by Maya Rodale
“ ‘No’?” her mother repeated, though with a touch more hysteria in her tone.
“I don’t want to marry a man that doesn’t love me, that I do not love,” Clarissa stated calmly.
“You want to ruin us all! Just like Eleanor! You want our creditors carting out the furniture, and our good name dragged through the muck so you can be in love. I cannot fathom where you got such ridiculous, cork-brained notions.”
Clarissa bit her tongue. Certainly not from her mother, that much was clear.
“We are finished with the conversation,” Lady Richmond said, every inch the duchess. “You are going to be the Duchess of Hamilton and Brandon and your marriage will restore this family’s fortunes. You will not embarrass me by refusing a perfectly good match.”
“So I am to give up true love for your dresses and Papa’s horses?” Clarissa retorted, emboldened now.
The crack of her mother’s palm connecting with her cheek was answer enough to that. The sting . . . oh God, the sting!
Clarissa held her cheek with her hand, as Frederick had done so sweetly, and gently mere hours earlier. She hated her mother in that moment, for striking her, but mostly for defiling the place of her lover’s tender touch.
“You may retire now, Clarissa. Please do recover your sense with all possible haste.”
She turned to go, still too stunned to speak to declare the truth, which was that she had finally come to her senses, and acknowledged her love for one man and the impossibility of a successful marriage to anyone else.
“Clarissa,” her father called to her. She paused. “Your mother was wrong to strike you.”
“How dare—”
“Quiet, wife,” he said sharply, and Clarissa turned to face him. He looked so old, so sad, so wretched in the firelight with smoke from his pipe lazing around his head, and almost blending with the white of his hair. “However, dear daughter, she tells the truth about our fortunes. Or lack of. I beg of you to marry Lord Brandon so that we may not resort to begging from our creditors and friends. Please, my daughter, please.”
Chapter 35
Three days before the wedding . . .
Hamilton House
Brandon was dreaming again. Nothing this amazing could possibly happen in his real, waking life.
He was back, to that luscious and perfect moment with Sophie in the gardens of Vauxhall. Once again, he was kissing her. Layers of clothing vanished. Just vanished. No fumbling with buttons, corsets, cravats, or stays. In this dream, he could feel the radiant heat of Sophie’s nude body beneath him.
This dream was evilly vivid, for he could swear that he could feel her soft curves under his palms, and that he could taste her skin when he pressed his lips to her neck, as he dreamt he did. Oh, and there was more, too: the way her small hands caressed his chest and then splayed upon his lower back, pressing him into her.
And then he imagined kissing her everywhere: her breasts, the curve of her hips, her inner thighs, her belly, and everywhere in between. And in his dream, this cruelly tempting and tormenting dream, she did the same with her plump, plum mouth.
There was only so much of this torture a man could take.
Brandon was keenly aware of the pounding of his heart. Was that real? Or the dream? There was a whisper between each beat—forever. She wrapped her arms tighter around him, pulling him closer into her and he . . .
Woke up.
Brandon woke to a cacophony of horrendous noise. Men shouting. Something big fell. The sound of dozens of boots stomping on the gleaming marble floors. Jennings appeared shortly after Brandon rang the bell.
“The decorators for your wedding breakfast,” the valet said by way of an explanation.
“The wedding is not for . . .” Brandon paused, needing to count.
“Another three days,” his valet informed him.
“What the bloody hell are they doing to my house?”
“I tend to avoid coming between women and their decorating, so I haven’t the slightest notion. But I shall discover it for you.”
“Thank you.”
It would be another unseasonably hot day, he could feel it. Already, he missed the coolness of the previous evening, the silver light of the moon instead of the raging gold of the sun. He wished for Sophie’s dark eyes, her laugh, her kiss. His resentment for everything that kept him from her had been growing for some time and now he felt the pressure of it pressing hard from within.
But he was a duke, he knew his duty, and he was not a coward. And so, Brandon dressed with the assistance of his valet. In this atrocious heat, he still donned the proper attire of a gentleman: white fitted breeches, black leather Hessians, a snowy white shirt with a matching cravat, a hunter green waistcoat, and a dove gray jacket.
“Good morning, Brandon,” his mother said when he entered the dining room.
“Good morning, Mother.” It was then that he recalled his conversation with Sophie. About love, loss, and asking someone who knew better than he. It was too early in the morning for that.
“I trust you noticed the decorators have arrived for your wedding,” she remarked dryly before taking a sip of her tea.
“One would have to be a blind, deaf mute to miss it,” he said. “Although they seem to have quieted down somewhat.”
“They were rather loud and I have spoken to them,” she said.
“Ah,” he said with a smile. His mother was a diminutive woman, who listened more than she spoke. He’d never heard her raise her voice and had learned, from her, that a quiet, calmly worded command achieved more than blustering and hollering.
“Your wedding day is fast approaching,” she pointed out. “You must be so eager for it.”
“What makes you think that?” he asked, helping himself to a plate of fried eggs, rashers of bacon, freshly baked biscuits loaded with melting butter, and hot coffee.
