by Maya Rodale
2. He might, in fact, be acting like a coward. This he preferred not to dwell on, but might return to it after, say, six or seven more brandies. The one he’d had thus far was not enough.
3. Sophie had a way of saying just the right thing.
4. It wasn’t that he was a coward, just that he was finding it difficult to reverse course. All his life he had been raised to put The Estate first and now he was tempted to consider making a duchess out of a lower-class girl because he was in l— No, he was not yet ready to acknowledge that truth. Not after only two drinks.
5. Where was he? Ah, yes, changing plans, revising lifelong values, etc, etc. Did he really want to marry Clarissa? Yes, she would be calm and composed, would never intrude upon his study or his thoughts, and honestly, he did not imagine loving her and thus he did not imagine heartache upon losing her. Why, then, was he so reluctant to give her up? Note to self: do order more brandy before contemplating that.
6. Responsibility (see previous point four—in charge of the world and it’s contents), and von Vennigan not being trustworthy (as Sophie had pointed out in the carriage, see previous point three). If Brandon told von Vennigan about The Awful Secret that Spencer, that too-damned-good secretary of his had discovered, and von Vennigan refused Clarissa because of it, then Brandon, out of duty, would have to go through with the wedding. If he could accept the Awful Truth about her then perhaps an elopement would be in order, but that still left the matter of what he wanted to do about Sophie.
7. Sophie always said just the right thing. Which meant that . . .
8. He was a coward, von Vennigan was trustworthy, and he, Brandon, was terrified to love her because he was even more terrified to lose her.
9. Another drink was certainly in order.
10. He had the most blinding insights into things with some alcohol coursing through his veins, and brain. Must drink to excess more often.
“Dear God, it’s the apocalypse,” Roxbury declared when he arrived to discover Brandon in the advanced stages of intoxication. He was sprawled on the chair, with a half-empty glass dangling dangerously from his fingertips. It appeared that some of the contents was soaking into his shirt (unbuttoned) and waistcoat (also unbuttoned). Cravat: whereabouts unknown. Hair: disheveled as much as it could be.
Roxbury continued, vastly amused by this unexpected scenario of the Perfect Duke outrageously foxed: “It must be the end of the world if you are drinking so much. Although . . . No, you would organize everything, ensuring that judgment day ran smoothly and efficiently, and that all the plagues arrived as scheduled . . .”
“Are you finished?” Brandon slurred.
“I’m shocked. I haven’t seen you like this since your father died. Oh God—has someone died?”
“No.”
“This must be a case of women troubles. Typical. What has happened?” Roxbury availed himself to a seat and took a sip of his drink, already in hand. That was the great thing about Roxbury. He was always ready for lamenting, particularly about love affairs, whether his own or, less frequently, someone else’s.
“Another man has proposed to my fiancée. Sophie does not understand why I cannot just jilt my betrothed for her.”
“Why doesn’t your fiancée jilt you?” Roxbury asked. “I would if I were her.”
“Her mother will not allow it.”
“And why will you not jilt your fiancée?”
“Yes, why, Lord Brandon?” another voice demanded. It was von Vennigan, and he had just arrived. For some reason, he was dressed in military attire, or so Brandon assumed due to the medals decorating his jacket. A cape was thrown over one shoulder, revealing his sword, ready to be unsheathed at the slightest provocation. “Why will you not release her from the bonds you hold her in?”
“You’re being overdramatic again, von Vennigan,” Brandon said, bored. Then he noted that again and von Vennigan rhymed and this occupied his thoughts for a few more seconds than it ought to, due to the drink, of course.
“I am a man in love. It cannot be helped,” von Vennigan stated grandly. “And you are the obstacle standing between me and my love.”
“He’s sitting, actually,” Roxbury pointed out, though no one paid him any mind.
Von Vennigan drew his sword. The room fell silent.
Lord Biddulph, deeply in his cups and intrigued by the sword, leaned forward to get a closer look and fell out of his chair. As this was typical behavior for him, no one paid any attention to him, not even Mitchell Twitchell.
“Put your damned sword away, von Vennigan,” Roxbury cut in. “He’s too drunk to stand, let alone fight. It would be embarrassing for you both to challenge him now.”
Turning to his friend, Roxbury continued: “I beg your pardon, but I still don’t understand, Brandon, why you can’t let this bloke have your fiancée so that you can run off with that Weekly wench you are utterly besotted with.”
“I’m not besotted,” Brandon mumbled.
Roxbury and von Vennigan laughed uproariously. Biddulph and Twitchell joined their laughter, though they could have no idea what they were splitting their sides over. This vastly increased Roxbury’s amusement with the situation, and diminished Brandon’s.
“You damn well are!” von Vennigan declared when he had recovered sufficient breath to speak.
“Just admit it, man, you are in love,” Roxbury said, between gasps of laughter.
“Love is an irrational emotion that leads to nothing but heartache, trouble. It distracts one from important things, like managing the world,” Brandon lectured. Perhaps, if he repeated it enough, it would be true.
“Do go on,” Roxbury said with a smirk.
