If Love Were Enough

by Quill, Suzanne

  There was no doubt who taunted him. His heart sank when he realized his escape would not be quick nor easy. He splayed his fingers on the surface of the secretary and took a slow, deep breath.

  Bloody hell. There would be no pleasant way out of this. He had to at least try to handle this tactfully, no matter what.

  Taking in another, much needed breath, Brandon tried to decide just how many numbers he would have to count to maintain his temper and his manners. For the life of him, he could not fathom why this woman would not heed his multiple dismissals and leave him alone.

  He turned, then leaned back against the desk edge, folding his arms over his chest. “Anne, I did not expect to find you here.”

  The image that met his eye was arresting. His best friend’s wife sat in his bed with only a sheet around her. He was sure she was naked beneath since one well-rounded breast was displayed for his enticement.

  He was not enticed in any sense of the word.

  Anne’s hair was a mass of disheveled blonde curls that lay upon her shoulders. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her cheeks flushed, her lips red as she sunk her small white teeth into them. She held the sheet with one hand while leaning on the other.

  “I thought you would never come, Brandon.” She smiled as though she caught the double entendre and amused herself. “Since you seem averse to coming to my room,” she quirked yet another smile, “I thought I would humor you and come to yours. So, now that I am here, take off your clothes and come to bed. I have waited long enough to have you.”

  Anne let go of the sheet so that both breasts were bared. When she saw his eyes follow the dropped linen, she took her thumbs and forefingers and tweaked her nipples pulling them to taut pebbles in seconds.

  “Well, Brandon. Don’t just stand there. Shed those superfluous clothes and jump into bed.” Anne’s eyes glittered with delight. He was sure she thought she had him now. Was there any other man in the manor who would turn down such an offer?

  He doubted it.

  But he would.

  Brandon stifled a groan of frustration. Would this wench never leave off and let him be? Did he have to continue to rebuff her only to be approached again?

  He gathered his thoughts for another attempt to graciously, if at all possible, deny her. “Well, Lady Anne, you are nothing if not persistent. And you are a woman of great beauty and attraction. It is your home so I can see no good reason why you should not sleep wherever you wish. I, on the other hand, am a guest and prefer to cautiously select where and with whom I retire. You must understand and accept I cannot, will not, have an affair with you. Asher is my friend and has been a good one for close to ten years. I refuse to compromise our relationship, his good will, for a brief period of sexual pleasure by sleeping with his wife.”

  Could he be plainer than that?

  It took only seconds for the seductress to transform into the shrew. Blue eyes that, moments ago, were heated and enticing turned to shards of ice. Her back straightened as both nipples ruched to tight peaks and her body flushed red. She leaned forward on both arms; her face hardened into a harsh mask; her eyes flared with defiance. She grasped the top sheet so tight it looked as if she might tear it in two.

  “How many times must I tell you, Brandon, Asher cares not? He has been up Lady Dimsford’s skirts at least half a dozen times in the last few days. You don’t see me or Dimsford getting all put out about it. Do you? Is it not fair for me to have my pleasure since he has his? Now put aside these ridiculous hesitations of yours, strip off your clothes and let me see if that body of yours can deliver all it looks to promise.”

  Brandon’s reserve snapped. He was not a stud to perform on demand for his hostess or any other woman. He steeled his courage.

  “I don’t give a bloody damn what everyone else does or thinks, Lady Asherton.” The chill timber of his voice should be clear even to her. “What Asher does is no business of mine. I refrain from such actions by my choice, my ethics, regardless of what your husband will or will not permit. I am in no humor to be used and toyed with just to amuse your spoiled self. If you are so very desperate to be laid, go find someone who is interested in doing the job.” He leaned away from the secretary. “Since you seem determined to inhabit my chamber and my bed, I will take myself elsewhere until you have finished with it. But make no mistake, if you are in my bed, I will not be.”

