by Tanya Wilde
Just one.
But no, Brahm would not compromise them any further by acting on whatever madness had besieged him.
Miss Middleton remained off limits.
He shut his eyes, determined not to stare at the bed all night.
Earlier, he had been appalled at the length she had gone to alter her appearance. Brahm had felt rather insulted. Her crop suggested disbelief in his capabilities to protect her.
It chafed, that knowledge.
However, he could not deny that the sight had knocked the breath from him. The shorter hair suited her.
There was no denying that Miss Middleton did not deserve to be grouped into the same class as the average ladies he knew. She earned a different classification entirely—a better one. Of course, society would never understand her—or her siblings. The Middletons did not possess one subservient bone in their body, just like his sister, Josephine.
A trait he had come to admire.
Even though he could do without women stirring up mischief.
In fact, he suspected that Josephine’s fondness for trouble was precisely why he was stuck in this cursed moment at present. His curiosity would never have gotten the better of him had he not recognized the signs of misbehavior in another female. He had detected trouble in the making and dived straight into it. Had it been instinctual from all those years of protecting Josephine from her own antics—at least the ones he’d known about?
Perhaps. Perhaps he had set after Miss Middleton in the spirit of habitual inquiry upon sensing a lady up to no good, one embracing the chaos of misbehaving, much like his sister.
But what happened after he had followed Miss Middleton into the secret passage was still up for dispute. Curiosity was not a reason to entrench himself so deeply in her situation. Neither was a habit left over from years as his sister’s guardian.
Could something more than mere curiosity have been what prompted him to set after her back at the church?
Don’t be a blockhead, Warton. What ‘more’ could it be?
And yet, every protective instinct had flared to life when those big, innocent blue eyes turned his way. The word no simply refused to pass his lips or even form on his tongue. That was not a word he normally had trouble saying to mischievous females, whether his sister or her friends.
No, there was something different about Holly Middleton.
And he was going to have a devil of a time getting her out of his mind when this was all over.
That being said, detachment seemed the only logical solution for the remainder of their journey. The force of his focus must be contained to Miss Middleton’s welfare and not on the sensual arch of her neck. Or her soft pink lips. Or her eyes. Or anything on Miss Middleton’s person.
Fantasies would not keep him one step ahead of this mare’s nest. While Brahm did not wish to make a formidable enemy such as St. Ives, neither was he afraid to do so, if it came to that. Not after what Miss Middleton had revealed about the man.
Brahm hated bullies. He despised tyrants.
The bedframe creaked, drawing his attention back to her slight form. She would have made a fine duchess—a bit peculiar—but fine.
She would make an even better marchioness.
The thought caught him so off guard that his heart stopped for a moment.
He exhaled slowly.
She would, yes—just not for him.
The last thing he wanted was a Middleton stirring up pots of trouble in his life. Permanently.
He preferred a proper wife.
What, then, did a proper marchioness look like?
Well, for one thing, a proper marchioness was not prone to tricks and misbehavior. She was refined, demure, and aware of her place. She would most certainly not speak on topics that were unfit for a lady—like listing all the boys she’d kissed. And she would behave like . . . like. . .
Brahm sighed.
A dull creature grazing in the field of propriety?
Would he honestly be happy with such a wife?
Or perhaps the better question was why was he even debating the issue. Josephine had been nagging him these past eighteen months to get married—could it be she had finally snapped his good sense in half?
A small moan came from the bed, followed by a light rustling of sheets. The sound was so erotic, his insides clenched in growing desire.
Brahm rubbed a palm over his thigh to help ease his growing agitation.
He had to stop thinking of the bed and the sheets softly caressing Miss Middleton’s skin. In his current state of arousal, if he so much as moved, he’d reach for her. And then he would wake her up and find out if kissing her would be as incredible as he imagined it would be.
But he would never stop at just one kiss.
Or a hundred.
Or a thousand.
Then they would have to marry.
And then his wife would be a cheeky marchioness.
But his marchioness could not be Holly Middleton. Hell, Holly Middleton didn’t even want to be his marchioness. She didn’t want his kiss, either.
But what if she did?
Do not go there, Warton.
There would be no more thoughts of kissing her or of the bed, or of kissing her on the bed.
No more.
The end.
Final.
Brahm closed his eyes once more, stretched out his legs before him, and folded his arms across his chest. One thought lingered for his list: much like in the case of bed versus chair, his marchioness ought to make him feel comfortable, not uncomfortable.
Certainly not as uncomfortable as Holly Middleton made him feel.
Chapter 9
Holly Middleton had failed. Again. And this time she had done so in spectacular fashion. In fact, she would be the first to acknowledge that the road to failure was not a linear path. Quite the opposite. And in almost all occurrences, she had not recognized her failure until she had passed the last bend on that crooked road. This time, however, she had seen the cliff, or at least sensed it, and yet had careened straight off the edge anyhow.
She had wandered down the path she had promised not to take.
She had become hopelessly infatuated with Brahm Tremont, Marquis of Warton.
