He tried his best to ignore Anne, but she would have none of it.
“Tell me, my lord,” his hostess said, “will your father leave his estates in good order? Or will you be forced to hunt an heiress to renew the family coffers?”
Brandon leaned his right wrist against the table edge but realized his error when Anne’s left hand moved over his, her fingers stroking.
He cleared his throat and picked up his fork. “Ours is not a large holding, but father has run it well and increased its revenues over his tenure. I am not required to wed for funds.”
“But I was sure Asher said you had an heiress neighbor that everyone expected you to wed. Will you do so before your father passes?”
Brandon felt his face redden. He would prefer Priscilla not know of his other personal circumstances, but he guessed she was listening to Anne’s inquisition with rapt attention. “Estella is, in fact, a long time family friend and an heiress. Both her father and mine agreed on our betrothal when we were children, but there has been no official announcement. It’s not required that I marry before father passes on. Estella or any other woman. I have not finalized a choice.”
Beneath the table upon which the elegant feast was presented, Anne’s leg rubbed against his. When she removed her slipper and slid her foot up his calf, he thought he would jump up from the table to escape. But he retained his composure, shifted in his chair and turned to Priscilla to discover she was indeed closely observing the interplay between himself and their hostess.
He best redirect the activities.
“Pardon me, Lady Rutherford. Have you spent much time here with your brother and his wife?”
She shook her head and looked toward her sister-in-law with a cool eye. “No, my lord. It seems our tastes in friends and activities do not much concur. I desire to be surrounded by few but the closest of friends. Anne and Thomas seem to require hordes to keep them entertained.”
“Just so, Priscilla,” returned the hostess with hauteur. “If one must exile oneself to the country, one must provide oneself with pleasures. Do you not agree, my lord?”
Brandon did not turn his gaze back to Anne. Instead, he directed his answer to Priscilla, “I have always found the solitude of the country and its simpler amusements more than enough to stimulate and relax my humble self.”
Brandon’s reward was a shy look from beneath lowered lids with lush lashes.
“Hurumph!” came from their disconcerted hostess, who seemed determined to terminate the conversation and his lack of interest in her by rising and having the ladies retire to the drawing room for tea.
Brandon rose and bowed to both Anne and Priscilla. But it was the susurrating pink silk skirts he watched retreat to the door before reseating himself.
His brow furrowed with thought, he accepted a glass of amber liquid from Rogers.
“Brandon, move your arse down to this end of the table and share with this esteemed group what you have learned of my sister.” Asher waved his brandy snifter to encompass the other men. “It seems you are the singular rake who has been given the time of day by Pris. Which comes as no surprise considering you are the most handsome of the lot.” The other men jeered at their host. “What say you to her well-being and state of mind?”
Brandon moved to take the chair the butler pulled out next to their host.
“As one would expect, Asher, your sister is bereft.” Brandon took a sip while he stretched his long legs before him.
“I’m not surprised. Despite the arranged marriage, Pris seemed to grow to like the old curmudgeon.”
Asher nodded to his cronies. He pulled the flat, silver container from his breast pocket then extracted a cheroot from it. No sooner had he brought it to his lips than a footman placed a flaming twig to its end. Asher puffed in satisfaction then offered the case around for others to share. An alternate footman was also presenting cigars for approval and selection.
Blackston took a sip of his drink before he turned a beady eye on Brandon and said, “Is there any chance she will be in financial straits and need a benefactor?”
Evidently, all of them were of like mind. After selecting a cigar and lighting it, Dimsford said, “I’d set her up in a nonce!”
“Gentlemen, you are speaking of my sister,” Asher reprimanded.
“But she’ll be needing someone to ease her ache now the old man is gone,” put in Squire Tilden, taking out a large handkerchief and swabbing his sweating brow. “Maybe she’ll let one of us take on the task.”
Asher shook his head, but could not speak again before Brandon tried to temper his own disapproval. Such a heartless group of rakehells. Of course, how could he expect more considering the type of house party they were attending. It was, by far, the worst of its kind. No limits were put on its events or the liaisons that could be made. If the gentlemen were not throwing themselves at the ladies, then the ladies were throwing themselves at the gentlemen.
It was abhorrent.
He was not in the right place for a man in his state of mind. But he would not abandon Priscilla. She would have no protection should he leave now to return to his father.
“Well, Asher, to answer your question. What I have discerned from your sister is her sincere feelings for her husband, in spite of the fact hers was not a love match. He must have been good enough, kind enough, to have instilled in her a certain amount of respect and regard. I would hope for each of you, and myself no less, such sentiments from our spouses should we leave this earthly plane before them.”
Sitting his brandy snifter on the pure white damask table linens with an air of finality, Brandon rose from his chair, his face a scowl of disappointment and disapproval. “I think I am done here. I shall go to rejoin the ladies.”