  With no hesitation, Brandon left his writing implements on the table and headed for the chamber door. He turned the knob, swinging the door wide, as Anne spoke again.

  “If you leave me, Brandon, I’ll make you regret it. No one ever says no to me.”

  The ire in her voice spoke volumes but Brandon did not care. He had no time or inclinations for such games.

  Damn the bitch.

  He eased the door shut behind him not wanting to give her the impression she had incited his passions when all he felt was disgust.

  He heard something hard hit the door as he turned to head toward Cilla’s room.

  “Come back here, Brandon. Come back here this minute or I’ll make you regret your actions to your dying day.”

  Cilla had made her escape shortly after Brandon. Acting the distraught widow who had been pressed beyond her limits, she had hustled through the music room dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. Reaching the sanctuary of her bedroom, she let out a sigh of relief.

  Then it dawned on her. She was waiting for a man, an assignation. A man she hardly knew was coming to her room. They were planning to have sex. To make love. In a way she had never experienced before.

  She couldn’t decide whether to be appalled by her bravado or exuberant over the success of her scheming.

  Of course, there was still time for her to demur. But knowing how she felt whenever Brandon was near, touching her, she hoped she would not stop herself now.

  She was so close to success. So many people were depending upon her, whether they knew it or not, whether they would even admit it if they knew.

  Cilla went to open the French doors to let the warm, spring breeze drift in. No sooner had she released the sash and swung them wide, than a soft but definite knock sounded on the door.

  Gathering her wits and her courage, she straightened her spine and took a deep breath, then turned when she heard the chamber door close behind Brandon, the lock turned by his hand. He stood by the door watching her, eyes deep and intense, but made no move toward her. It was as if he was trying not to startle her lest she bolt.

  A doe in the sights of a wolf.

  “Are you sure, Cilla?” his voice gentle.

  She was sure, but scared. She lifted a hand to him. “Yes, Brandon, but I am not sure what I should do.”

  Almost cautiously he walked to her, took her hand and raised it to his lips. Soft kisses brushed her knuckles.

  Her heart lurched.

  “I will do my very best not to rush you. I would wish your first time be memorable in a most positive way.”

  His lips moved to the palm of her hand. His gaze locked with hers, heated as his mouth and tongue caressed her wrist, moved up the inside of her arm. She felt the goose flesh rise as her heart beat rapidly, her breathing stalled.

  “Brandon,” she sighed.

  In a moment his arms were around her. “Yes, my love. Kiss me.”

  She leaned into him, slid her arms around his neck, pushed up on her toes to press her lips to his.

  His lips were soft but firm, warm and willing.

  She felt his hand glide to the back of her head, cradling it. Her heart seemed to throb in every pore of her skin, every nerve of her body.

  She opened her mouth and touched his lips tentatively with her tongue. He parted his lips for her lingual invasion, met her tongue with his, stroked her as she stroked him.

  Her brain was a muddle. There was a great
heat, a burning, in her lower abdomen.

  His hand slid from the back of her neck. She heard herself groan when his firm, but gentle grasp enclosed her breast, kneading, squeezing, inciting.

  When he removed his hand, she felt bereft, the heat of his touch lost to her. But his wily fingers were at her back; she felt the tapes of her gown loosen. Cool air caressed her skin as his warm fingers slid her dress down from her shoulders, over her hips to puddle on the floor.

  He kissed her deeply again. She couldn't think. His lips moved over her cheek, along her chin, down to the pulse point on her neck.

  Her breath would not come. Would she faint from the sheer excitement of his attentions? His tongue was caressing the shell of her ear.

  “Cilla, you smell delicious. You taste delicious. You make it difficult for me to keep my promise to make this a slow seduction.”

  She tried to speak but words fled. All she could hear, other than his liquid words in her ear, was the throbbing of her own heart. All she could feel was every nerve in her body and a desperate need that had never been there before.

  She wanted to participate, to be part of the seduction, not just be taken. She placed her hand on his chest, felt the heat that radiated from him. Closer, she wanted to be closer.

