self-restraint.” Bram took a short breath. “You’ve never been kissed, you said.”
Oh. She swallowed hard. “That may not have been a proper kiss that Lord Cosgrove gave me, but—”
“No, it wasn’t. It doesn’t count.”
His gaze held hers. She was tall for a female; she’d certainly heard that from her mother often enough. But she still had to look up to meet his dark eyes. Not for the first time, she wished she knew what he might be thinking.
“A kiss is about intimacy,” he murmured, reaching out to stroke the back of his forefinger along her cheek. “Cosgrove stepped past the line where you felt comfortable, and he did it deliberately.”
Rose’s mind seized on the word “intimacy.” Bram had made himself an ally. Whether he was one she would have chosen under other circumstances, she had no idea. She’d certainly been ready to hate him a few days ago. But since actually meeting him, he’d surprised her by being astute, intelligent, and witty, and by being more of a gentleman than certain others she’d met at the same time.
“You haven’t given me much time to consider this,” he continued, “but I see only one way to make you more comfortable with a man’s advances.”
“Oh, yes?” Her voice sounded breathy and nervous even to her own ears. Of course she probably wanted him to continue much more than a proper lady in her circumstances would ever have admitted.
“Yes.”
Bram took one slow step closer. His gaze still holding hers, he cupped both her cheeks in his palms, leaned down, and touched his lips to hers. Her eyes fluttered closed of their own accord at the soft caress. When he retreated an inch or so, as though assessing the taste of her to see whether he liked it, she felt…disappointed. Still, that was much better than what she’d felt with Cosgrove. And under the circumstances, it had been almost honorable.
“That was—”
He closed on her again. His mouth sought hers, molded to her, soft and persistent at the same time. Desire, shocking in its sudden heat, speared through her. Goodness, he knew how to kiss. Rose gasped, putting her hands on his chest to push him away as she should. But she didn’t want him to stop. Instead she twisted her fingers into his lapels and pulled herself up on her toes to get still closer to him.
Bram deepened the kiss, his tongue flicking against hers. He pressed her backward until she came up against a bookcase, teasing and nipping at her lips until she couldn’t breathe. Nothing was supposed to feel so very good. Certainly nothing from anyone of Bram Johns’s reputation.
One hand left her face to skim down her side. Everywhere he touched her, even through the material of her gown, felt heated. Molten, almost. When his fingers closed over her bottom and pulled her forward against his lean, hard body, she groaned.
Blinking, blood roaring through his ears and downward to his cock, Bram stepped back. He couldn’t disguise the jutting evidence of his arousal, because he felt utterly blindsided. Rosamund’s stunned gaze seemed locked to his face, thank Lucifer, though she must have felt him. He’d practically torn her clothes off, after all. In his mind, he had. His own eyes became abruptly fascinated by the scarlet flush of her soft cheeks and the damp beckoning of her swollen, slightly parted lips. Good God.
Taking a breath, he turned his back. His reaction to her troubled him for so many different reasons that he couldn’t settle on any one as being worse—or better—than the others.
Say something, damn it all, he ordered himself. “Now you’ve been kissed,” he ground out.
“I think I need to sit down for a moment,” she breathed, her own voice unsteady.
“Yes,” he said over his shoulder, taking another breath and madly trying to conjure a procession of old, sagging, warty females—men, even—anything to reduce the pressure in his groin. “Take a minute. And don’t forget to select one of those books my brother recommended.”
He heard her sit. “Bram?”
Her soft voice stopped him with his hand on the door. Damnation. “What?”
She cleared her throat. “That was a good lesson. But I don’t think he means to stop with kissing me.”
The sudden anger her words caused in his chest helped him to pull himself back under control. Bram faced her again. “No, I don’t expect that he will.”
“You aren’t…finished then, are you?” she asked, folding her hands primly in her lap so that he almost didn’t notice them shaking. “With assisting me, I mean.”
He scowled. “In all honesty, Rosamund, telling you how much it will hurt to be punched doesn’t make the pain less when you are hit.”
Rose stood and walked up to him. He half thought she meant to kiss him again, but without warning her hand flashed out, toward his face. Instinctively Bram bl
ocked the blow with his wrist before it could connect. “If I knew what to expect,” she said, lowering her hand again, “I might know how to avoid being hit in the first place. Though I do hope you were speaking metaphorically.”
Not necessarily. “So you still won’t listen to reason?”
“I still won’t abandon my family to ruin. Will you still assist me?”
“I—Yes. Of course. But this isn’t the place.” He gazed at her face again, but he felt himself sinking into her meadow green eyes. “A few faro lessons come first,” he said, and made his escape.
Lucifer’s ballocks. He hadn’t felt that aroused and awkward since he’d first bedded a female at age sixteen. Thankfully in that instance she’d both known what she was doing and been a consummate actress. Lillian Maybury’s performance as Ophelia on stage had been nothing compared to her skills in her rather cramped dressing room.
“Shut up,” he growled at himself as he stalked back down the hallway. Why in Lucifer’s name had a kiss with the virginal Lady Rosamund sent him back thirteen years to his first sexual encounter?
Probably because he’d felt so…alive that night. Aware of everything—every touch, every breath, every sound. And that was precisely how he’d felt kissing Rosamund. Alive.
Considering that for better than the past two years the most overwhelming emotion in his life had been boredom, this was extremely troubling. Because as he recollected, he hadn’t felt bored from the moment he’d first set eyes on Rosamund Davies. Not in the least.
Chapter 6
Dinner, once Rose had recovered her senses enough to return to the festivities, was loud and boisterous and very amusing. Even James appeared to rouse from his disappointment about the wagering currency enough to take part in the silliness.
“You never did that, Uncle Bram!” seven-year-old Caroline exclaimed around a mouthful of beef and gravy.
Bram nodded solemnly. “I did. Backwards, all the way from Dover to the Tower bridge.”
“You rode a horse sitting backwards for all that way and never once fell off? I don’t believe you.”
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