“Love makes one lose all sense, rationality, and self-control. It makes a mess of a man. This will not happen to me,” Brandon declared firmly. That is why he had to hold on so tightly to Clarissa. Because if he let go of her, then he could let his heart go to Sophie and then he would always be distracted thus, somehow that meant the estates would be mismanaged and parliament wouldn’t be able to function, and thus England would lose her supremacy over other nations and the world would end.
It didn’t quite make sense, but it felt like it did. Everything depended upon him.
Von Vennigan looked a bit red in the face, Brandon noted.
“For the love of God and anything holy, it’s already happened to you!” von Vennigan exploded.
“He has a point,” Roxbury said. “The famously restrained duke has lost it. Drunk. Cravat lost. Waistcoat unbuttoned. You are outrageously drunk, all over a woman. It’s too late. You are in love.”
“I beg to differ—”
“The sooner you realize it, the sooner we can plan a way out of your wedding, which is scheduled to take place a mere six and thirty hours from now.”
“There are other things to consider, von Vennigan. Perhaps when you are older you’ll understand,” Brandon explained. Horrible secrets and lies, for starters. Ones that made the marriage contract null and void, should he deign to bring it to anyone’s attention.
“I’m old enough now to know my own mind, and my own heart.”
“But do you know about anything else? Responsibility, duty, contractions, debts, deception? Your own heart and mind are the least of it.”
“I will learn,” von Vennigan retorted. “You did. After all, you could not possibly have been born with the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
Brandon wasn’t born with it. It was dumped upon him one night when he was eighteen, when his father failed to survive the overturning of his carriage one stormy December night. He’d lost a lot that evening—his father, his innocence, his freedom, and his desire for love.
Chapter 41
Richmond House
Earlier that evening
Clarissa pushed open the door to her mother’s priva
te chamber without invitation, and without knocking. She sat at her dressing table, brushing out her hair. It was long and golden, like Clarissa’s, like dear, departed Aunt Eleanor and every other woman on their side of the family.
“Why?” Clarissa asked, her voice raw from hours of sobbing.
“I’m glad to see you have progressed to leaving your bedchamber. Perhaps tomorrow you’ll dress and join us for breakfast.”
“Why can’t I marry Frederick?” Clarissa asked again.
“I don’t wish to speak of this.”
All her life she had been the most docile and obliging daughter. This was the moment when she needed to find her voice and her courage. She thought of Frederick’s kiss, and how delighted he’d been when she told him he was excessively provoking. She could do this.
“Why? He’s rich, and he loves me. We can both be happy,” Clarissa cried. “Why can I not marry for love?”
“You’re being overdramatic, Clarissa. Spare me—”
“Oh, now you’re going to mention dear, departed Aunt Eleanor again, are you not? Just because she had rotten luck doesn’t mean that—”
“That’s a fine way to speak of your mother!”
From the look upon her face, Clarissa swore she hadn’t meant to say it. At least, not like that.
“What did you say?”
“Sit down, Clarissa. I’m tired of keeping this secret and you shall learn why you must marry Lord Brandon.”
Clarissa sat down on the settee before the fireplace—there was no flame burning. The heat wave in the city still raged on. And yet, Clarissa was chilled.
“You are not my child, Clarissa. You are Eleanor’s bastard child. Your father was a charmer—like your prince—who had his spot of fun with my sister. She died giving birth to you.”
Clarissa’s gaze immediately went to the portrait of the two sisters. It was one of the few that had not been sold. Clarissa could easily be either of their daughters, for they all shared the same straight golden hair, wide-set blue eyes, and porcelain skin. The picture was proof of nothing, other than this revelation being a possibility.
“I had been married for a few years by then, and it was clear that I was not able to have a child. An heir. It was agreed that I would raise you as my own, as far as the world knows.”
“How did you manage that?” she asked skeptically.
“Oh, it’s easy enough to take an extended tour of the country with my sister as a companion and come back with a baby,” her mother said breezily.
“So Father—I know not what to call him now—he doesn’t know?”
“It would break his heart should he learn that the Richmond line will die with him, or that the title is going to an illegitimate girl child not of his blood.”
It would kill him. He was obsessed with breeding, and he had failed to do so himself. He was so interested in tracing the bloodlines of broodmares and stallions and the truth of his own family’s line was unknown to him. Her heart started to ache for him, and for her dead parents, and for herself.
“Why did you do all this?”
“Like all women of our station, there were two things expected of me in life, Clarissa,” she said coldly. “I was to marry well and to deliver an heir. I’ve always been determined to succeed at the only thing the world gave me a chance to accomplish. It is rare that a woman can find success outside of the home, like Miss Harlow. I hadn’t that option. Because of you, Clarissa, I was able to fulfill my duties. I have taken us far, but only you can complete this.”
“I still don’t see why . . .”
“It’s too risky! We have arranged by special order of the king—the king!—for the title to pass through you. Do you know what a rare honor that is?”
“I don’t care!”
“Should Frederick discover this secret of yours, he could never marry you. No one would marry you, and we would be penniless. Lord Brandon—”
“Does he know?”