  She fumbled with his cravat, her hands shaking, as she memorized the feel of the fabric, the heat of his body. When the knot was undone, she drew it from him, dropped it on the floor.

  She pushed his brown jacket from his shoulders, slid the tailored sleeves down his arms, heard the shush and rumple as it, too, hit the carpet beneath them. She made haste with the gold buttons of his jacquard waistcoat. She tried not to think of his mouth wreaking havoc on her earlobe, her throat, her lips. Tried to ignore the surge of need as his hand, hot and agile, fondled her breast again.

  The waistcoat fell to the floor. She pulled his shirttails from his buckskin trousers, broke his attentions as he raised his arms for her to pull his shirt over his head. No sooner was he rid of it than her hands caressed his chest, the taut muscles, the smooth skin, the crisp curls. Her thoughts became saturated with the feel of him, the scent of him, all spicy male.

  She was gratified by his sharp intake of breath as her fingers touched him, fondled his nipples, explored his body.

  His hands moved between them. He toed off his shoes, unbuttoned his trousers, and pushed them down his hips, onto the carpet.

  His sex sprung free. It was her turn to gasp when she felt the heat, hardness, need of him, pressed against her stomach.

  Then his hands were upon her again, smoothing, gentling. On her shoulders, he slid her chemise down, down, down until she was naked but for her shoes, hose and garters. But the thought flew when he pressed his naked body to hers, pressed his hot mouth against hers. His kisses were hot, wet, wild.

  She wanted all of him, everywhere.

  She was lifted off her feet, held in arms strong and sure, then laid upon the bed. He slid off one shoe, then the other. With practiced ease he untied a garter, slid the stocking down her calf as his heated gaze trapped hers.

  Her body was out of control; all she could think of, all she could want was to feel him in her arms again. She reached up for him.

  “My lady? My lady, Lord Asherton has sent me to fetch you.” The rapping on the door was distraught, urgent. “He asks you come directly. My lady, please answer the door.”

  Brandon stood bolt upright, his sex still blatantly signaling his intent. His index finger came to his lips and he made a shushing noise and shook his head.

  A commotion went on beyond the portal. Someone was pounding on the door as if he would pound it down, rattling the doorknob as if he would pull it out.

  “Priscilla, it’s Thomas. I know you’re in there.” Pound, pound, pound. “I've had the grounds searched so you must be in there. I need you now. I need your help.” She heard his voice crack. Could he be sobbing? “Pris, it’s Anne. Oh God! Pris. Answer this damn door. I need your help.”

  Brandon was reaching for his clothes. He drew on his trousers, pulled on his shirt.

  “One minute, Thomas. I’m coming.” She hoped nothing showed in her voice. Moments ago she had been far beyond the thoughts of others and their needs.

  Her feet hit the floor, one silk stocking still on as she pulled her chemise up over her hips. No sooner had she tied the ribbon at the neckline than Brandon lifted her gown and dropped it down over her head. She settled it on her shoulders but didn’t wait for him to retie the tapes as she went to the door. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Brandon move behind the swing of the door, out of sight.

  She unlocked the door. It pushed open as far as her body would let it.

  “What is the matter, Thomas?” she asked as she held the door open little more than a crack. “I was just laying down for a rest. . . .”

  Thomas reached in to grab her hand to draw her from her chamber. “You must come now, Pris. It’s Anne. I don’t know what to do!”

  Priscilla pulled back. “Thomas, let me finish dressing. I’ll be right there. It will only take me a minute.” She was made speechless by the forlorn look on his face.

  “Hurry, Pris. She’s in her room. Come quickly.”

  Chapter 14

  It had taken a few minutes more for them to redress, straighten her coiffure, and make themselves presentable. Priscilla then hurried to Anne’s room, Brandon at her heels. When she reached the door she gave it three sharp raps.

  “Come! Come!” It was her brother’s voice still intense with emotion.