“You have taken such an interest in the planning of the big event,” she said.
He just nodded. Gentlemen did not speak with their mouths full. This elementary rule of civilized behavior was often broken, but never by him. Especially when it was convenient for him to remain silent.
“Lady Richmond is of the opinion that you harbor illicit desires for Miss Harlow. She is terribly concerned.”
“Is she?” He responded carefully and evasively, hopefully eliciting further information without expressing excessive interest.
“We are both aware that the fortunes of the Richmond family are utterly dependent upon this marriage,” his mother said. “She’ll go to great lengths, I’m sure, that everything occurs according to plan.”
That sounded like a warning.
“And you? Are you concerned?” he asked.
“I only wish the best for my son. Whatever makes you happiest, Henry.”
It was not the answer that he was looking for, but he thanked her all the same. He knew that he was long past the age of receiving instruction. But for a second he wished that she would interfere or tell him plainly her thoughts. He wanted her to give him advice, or anything other than leaving it up to him and looking at him with a trace of sadness in her eyes.
“I have an appointment to attend to. If you’ll excuse me, Mother. Do have a nice day.”
In the hall, his secretary found him.
“Your Grace, I have news for you. Private, urgent news.”
They retired at once to his study. His secretary related his news that the reports had been confirmed by numerous sources. Old servants, in abject poverty due to their master being unable to pay their pensions, were willing to talk for coin. They would also never speak a word of it again, for more coin, should His Grace wish for it.
Brandon frowned, before quickly masking his feelings with an appropriately inscrutable ducal expression.
“She is not who she s
ays she is, Your Grace,” Spencer said in a hushed whisper, because such massive secrets called for such tones, even when dozens of servants were making obscene amounts of noise. “Do you realize the implications of this?”
He did. It complicated everything.
Harry Angelo’s Fencing Academy
Once again, Brandon met von Vennigan for a fencing match. Other than making long, loud love to Sophie, the thing he wanted to do most was engage in violent activity. He was tense, irritable, and—he realized upon arriving at Angelo’s—unshaven. He wondered why Jennings hadn’t said anything.
“You look ready to fight,” von Vennigan observed.
“I am. Consider yourself warned.”
“Done. You should know that I, too, am in somewhat of a temper today.”
Usually, Angelo’s was busy, with a dozen or so men engaged in swordplay at any time. Today, Brandon and his adversary were alone. It was likely due to the heat. It weighed on a man, made him feel like he was suffocating.
It wasn’t just the temperature. Between the glorious kiss with Sophie last night and his secretary’s outrageous news this morning, Brandon was divided and at war with himself. His desires, his obligations, his wishes, his values—everything was in opposition and he wanted to explode from the tension.
He knew he should have taken better care to avoid her.
Yet, he loved every minute with her.
If he lost her . . .
But if he married Clarissa, he would be safe from an excess of sentiment. If he lost Sophie before things went too far, he might have a chance. As far as he was concerned, they hadn’t. They had not made love, or confessed to a love. To do that would be a new Before and After and he feared that After like a child feared the dark—stubbornly, irrationally, and utterly intensely.
Yes, Brandon was in the mood to fight today. He wanted to concentrate on the slashing of swords, of dodging blades and attacking his opponent. He did not want to think of anything else at all.
“Ready?” von Vennigan asked, settling into en garde.
Brandon took his position opposite. With his notoriously remarkable self-control, he willed himself to avoid thinking of Sophie, and from sparing even a fleeting thought to the news Spencer had delivered. Then he curtly nodded yes, he was ready.
At first no one moved, each keeping a perfect defensive position and daring the other to find the gap in his guard.
“Have you heard from Clarissa?” von Vennigan asked, taking a quick step forward to test Brandon’s parry.
“Clarissa?” Brandon repeated pointedly as he brought his blade across his body to cut off von Vennigan’s line.
“Your fiancée,” he remarked dryly.
“You mean Lady Richmond,” Brandon corrected, engaging his opponent’s blade and using brute strength to force his way through the young prince’s suddenly urgent defenses, almost scoring had von Vennigan not been so quick on his feet. The words were bitter in his mouth for reasons he would not dwell upon.
“That may be the formal way to address her, but it puts me in mind of her mother, and I would rather not have her on my mind.”
“That we can agree on,” Brandon said.
“And she has given me leave to use her given name,” von Vennigan added, moving back and forth just outside Brandon’s range, almost daring the duke to lunge.
“Is there anything that your honor as a gentleman compels you to tell me?” Brandon asked. Best do it now, whilst swords were already drawn.
“No. My feelings are my own. And hers.”
“I care not for your feelings,” Brandon told him, and pressed forward, forcing von Vennigan toward the far wall and causing the first bead of sweat to form on the young prince’s brow.
“But you do care for the purity of your intended,” von Vennigan said in a tone that made Brandon curious.
“Very much,” he answered, though for a very particular and unsentimental reason.