With mumblings and grumblings from the group, chairs were shuffled, and the others made to follow him out.
Brandon didn’t care one whit how grossly improper it was of him to leave the dining room before his host. He’d had quite enough of the callous and atrocious behavior of his peers.
And he looked forward to seeing Priscilla again.
But upon returning to the drawing room, and after perusing the chatting ladies ensconced in the plush upholstered chairs, the pale pink gown and its mistress were not to be seen.
She retired early again leaving him to the unwanted, ill-timed and indecent advances of Anne, if he failed to make a hasty retreat.
Chapter 8
Brandon leaned back against the wisteria trellis, the shadows of night masking his presence. Before he ascended once again, he wanted to make sure no one was present to perceive him.
The night was cool, the sky clear and starry. The moon, yet to rise, would not be quite full when it appeared.
After assuring himself all was quiet and safe, Brandon clambered up the trellis and vine and inhaled the sweet scents of the pendulous lavender and white flowers. He climbed over the rail, then paused at the French doors. This evening they were closed tight, but a light glowed from within. He could discern the voluptuous outline of his quest brushing the length of her hair in front of the dressing table mirror.
He decided not to hesitate further. He had no wish to replay the prior night when he was a voyeur rather than a participant.
Would she welcome him? While they were talking in the maze that afternoon, could he have mistaken the increase of her scent as her arousal? How she shuddered whenever he touched her hand or arm in the lightest fashion?
His hands ungloved, he tapped a knuckle firmly against a pane then watched her cease brushing as if to listen.
He tapped again.
Priscilla jumped from her seat.
Who could be knocking on her window? She swung around with wide eyes and a thumping heart to see who would dare to threaten her sanctuary.
In the pale candlelight she could just
make out the face beyond the glass.
Lord Brookfield. Brandon.
Priscilla swallowed hard but did not lay down her brush. How could he have known he was invading her thoughts? She tried to give no clue. She remained aloof despite her urgent need to seduce him. She had left the drawing room to the other women and retired to her rooms. She was not prepared for this meeting.
When would she ever be?
It was as if her thoughts manifested his presence before her.
What should she do?
He turned the handle on the doors.
She had failed to lock them.
She was out on the balcony earlier to enjoy the cool night air and the scent of the flourishing flowers. But she had no thought she would need to latch an entry two stories above the gardens.
Silently, the doors swung open, admitting him into the room along with a chill draft of air.
The hairs on the nape of her neck rose. The shiver that seemed to be forever present when he was in her vicinity thrilled her spine again.
Her eyes met his green gaze. There was no mistaking the heat in them. She had seen that look travel between many of the men when they watched Anne and the other women over the last few days. It was intense. It was seductive. It was hungry.
What was she to do now?
“Lady Rutherford, I beg your company.”
“My lord, I fear you have done so in a most inappropriate manner.” She fought to keep her voice steady, aloof. She leaned back against the dressing table, the brush tight in one hand, the edge of the furniture grasped in the other.
“I knew you would not answer your chamber door if I knocked on it.” Brandon pressed the French door closed behind him. She heard the snick of the lock. He took a firm step into the room.
He was in her room.
There was no place for her to go. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
“How so, my lord?”
“I stationed myself in an alcove last night and watched the others make plays for your attention. You did not even answer the door to see who called. I expected tonight would be the same.”
“I had no interest in their attentions.”
“So I saw for myself. But I was determined to meet you. You piqued my curiosity, so I approached from another manner.” He took another step into the room.
“This afternoon in the maze. This evening at dinner?” she asked.
“Last night, Lady Rutherford. On this same balcony.”
Priscilla felt her face pale, her body stiffen, her breath wane.
He was on her balcony last night?
“I beg pardon, my lord. I fear I misconstrue.”
“I fear you do not, Priscilla. And I feel a full confession, for honesty’s sake, is due. As tonight, I came up to your balcony last night to introduce myself. I was about to knock on the glass like I did tonight but was stopped since you . . . How should I say this?” Brandon broke his gaze from her eyes, looked to the fire and ran a hand through his thick golden hair. “I was enthralled, madam, by the events that took place. Once they ended, I was too stunned to attempt an introduction.”
She was speechless when his gaze came back to hers. His green eyes lost none of their intensity. His body seemed larger than it had earlier in the day and the heat that spread through her was like a fire that would never burn out.
Brandon continued, “I wanted to speak with you further this evening but once again you fled. And, I want to . . .”
”Please, my lord, this is most inappropriate. I am a new widow.”
“Do you not think I am aware of that? Do you not think I have other things pressing on my mind as well with my father so near his own demise? And yet, here I am, drawn like a moth to a flame. After last night, watching you, wanting you. Every time I have been close to you my desires, my body, have been almost out of my control.