  “Thank God you’re here.” He came to her, grabbed her hand harshly, then jerked her to the bed.

  Brandon strolled in behind her, shut the door quietly, then leaned against the nearest wall. Making himself as unobtrusive as possible, he watched the tableau playing out before him.

  Anne was propped up in her bed as pale as the white linens she lay against. Presumably it was her maid plying a damp cloth against her mistress’s forehead.

  Asher picked up one of Anne’s wrists. “Look what she’s done!” His voice cracked as he displayed the bandage wrapped just above the pale hand.

  “Oh my goodness. Thomas, has she slashed her wrists?” Priscilla seemed to waver as if she might faint. Brandon made a move to go to her aid but she steadied herself.

  “Agnes,” Asher nodded toward the maid, “found her on the floor in her dressing room not ten minutes ago. I was lucky to be in my rooms when she screamed. I ran in to see what was the matter. There was blood everywhere. Jasper, you know my valet, followed me to the source of the screaming. He retrieved some handkerchiefs while I was wrapping her in a robe I found laying on the chaise lounge.

  “We wrapped her wrists as tight as we could. Then Jasper set the staff looking for you. I think the bleeding has stopped. Why would she do this? What possible reason could she have to try and kill herself?”

  Was this to be part of Anne’s revenge on him? The infliction of guilt?

  “Thomas, have you sent for the doctor?” Priscilla was leaning over her sister-in-law. She lifted an eyelid, lifted a wrist as if looking for a pulse. Her manner was firm but tender and Brandon could imagine the care she must have taken of her late husband for the more than ten years of their marriage. She must have had much practice with such nursing chores.

  “A doctor? Yes. Rogers sent one of the grooms. He’ll be back soon. What should we do now? Why did she do this?” Asher was pacing the room, pulling at his hair, making a hash of it. Still distracted and unfocused, he stopped by the hearth, pulled out the silver case he kept in the inside pocket of his jacket and fussed with a cheroot. With an unsteady hand, he grabbed a hot stick from the low-burning fire to light the end.

  Did Asher have feelings for his wife?

  Brandon was pretty sure why Anne had done it. Attention. The woman needed consta
nt attention. And, he shunned her, left her in his room alone without a thought.

  How could he have known she would go and do this? Had she really come close to death? Or, was she just making a good show of it for the attention she craved? The revenge she promised?

  Priscilla moved to her brother, stopping him in the middle of his latest trek across the carpet. She placed a hand on each cheek, lifted his head. He blew a stream of smoke away from her face. “Thomas, she will be all right. If you stopped the blood flow so easily the slashes could not have been deep. It was probably a half-hearted attempt. The doctor will come and you’ll see she’ll be just fine.”

  Ashes fell to the floor at his friend’s feet without regard.

  Brandon scanned the room and saw the decanter with a couple of glasses on the open escritoire. Whether it held brandy or sherry, it would have to do. In moments, he was pouring a dram into a glass. He went to Asher. With one arm around the man’s shoulder, he nudged the glass into his friend's free hand. Cilla stepped back, her eyes rose to meet his with an appreciative look followed by a nod.

  “Go ahead, Asher. Take a sip of this. It will clear your head. Calm you down.” Brandon did not release the glass until he was sure Asher had a firm grip on it. He guided his distressed friend to the settee in front of the fireplace, a small trail of ashes drifting to the floor behind them. “Sit down. I’m sure what Priscilla says is true. Anne will be just fine. The doctor is on his way. You will know very soon. I would not be surprised if she was on her feet tomorrow.”

  Brandon sat next to him, but his eyes followed Cilla as she returned to the bedside. She picked up each of Anne's wrist in turn, gingerly removing the wrappings and inspecting the damage. When she was done she leaned toward Anne.

  “Anne, are you awake? Anne, it’s Priscilla. The doctor will arrive soon. Can you talk to me, Anne? Thomas is beside himself. Please wake up and tell us you're all right.”