And then he paused, considering whether or not he wished to share a certain piece of information with his opponent.
Because he was reckless and stormy inside and because things were already so complicated, one more additional revelation could not possibly hurt. Brandon added, “In fact, the marriage contract would be rendered null and void were it discovered that she was compromised.”
Von Vennigan’s head whipped up and he parried Brandon’s attack forcefully, halting his retreat down to the floor and giving Brandon pause.
“I thought this contract was, in your words, ironclad,” von Vennigan reminded him with a devilish gleam in his eye.
“That point is the one way out.” Brandon banished thoughts of another way . . .
“Unfortunately,” von Vennigan remarked dryly, “it is grossly insulting to the woman in question.” As he pressed forward, he almost seemed to collapse, and too late did Brandon realize his intentions. The point of his blade found Brandon’s foot, a reckless move that among one less skilled would have left von Vennigan open to a vicious counterattack.
“I find it more pleasing to have my sword on your foot than I did your foot on my sword, Your Grace,” von Vennigan gleefully remarked. Brandon winced at both the reminder of their previous bout and the throbbing pain in his foot as both men moved to take up the en garde position.
“Would compromising her—grossly insulting her—be an honorable action, if the end result was marriage. To you?” Brandon asked, testing the prince’s defenses of his head.
“That is an interesting question,” von Vennigan asked. “One I have not yet had sufficient time to analyze.” His voice was labored as he attempted to stop Brandon’s blade from coming too close to his face, and Brandon wondered if von Vennigan regretted his previous remark about dispensing with masks.
Perhaps not—with those scars he already possessed, what was one or two more?
“There is not much time for you to decide,” Brandon said.
“A fact of which I am achingly aware.”
“So you might, then, stand by your previous principle of action being honorable?” Brandon asked. He knew exactly why he persisted in this line of conversation and questioning. Because of Sophie, and kisses in the moonlight. Because he was not yet certain if he could jilt Clarissa. He was also not certain that he could leave his fate in the hands of a Bavarian prince, either.
“There are many possible courses of action,” von Vennigan mused. “Some less humbling than others.”
“You would not humble yourself for love?” Brandon asked mockingly. His blade danced around von Vennigan’s, first threatening the shoulder, then the chest, then the head.
“I think there might not be anything I would not do for love. And you?”
“Love is an irrational emotion that leads to excruciating heartache. As with drinking to excess, I prefer to abstain for I care not for the aftereffects.” These were words he had no trouble saying even in the midst of an intense swordfight, amid an intense heat.
He had said them before. He had lived them. He would say them again.
He still meant them. It was just that he feared he might be heading for said heartache. Like a drunk, he might prefer to abstain but he could not help himself.
Von Vennigan took the initiative and with a balletic step that Brandon had never seen before, closed the distance between them so fast that his only defense was to force both blades heavenward.
At that moment, von Vennigan was mere inches from him and he felt the young prince’s hot breath on his face.
It was hard, fighting so many battles at once: against von Vennigan with swords, against his feelings for Sophie with rationality, and then wrestling with his honor.
“You are either an outrageous liar or a delusional fool,” von Vennigan stated as they disengaged.
“Unfounded,” he said, and then he lunged, a move
that was swiftly deflected.
“Miss Harlow,” von Vennigan challenged. Brandon thrashed forward with emotion rather than calculation. Instead of retreating von Vennigan took advantage of his opponent’s wayward blade and counterattacked with a quick lunge that caught Brandon on the sternum and drove the breath from his lungs.
“Is a temporary aberration,” Brandon said, through labored breaths. He needed it to be true. He did not know what to do if it wasn’t. “A temporary bout of madness. I’m certain it shall pass after the wedding.”
It was the right thing to do. Or was it? He did not know anymore. He did know that mentions of it taunted his opponent, and so he wielded it like a second sword.
“To Clarissa,” von Vennigan said bitterly.
“To my intended.”
Von Vennigan renewed his attack, though his approaches had lost something of their previous precision.
“But you have not heard from her?” von Vennigan asked with concern blatantly etched on his features.
“No. Is something amiss?” Brandon asked, parrying and forcing von Vennigan back.
“I suspect something might be. Out of respect for her reputation, I dare not call upon her.”
“She has not canceled our plans to attend the annual dinner hosted by Lord and Lady Byrnham,” Brandon said with a casualness that belied his vigor. It was to be a small, exclusive, and intimate gathering of the most socially prominent.
“I will see you both there,” von Vennigan said.
“Are you sure you were invited? It commemorates Marlborough’s campaign in Germany,” Brandon asked.
Von Vennigan paused. “I shall secure an invitation. After all, princes are never refused,” he said pointedly. Dukes generally weren’t either, but that was neither here nor there.
Their swordplay continued. Brandon was soaked with sweat, and increasingly exhausted, though not enough to put an end to thoughts of his Epic Dilemma of a Lifetime. He stamped his foot loudly, a feint that von Vennigan took for an attack and mistakenly parried, leaving his right side open. Brandon scored a palpable hit.