by Liz Tyner
‘Well, I agree. I should have something new to wear since I have been so fortunate—’ he stopped talking for a moment ‘—to marry a duke’s granddaughter.
She tugged at her gloves. ‘It was necessary. My sister is not going to grow up with Augustine as her only parent. I had my mother to protect me from him. She only has me.’
‘Couldn’t you have just visited an apothecary?’
She shook her head. ‘It would have been noticed. Dukes’ granddaughters do not buy poison for vermin.’
‘No. You hire someone to kidnap you in front of Almack’s.’
‘It was a good plan.’
‘It was a disaster waiting to happen. As it did, anyway.’
‘Obstacles didn’t stop my forebears.’
‘I would assume they had their obstacles shot.’
She turned to him. ‘Or engaged others to do it for them. But I am peaceable. I don’t wish for you to kill Fillmore or Augustine, but neither do I wish Gussie to be raised by them. I’m all she has.’
‘Heaven help her.’ He rubbed a hand across his beard and met her eyes. She blinked.
*
Shortly after they walked along the street, he saw a hackney and put two fingers to his lips and whistled loudly enough to hurt her ears.
Immediately the cab, paint glistening so fresh it could have been applied that day, pulled to a stop.
When Brandt sat beside her in the carriage, the leather seat creaked and scented the interior.
She bent closer to him. ‘I hope you can find something dark and menacing. Fillmore is rather bold.’
He turned his head slowly until his eyes locked on hers. He laughed, but the sound was aimed at himself.
His face changed. He shut his eyes and shook his head. ‘Only the granddaughter of the Duke of Carville would be so straightforward. You should have been the duke’s firstborn son, Katherine.’
‘I don’t particularly like my uncle.’
‘No surprise there.’ He chuckled. ‘My elder brother has known him for years and he doesn’t particularly like him either.’
‘My mother’s brother has had nothing to do with us since my mother married my father. I have never even met him and wouldn’t be allowed in the door. Mother hated him for not accepting my father.’
‘Your father was—’
‘Elan Wilder.’
‘Really?’ He stopped, looking again at her. ‘I’ve heard of him.’
‘My mother adored him, but—’
‘But he gambled.’
‘A bit.’
‘Just like his daughter, I would say.’
‘I’ve never played a wagering game in my life.’
‘Oh, heavens no. Not something so mild for you.’ He laughed softly.
She froze, just watching him. He looked so different when he laughed. Not exactly trustworthy. Not at all trustworthy, but he must have breathed out a full barrel of elixir and it hit her stomach and swirled around.
The carriage rolled to a stop and he helped her down. Then he looked at her bonnet and grimaced again. ‘Don’t ever choose my clothes.’
Her chin went up. ‘Obviously I haven’t.’
He grinned, then put her arm around his elbow and gave her a tug.
When they stepped into the tailor shop, a tall man bustled out from the back. The sombre cut of the tailor’s clothes contrasted sharply with the white cravat which seemed to burst into flower at his neck. The man had cropped thinning hair, which curled slightly in a tousled look.
His eyes took them both in, but darted to Brandt’s clothing, then he squinted. His face soured. ‘How can I be of service?’
‘Royce,’ Brandt said, a flash of recognition in his eyes.
The man’s eyes did a quick appraisal of Brandt. His head snapped back and he wrinkled his nose as if he couldn’t believe his own words, ‘Brandt?’
Brandt nodded. ‘I am to be married.’ He indicated Katherine with a nod. ‘She’s determined I improve my appearance.’
‘You married?’ the older man asked again, uncertainty still in his eyes. Then he caught himself, bowed briefly and took a step aside. ‘If you’ll step to the counter, I have fabric samples for whatever you might wish.’
‘I believe you once told me you could make me a gentleman—’ Brandt stood before Royce ‘—but I’m sure you thought you’d never have the challenge. I’ll leave all the choices to you—just no blue and yellow.’
The tailor raised an eyebrow. ‘Brandt. That was a dashing style.’