“I don’t think so. God forbid he learn of it. Either way, the marriage contract is ironclad. In a few days’ time, the estates, the fortune, our futures will be secured. I’ve kept this secret for twenty years, and it needs to remain a secret for two more days.”
“He loves me, so perhaps . . .”
“Princes have to care about bloodlines and lineages. More so than dukes.”
“Were my parents in love?” she asked. It was vitally important that she know. It would, she was certain, determine her fate.
“Very much. It led to utter stupidity. To a mad dash to Gretna Green in winter. There was an accident and your father did not survive. Eleanor was already pregnant.”
“Can you tell me more about them?” she whispered. She could hardly believe it, but details might make it real.
“There are hundreds of love letters and Eleanor kept a diary. I shall give them to you when you are married to Lord Brandon.”
Up until that moment, Clarissa had been ready to flee to Frederick no matter what. But the chance to know the whole truth of her real parents and her own existence was a tempting offer. All she had to do was marry a man she did not love and keep him from the woman he ought to be with. How badly did she wish for those love letters, knowing the wealth of secrets and details contained within her own loving correspondence with Frederick?
Chapter 42
The day before the wedding . . .
Hamilton House
Brandon opened his eyes, saw that he woke in his bedchamber, could not recall arriving there, and closed his eyes upon the excruciating pain that occurred when he tried to think.
He did wonder why someone was pounding on his head. A moment later, he concluded that his head ached independently from the hammering, which was likely due to the servants preparing for his wedding. Tomorrow. A wave of nausea coursed through him.
Slowly, fragments of the evening returned to him.
He’d been at White’s and he’d been drinking. Roxbury had been there, and von Vennigan, too. Mostly, though, he had indulged in a good drinking and thinking session. He remembered being amazed by the insights and stunning revelations about himself and his situation. Unfortunately, that was all that he recalled.
One thing was clear: he had been driven to living rakishly and it did not suit him. Brandon resolved to return to his sober, gentlemanly habits as soon as he was able to.
He was a gentleman who dressed appropriately and completely (no more of this gadding about without a cravat), who kept a clear head, and did not indulge in drunken, emotional outbursts, who did not make an ass of himself over a woman.
Last night, he had failed on all counts.
He held on to one consolation: he had not gone and fallen in love, and given his heart away. One could recover from the aftereffects of alcohol in a day; heartache took longer. But he would not suffer from heartache because he had not fallen in love. In fact, he very clearly remembered lecturing Roxbury and von Vennigan about this very thing.
Something about how love would never happen to him, and if it did the world would come to a crashing halt. Brandon actually groaned as he recalled their response: hysterical laughter.
The door to his bedchamber opened.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Jennings said brightly.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Spencer echoed.
“What is it?” Brandon asked irritably.
“Your Grace, we are attending to you at eight o’clock as we always do,” Spencer said.
“I’ll assist with your dress, whilst Spencer goes on and on about all the tedious tasks and Very Important Appointments in your day,” Jennings explained.
“Are you unwell, Your Grace?” Spencer inquired.
“He’s fine, just overdrank himself last night. I’ve been waiting years to witness this,” Jennings said. He clapped his hand
s together and grinned broadly.
“Do not clap, or make any loud noise, or I shall fire you,” Brandon mumbled.
“Of course, Your Grace. Shall we carry on, then?” Spencer said.
“Tell me what awaits me today, Spencer,” Brandon muttered.
“Your sisters and their families are due to arrive this afternoon. Your family will dine with the Richmonds. According to my notes, you have not obtained the special license, or secured a best man, or composed a toast for the wedding breakfast. Knowing you, that must be an inaccuracy on my part . . .”
At that, Brandon was suddenly wide-awake.
He had not obtained a special license.
In fact, he had not obtained any license whatsoever.
He thought he might be sick—due to either alcohol poisoning, or a lack of preparation for the biggest day of his life, or because his mother just burst into his chamber, uninvited, and without notice. He pulled the sheets up to cover his bare chest.
“I should like an interview with my son. Privately.”
Spencer and Jennings fled.
“You have been drinking. You never drink,” his mother said, stating the obvious.
“I’m a grown man, I’m allowed to overindulge from time to time,” he said sullenly, sounding much more like a schoolboy than an adult.
“Of course you are. I’m only concerned about the timing,” she said.
“Living like a bachelor at least once before I settle down,” he said grandly.
“Bollocks.”
“Mother!”
“Honestly, how on earth have I raised such a stick-in-the-mud? You didn’t always used to be like this. In fact, you used to be quite the little devil,” she told him. “Don’t you remember the fun we used to have as a family? We are a lively bunch, though it’s been so long since we’ve all really been together . . .”
“Since Father died.”
“It is time for us to have a Serious Discussion.”
“I think I am going to be sick,” he said, and closed his eyes.
“I think you are going to listen,” she stated firmly. “Your father would be so proud of the way you manage the responsibility of the estate and as head of this family. I am so proud of you. Brandon, you are a strong, reliable man. But your father would be so disappointed in you if you let go of true love.”