Her eyes lifted to cast a sidelong glance at Warton. He sat across from her in the breakfast room, sipping on a cup of coffee, engrossed in the latest edition of the London Times.
Perhaps it was more apt to say she had fallen fiercely into attachment. Or maybe savagely into devotion? Whatever the description, her feelings had been quite evident in her dreams, which had included sweet, tender kisses from Warton. And he had been naked. Oh, so gloriously naked.
The moment her eyes had fluttered open, her heart had flickered, quivered, and bloomed in anticipation to wake up to the sight of him.
Oh! You are such, such, such a lost cause!
Unfortunately, the only presence of him had been a note informing her to meet him in the dining room.
She brought her cup to her lips and took a sip of tea.
She still hesitated on the matter—which in itself was curious. She had never been hesitant to acknowledge she was in love. Or infatuated. Or something. That only highlighted the main point more: Whatever she had fallen into, it was unlike all the other times.
In the past, she had fallen in love in a variety of ways. Hopelessly? Yes. In a heartbeat? Surely. In a dream? One or two times. Painfully? Once, actually—compliments of an unsteady tree branch. Madly? Well, her current position could attest to that, surely.
But hesitantly . . . even a little fearfully? Never. She had never hesitantly done anything, which was why a small voice of skepticism cast some uncertainty on Holly’s sudden revelation. After all, she had experienced butterflies in her stomach before, had reveled in the same excitement and the delightful feeling akin to falling into a surface of fluffy clouds (which had always just been her swan-diving onto the pillows on her bed).
But Holly had told Poppy not to worry. She h
ad assured Willow her heart was in no danger.
She loathed to prove them right and her, well, wrong. And yet, she could no longer deny her revelation. Because just as she had never hesitated to love, it had also never felt quite so terrifying before.
Never had she tasted this breathless anticipation, this feeling of balancing precariously on a very high ledge. Never had she worried over what she’d find on the landing. Or over what, precisely, she was going to do about it.
And Holly fully intended to do something about it.
Her gaze traveled over the part of Warton’s face not obscured by the newspaper, which he had all but plastered over his face.
No, falling in love had never quite happened like this before. Her imaginings were remarkably silent. No wedding bells chimed in her brain. No fanciful daydreaming occupied her mind. No eyelashes batted, and she did not fan herself to the point of dizziness. Instead, all she heard was the rapid beat of her own heart and the quick intake of her breath.
She was utterly focused . . . on him.
Wedding fantasies, flirting, and giggling were of little consequence. And considering that she’d been planning her wedding from the moment she could gather a coherent thought, this was uncharted territory indeed.
She found herself not imagining him in a wedding suit but wondering about another question altogether.
How would it feel to be loved by such a gruff man?
She reached for a knife to butter three slices of toast, lost in thought.
Warton chose that moment to shift the paper and fully reveal his face, which was wearing its usual sharp, dark look. By all accounts, she should feel intimidated by his dark stares and brooding glares. Instead she found them rather endearing.
Clearly, she was infatuated.
But now, what to do about it?
Kiss him?
But after their discussion of kisses, Warton must believe her to be an outrageous flirt. A kiss would therefore not reveal anything to him about her affection.
In fact, seduction through the traditional methods was likely out altogether. She possessed no generous charms, so to speak. Her breasts were far too little and her hips without any curves. In Holly’s estimation, her willowy form was her least attractive feature. It seemed that no matter how much she ate, she never put on enough weight to round out her figure.
She reached for another slice of toast for good measure.
One time she had attempted to eat only cake for a month, but after eight days Holly could no longer take any more of the sweetness. She had even overheard a maid once tell the cook that Holly’s hips lacked the width necessary for childbirth and that a man only took a wife who could bear him children.
But Holly had never taken those words to heart. Her single-minded passion for a fairy tale forbade it. But she’d admit that her looks weren’t overtly womanly in the traditional sense. Some even said she was childlike. And a childlike body hardly inspired passion let alone wanton seduction.
She sighed, nibbling at her toast.
So, what could she inspire?
Well, if she had learned anything from her life, she’d learned this: men preferred women with gumption.
And gumption she had in spades.
She peered at Warton, whose head was still bent over his riveting paper. “Any news?” she murmured.
“Nothing of interest,” he answered, his eyes lifting to meet hers. “But there is an entire section dedicated to the etiquette on courtship and weddings and the outrageous lack thereof shown by a certain duke.”
Ah. So no names were mentioned, then.
“Interesting,” Holly murmured, though she hardly found it so. Progress on the duke’s hunt for his runaway former fiancée would have been much more arresting.
“Indeed. It seems society stands divided. On the one hand, the female activists are calling the duke a bully for having taken advantage of a gently bred, naïve country girl.”
“And on the other hand?”
“Male indignation for the stand the women are taking against the duke, of course.”
Holly blinked at Warton.
“Not what you were expecting, Miss Middleton?”
“I’ll say,” she muttered, and when he arched a thick, dark brow, she continued with a sigh, “The fact that it is not about me or the duke anymore does have me a tad surprised. And for that fact, I never imagined people would support me.”