‘No. You had leftover cloth,’ Brandt said.
The tailor grinned. ‘I did.’ His lips pouched a bit and then he raised his chin. ‘I can make anyone look like a gentleman.’ He held his head high. ‘But you’ll be easier than most.’ He sized up Brandt’s clothes. ‘Those are not worthy for a tavern,’ Royce continued, eyes glinting with humour. ‘And the buttons?’ he asked. ‘Would you like to choose them?’
‘No. I trust your judgement. And you’d best use your proprietor judgement and not your tavern judgement, or you will not be paid.’
‘Fine,’ the tailor pretended to grouse. ‘I will not sew any shut.’ He waved his arm to indicate the back room. ‘If you’ll let me take a few measurements, we’ll discuss what you would like. I even have a few things on hand which would come close to fitting.’
Katherine sat, arranging her skirts to keep them from wrinkling while she waited. She could hear the rumble of voices from the back and one yip of pain from the tailor and a complaint that Brandt best stand still or the next pin would go in him.
*
Almost an hour later, Brandt chuckled as he emerged from the back of the shop. The black coat he wore could have been made for a peer.
‘Royce is getting us a carriage,’ he said.
‘How did he manage to get you clothing so quickly?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘We’re near the same size. He sent someone for some of his own and let out the trouser legs. He had a staff member exchange more expensive buttons to a coat he had. He can tell it is not a perfect fit, and I can tell, but it will suit the purposes of the day.’
‘I cannot imagine him in a tavern.’
Brandt didn’t answer immediately. ‘Royce isn’t a regular at the Hare’s Breath. But he made my clothes for me when I was a lad—and later—and he once recognised me when I was walking to the Hare’s Breath. And he’s been by a few times to see—how I’m faring. They welcome him because I know him.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I guess I am one of the patrons of the Hare’s Breath now.’
He took her elbow. ‘It seems everyone has an opinion on how I should live my life. Always have since I have been a very young man. Do you get the same advice?’
‘Not really. Augustine has so much control over me that no one else had any say in the matter. Or even thought to speak.’
‘Well, perhaps I should like to give a bit of advice to you now.’
The carriage arrived, Brandt thanked Royce and they walked out. She turned back to see Royce watching them leave, but with a smile on his face.
Brandt helped her into the carriage and he followed, sitting with a bit of a bounce before he settled against her side. Thumping the carriage top, he alerted the driver they were ready.
She saw a slight scar at the corner of his temple.
‘What advice might you give?’
‘I discussed what kind of dresses he might suggest for you.’ Brandt’s lips parted a bit and she saw his eyes move to her body, and he gave a tiny swallow before he spoke. ‘The dullness, you know. I think you should wear happier colours.’ Then he reached across her, tugging the shade closed, and leaned back to pull the one on his side. With the outside fog, and the dimness inside, he’d enveloped her in a cocoon. He looked at her and her skin began to tingle.
‘I told the tailor you wish for fashionable clothes and I asked if he might recommend a colour.’ Brandt touched the faded brown sleeve of her dress, frowning. ‘Royce said your skin would glow bathed in a pink shade.
’
He bent forward a bit, reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out a square of fabric no bigger than half his palm—and the hue a light rose. He stared at it and then held the swatch to her cheek, so close the fibres brushed her skin.
With his eyes intent and the closed quarters, she tensed. She could only feel the merest edge of the cloth, but she could sense the material with her whole body.
Brandt studied the scrap, attention focused. Katherine could feel him thinking of her skin.
She moved back against the leather squabs.
‘Hold still,’ he spoke softly, letting the fabric remain against her. He leaned closer, eyes determined to make the most of the soft light. ‘Lovely. Perfect for a fashionable bodice.’ He brushed it down to where the fabric of her gown ended near her neck, then frowned.
With his free hand he reached around her, surrounding her in a layer of his own warmth and the scent of a tart shaving spice. He undid several hooks more quickly than any lady’s maid. She felt the brush of his fingertips as he pushed back the shoulder of her dress.