“And you. Have you not felt something? I have sensed the change in you. Your heat, your coloring, every time we have been together.”
Priscilla turned away, ashamed she was so transparent, her lack of ton training her downfall, her betrayal. “You cannot know how I feel, my lord. I am in mourning, my needs are not to be ascertained and acted upon so easily.”
But she did need his seed. Didn’t she? And, he was more than willing. Why was she hesitating?
“Would you lie to me, Lady Rutherford? Priscilla?”
“No, my lord.” Could she just use him for her own purposes and not tell him? “But I cannot be the lover you would wish me to be. I am not now, nor may I ever be, the woman that you would want in such a way. I have . . . limitations.” Priscilla released the table top to grasp her pendant in her hand. She worried the charm along its chain, fondled the faceted ruby and smooth surface of the pearl it held.
Dare she hope he could understand and want her anyway?
“And cannot I choose to live within those constraints, Priscilla?”
“I doubt any gentleman, no less a rake such as yourself, would be willing to limit his needs, his fulfillment, to the idiosyncrasies of a sheltered widow such as myself.”
Would he be appalled to discover she was a virgin? Would he keep that knowledge to himself? A true gentleman would.
She turned away from him. “It is best you leave, my lord, no matter what my desires might be.”
How could she resolve these conflicting needs? She wanted his seed. To be truthful, she wanted him. But her conscience, her virgin state, demanded her retreat, her refusal. Her hand, still at her throat, worried the lavalier back and forth along its chain. What should she do? What would Robert want her to do?
“Priscilla, might I not hear your terms and determine for myself if I can live within your bounds?” He stepped closer and reached for her.
She pulled away. She drew her hands behind her back. She would make it difficult for him. It would give her time to think. “You must not touch me, my lord. That would be the first rule. You could not lay your hands upon me.”
For the least of it, she must see if he could be patient and as gentle as Robert before she could submit. She was too afraid, for so many reasons, to just let go of all reserve or caution.
“But then how would I make love to you, madam?”
“You would not, my lord.” She turned back to him, looked up into his intense green eyes to discover the momentary surprise and confusion there. “It would be you who would watch. It would be I who would make love to you.”
Brandon struggled to keep his mouth from falling open. He could not touch her? She would make love to him? What folly was this? This woman of passion, whom he had watched the night before, would not let him pleasure her but would herself pleasure him?
“Madam,” Brandon ran his hand through his hair again, “I do not see how that would bring pleasure to you at all.”
“It would be my wish, my lord. It would be my rule. And it would be in place until I chose to change it. It would be your promise and you must choose to abide by it no matter what your physical or emotional urges might require.”
“And, if I should take this pledge and refrain from touching you, what should happen then?”
“Because I am lonely, my lord, I would do for you what I would do for my husband. I would pleasure myself in front of you. Then I would pleasure you. But after that, you must leave. And, never would you raise a hand to touch me, or set your lips to mine.”
Brandon turned to walk a distance from her. Now both hands were in his hair. What was this the widow asked of him? What kind of marriage had fate dealt her that she would not let someone touch and pleasure her? Could he restrain himself if he were to become even more aroused than he was at the window the prior evening? Could he hope she would change her mind when the two of them were in the throes of sexual ecstasy?
He turned back to
her.
“I’ll take your bargain, my lady.”
“You will be disappointed, Lord Brookfield, if you think my demands will change in midstream. I promise you, they will not. And you will be bound to them or permanently break your trust with me.”
“I will not break my promise tonight no matter the pain or torment it will cause me. I wish to build our trust. Already there is something that grows between us. I refuse to forfeit the possibility of something more due to my lack of control. There must be a reason both of us have been thrown together when we are suffering such similar losses. I will take your vow and make it my own.”
Priscilla did not hide the astonishment on her face. Had she hoped to fend him off by such a demand? When would she decide it was safe to relent? “Sit, my lord, in the chair before the fire. Take off your jacket and waistcoat. Be comfortable. Give me a moment to compose myself. I was not prepared for a night such as this.”
Brandon shed his jacket and waistcoat and made himself comfortable in the velvet wing chair. His gaze lit upon the fire, its warmth and light hypnotizing him while his mind wandered through thoughts of what might happen next.
He had not long to wait.
Priscilla came to stand with her back to the fire, the rose silk robe cast in a deeper hue from the flames. She still held the brush in her hand and she drew it through the length of her hair over her shoulder. Down in strokes over her breast as her back was warmed by the flame. The brush traced the rise of her breast, the indentation of her waist then stopped just above her mons.
Again she stroked her tresses. And Brandon watched the course of the journey from beginning to end. He thought about the feel of that silky, shiny hair that he could not touch, its fire-reddened color and the heat it was gaining from the flames and the friction of the brush.
If Love Were Enough Page 6