“Well, there are some who refuse to take a side. But it’s also not people, Miss Middleton, but your family. And they are defending you against speculation. Apparently, according to a statement St. Ives sent to the Times, he always meant to marry Miss Willow Middleton, and he apologizes for any confusion on the matter. Your cousin, who the papers are calling the Earl of Charming, supports the duke’s claim.”
Which, of course, was in her favor.
“They nicknamed Bradford the Earl of Charming?” Bradford was anything but, at least from what Holly could recall. They weren’t close—not anymore. Perhaps they never were. There had been a time when she believed Bradford enjoyed spending time with her, Poppy, and Willow. But then he’d disappeared from their lives, apparently to travel the globe. Nine years or thereabouts had gone by without as much as a letter. Charming, indeed.
Warton shuddered but nodded. “An unfortunate epithet. In any case, your cousin has sweet-talked all the key lords and ladies of the ton, the papers, and possibly everyone in between into believing you had fallen ill on the day of the wedding and are mending your health at Fairtree Manor in Derbyshire.”
“What a load of rubbish.”
“Your cousin has also rallied allies in—Westfield, Craven, Grey, and St. Aldwyn—who have all been named as well.”
Shocked, Holly snatched the paper from his fingers, her eyes flickering over the content. “The London Times wrote that?”
He snatched the paper back. “They only mentioned the connections in passing, as if a reminder of your friends in high places.”
Poppy.
Her sister must be behind this, rallying the troops in her stead.
“You may come out of this sterling yet, Miss Middleton.”
Their eyes locked and held.
Again Holly forgot to breathe. And for the first time, she found she did not wish for the dust to settle on her scandal. Not this soon. Not yet. Not until she uncovered what this magnetic pull between her and Warton meant—and what it meant to him.
“I suppose I shall never be a pirate, then,” she murmured with a pout.
A grin cracked his face. “A pirate, Miss Middleton? That was your solution in the face of complete ruination?”
“That or become a horse breeder. I am so fond of animals, you know.” Holly blinked dreamily at him in a demonstration of just how fond.
Warton chuckled, and the sound rocked through her, causing a shiver. “You are a strange female, Miss Middleton.”
“Please, call me Holly. I daresay we were past social necessities two villages ago.”
“Very well, Miss Middleton,” and after a moment, “Holly.”
Brahm.
Brahm and Holly.
Together their names shared a delightful ring.
Holly licked her lips, suddenly a little nervous. She saw Warton’s eyes flicker with heat for a moment before he shuttered his expression and whipped up the paper to his face again.
Interesting.
It seemed there was potential to drive the marquis a little mad after all. Perhaps she could spark his passion in small ways, ways he’d never guess were intentional. And then he’d have to kiss her, and he’d learn the truth.
Her grin broadened.
The Marquis of Warton was the one.
He just didn’t know it yet.
***
The bloody woman was touching him again, driving him to madness with her continual contact. Damn if she didn’t set his blood on fire, stirring his purposefully suppressed desire to life.
Just an hour ago she had leaned over him to peer thr
ough his side of the window, bringing her person right up to his face. And her gown, one of Josephine’s, possessed a wickedly low-plunging neckline, giving him ample view of her pearly white skin.
With that, his well-intentioned detachment was shot to hell.
The crux of it was that Brahm had not the faintest notion whether it—the touching—was deliberate or not. Her hypnotic blue eyes hadn’t glinted in a sly manner, nor had her smile been expectant or wicked. Which altogether left him to conclude that she must possess no clue as to what she was doing to him. And if that was the case, it made every touch all the worse, because there was no way, then, to stop them.
And he already ached from the contact.
Every spot her fingers connected tingled with feeling. And every time his flesh prickled, his lips pulled up into a snarl. Not even deliberately but of their own accord. His reaction, however unintentional, was meant to warn her away, to keep her at a safe distance. But did the chit listen? Oh, no. Apparently she did not notice at all.
Inwardly, Brahm groaned in yearning; outwardly, he stiffened when the carriage presumably hit a stone and she flew forward—right into his lap.
“Oh!”
One of her hands flattened on his chest while the other gripped his thigh, even as her eyes jumped to his in apology. She attempted to scramble away from him, but the movement seemed sluggish, almost reluctant. And had her hand just rubbed up and down his leg?
“For Christ’s sake, Miss Middleton,” he snapped, snatching her by the shoulders and depositing her back on her seat. It was too dangerous to say her name with her pushed up so intimately against him.
“My apologies,” she murmured.
Her voice was so soft that he barely heard her. With some satisfaction he noted her cheeks were flushed, though she did not meet his eyes.
“No harm, no foul,” he muttered and settled back, his breathing not quite steady yet.
She clasped and unclasped her hands in a fidgety manner, and Brahm sighed. He felt like an ass. He hadn’t meant to be so abrupt, but devil take it, the sensations she provoked alarmed him.
How long until their next stop? An hour, perhaps?