She couldn’t protest. She put a hand against his chest to push him away, but he took it as encouragement, moving closer to her, as if the touch heightened his own senses.
‘So.’ He brushed the fabric at the soft skin just above the top of her exposed chemise. She felt the tickles of the silken cloth, causing ripples in the rest of her body. ‘To go with your fashionable bodices, I think you’ll have to get some new chemises, as well.’ He shook his head ‘Can’t have them showing above your dress.’
He put the fabric to his lips, securing it between his teeth, and then took both hands to brush the shoulders of her chemise away, leaving a décolletage a whisper away from scandalous.
He didn’t speak at first, but took the silk from his lips. She almost couldn’t hear his words above her own heartbeats, but he finally spoke, his eyes still resting on the skin above her chemise. ‘I agree with you. Very much. About the bodices.’
She felt the fabric stroke her again, damp from where his mouth had wetted the cloth. She swallowed. He dragged the fabric up her skin, to her neck, her chin and fluttered it across her lips. ‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘About the colour?’
She nodded and her fingers covered his wrist. He stilled a moment, but she didn’t push away, just held on.
Her eyes rested on his face and she knew his thoughts. Whether or not he was hers, she was his.
*
Brandt watched her study him. He was bound to Katherine. Even before the cleric said the words, he’d already been tied to her. Not by marriage vows, but because he could not watch her struggle without wanting to rescue her.
He didn’t take his eyes from her. Katherine—not Nigel now, he supposed. But for him, he wasn’t sure her real name fit her. Nigel. A safe name. Katherine—a woman’s name.
A man could walk away from a Nigel. And a Nigel’s breasts were just—He looked again. Those, he would have to say, belonged to a Katherine.
And they would look so appealing with a dress of the cloth Royce had given him. They were fine even covered in a tired undergarment.
Beyond imaginable—
Something he shouldn’t think about, or she’d have him captured. Truly captured.
He reached under her breast, to her side, and gave a delicate pull so more of her skin showed. He took the fabric and then brushed it against the top of her breast. He let the cloth rest there a moment.
‘This would do, I think,’ he said of the swatch.
She twisted in the seat, still gripping his arms. She had taut muscles in her body and the darkness in her eyes.
He dropped the scrap, letting it flutter between them.
He traced his finger along the very edge of the chemise poking from her dress. ‘He suggested a rich sable as well, to match your hair.’
His hand splayed, keeping the dress between himself and her skin, but didn’t stop until he rested on the corset under her breasts. ‘Holding you here, with the stays, is not much different than touching a knight’s armour, yet it seems I can feel every beat of your heart, every breath, and even the blink of your lashes seem to flutter against my skin. Can you even feel my touch, Katherine?’
She nodded. He let his hands slide to her waist, feeling the ridges of boning which trapped her body, letting his fingertips imagine so much more.
‘I suppose I should have got more samples of fabric,’ he whispered. ‘It’s hard to know just how the other colours would look against you.’
He bent his head down, not touching her neck, but he felt her move—not away.
‘Soap. You always smell of soap. Not a soap a man might use. Not one used by a woman scrubbing away her sins. But one which brings to mind meadows and breezes which soothe the soul.’
His lips lingered against her neck, his hands still at her waist. ‘But not all of the scent is soap, some is the sweetness of your skin. The warmth of it tumbling about my face, reminding me of what could get even better as I touch more of you.’
He raised his eyes to hers. ‘Did you like the pink colour? I wonder if we should select a slightly brighter shade?’ He heard his voice, as casual as if he discussed a carriage wheel, but he’d begun to feel the touch of her which his fingers couldn’t quite manage enough of through the garments—but he felt too much.
‘Would that be fashionable enough for you?’ He watched her face.
She didn’t speak, but she answered what he didn’t ask.
He backed away, but his eyes didn’t.
‘You’re right about the fashionable bodices and I know…’ His hand brushed down, fingers splayed, over the dress bunched at her waist, touching her stomach. His lips came to hers and his teeth nipped her bottom lip. He held her firm, not letting her push herself against him. He didn’t raise his voice above a whisper at her ear. ‘Sweet, I will miss you.’
His forehead touched hers and his nose touched hers, and his words were spoken almost into her mouth.
Brandt’s lips fell into the hollow of her neck, his teeth grazing her skin.
She reached out, clasping the tendrils of his hair, holding him close, and he let himself mould her back into the seat. His tongue swirled on her skin and he blew against her, letting his breath heat the trail his tongue left behind.
The carriage pulled to a stop, and he heard the creaks and felt the carriage jostle as the man moved from his seat to pull down the steps for them.
Brandt reached to the door handle and his fingers tightened, holding it to prevent opening. He leaned back in the squab, against the corner, putting his arm along the back of the seat, never releasing her from his gaze.
His eyes roamed to the places his lips had touched. ‘I will miss you, Katherine. But understand it’s for the best…’
He pressed a kiss against her neck, lips moving a trail that touched deep inside her. She clasped him close, but he pulled back, his exhalation warming where his mouth had been.
His shoulders moved with his breaths. His arm fell from around her and he took her gloved hand as he moved away. He kissed her glove and released the door. ‘The closer I get to you, the more I remember the pain, the loss and all the darkness.’
‘You don’t have to love me. I wouldn’t care.’
‘I would. Care. And that would be too much.’ She sensed rather than felt him lean in towards her. ‘Wear the bright colours. Live a life that brings you peace.’
‘What of you?’
‘I will be doing the same in London.’ He leaned closer and, instead of a kiss, he touched her back. ‘You have shown me that I belong among the plain folk, the ones I have been near the past few years. The tart-mouthed, ale-soaked folks. I always have. I just hadn’t realised how much it is true.’
‘But—’
He put two gentle fingers over her lips, silencing her.
Chapter Eighteen
When Brandt heard the cleric speaking the words, he paid no attention, until he heard her name. Katherine. Katherine Louis
a Wilder. Katherine Louisa May Radcliffe. He’d given a different woman his last name. Not Mary. He’d taken Mary’s last name away from her.
He let out a loud sigh and looked at Katherine. The cleric stumbled over a word and Brandt stared at him. The man spoke faster.
Katherine elbowed Brandt.
He raised his head to look at the ceiling—it needed fresh paint. He firmed his jaw and turned, seeing Katherine’s pale face. He leaned to her. ‘Take in a deep breath, Katherine. It is only a marriage.’ He spoke softly. Then he looked at the cleric and the man’s eyes opened wide when he saw Brandt’s face. ‘I do—to that question you’re about to ask.’
The man paused. ‘Please wait until I’ve asked it.’ He continued speaking, then he paused and looked at Brandt. ‘You may give the correct answer now.’
‘I will.’
At least this didn’t feel like a wedding or a marriage, and the thought eased Brandt’s mind. He’d not realised marriage could be such a simple act. He’d pleaded and promised and fumed to marry his first wife.
First wife, he scowled at the thought. If Mary would have lived she would have been his only wife.
His father had promised to disown him, saying if he wished to marry a servant then he could become one as well and said he certainly would not send him to university now. His mother had cried. Mary and her mother had been let go and he’d followed them. Finally, he’d married and things had slowly returned to normal.
This marriage, he’d merely showed up. No one seemed to have noticed his presence particularly.
He’d lost one wife and now he’d gained… He paused. He’d gained a Nigel.
He’d refused to think of courting and certainly not marriage ever again. It would have been making light of the first one, of his wife’s death, and erasing that it had ever happened. In fact, he hadn’t given marriage much thought the first time until after the window had lifted so easily.
He couldn’t help that part of him had died with her, buried even before the first shovel of dirt covered her coffin, and had decayed into dust long before the grass had covered her grave.