Forbidden

by Rachel Van Dyken

  There was a problem.

  Mariah sighed in frustration and threw the book she'd been reading onto the bedside table.

  She was going stark, raving mad holed up in this house.

  For three days, she'd been to the library and her bedroom, and that was it.

  Mercifully the snow had eased off and though the roads were still completely impassable for her and her small gig, a footman had been sent with word of her safety and forced stay at the manor house and had returned with a few gowns. Unfortunately, the gowns were accompanied by a sermon of some magnitude on propriety and the ruination of women in society, courtesy of a letter from her mother.

  But this? This self-imposed incarceration was driving her slowly insane.

  Mariah stood and pulled back the curtains which Dora had drawn earlier. The sky was cloudless, the complete blackness dotted with shining stars and dominated by the pale, ice-white moon.

  The moonlight illuminated the grounds lending an ethereal glow to everything. It was peaceful and beautiful, yet she felt restless.

  It was not even past the usual dinner hour but she felt as though she'd been in this room for hours already.

  What she needed, Mariah thought, was a drink; brandy or whiskey or some such thing, to send her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  For her sleeps had been far from deep and very, very far from dreamless. In fact, she could barely close her eyes without Brandon Haverton galloping to the forefront of her thoughts.

  Mariah didn't know many compromising positions, but the ones she did know were put to good use during the wee hours of the night when her imagination ran wild and she ended up awakening feeling frustrated, hot and bothered.

  This was ridiculous and it needed to stop. She hadn't even seen the man in days. Not since that last horrid conversation in the drawing room.

  She was exhausted. She needed to sleep. And she certainly needed to stop thinking about Mr. Haverton.

  Her mind made up, Mariah decided to brave the corridors.

  From Dora she had learned that Mr. Haverton had been keeping to his room and study, no doubt with the same intentions she had in mind.

  So, in theory, it should be safe to dart downstairs and sneak a drink from the drawing room, which she knew was kept stocked.

  She did think fleetingly that it was rather concerning to turn to alcohol to deal with life's problems, but then she figured nobody had ever had to deal with a man such as Haverton before and if they had, they would certainly be foxed more often than not.

  The house was freezing as Mariah darted through it. Thankfully, she hadn't yet changed into her night rail, so if she did get caught she would brazen it out and ask for tea.

  The drawing room was mercifully empty, and Mariah heaved a sigh of relief as she moved toward the drinks cabinet. She had thought a medicinal glass of wine would do the trick but her hand stilled in the act of pouring as she eyed the amber coloured brandy that Mr. Haverton favoured.

  The stuff had been vile. But, because clearly she'd crossed into complete madness, she felt herself wanting to drink it because he had been the one to provide her first taste of it.

  How foolish of her.

  She silently berated herself as she sloshed some of the liquid into a glass. Did she think that drinking his brandy would suddenly bring them closer together? Did she think that he would suddenly throw off his mantle of secretive sullenness and fall desperately in love with her because she stole something from his drinks cabinet?

  Mariah had had some strange ideas in her time but even she could admit that seemed a little far-fetched.

  It didn't stop her drinking it, however.

  The first sip burned its way down her throat and she coughed and spluttered and genuinely thought for a moment that she would die. But, after the burn subsided she quite enjoyed the feeling of warmth in her belly, and she took another healthy slug.

  "So you're a thief then?"

  Mariah yelped at the sound of the voice behind her and promptly spilled the contents of the glass all over the front of her.

  "Good heavens, you scared the life out of me," she said breathlessly swiping ineffectually at the front of her dress. "What are you doing sneaking up on people?"

  Mariah waited for his answer as she rubbed at the now soaking material of her white muslin. When none was forthcoming, she glanced up and her heart simply stopped then galloped.

  His blazing eyes were riveted to the front of her dress where the brandy had soaked through the material.

  Mariah thought, for a horrified minute, that perhaps it was see-through but as she followed his gaze she saw that although there was a hint of skin, there certainly wasn't anything, well, improper on display.

  She glanced back up and this time, her eyes locked with his. Good lord. He looked almost savage. Mariah suddenly thought of the pirate captain she'd once read about in a book she'd sworn up and down she hadn't read when questioned by Mama.

  But she had read it. And she'd enjoyed it immensely.

  And now, here Brandon Haverton stood, looking like the hero of her scandalous novel come to life.

  His hair, though not long, was just as dark and silky in the dim light of the fire.

  His eyes, black as coal but filled with fire as they bored into her.

  He didn't wear a jacket and Mariah could see the muscular outline of his torso and stomach as her eyes raked over him greedily.

  Suddenly, the brandy wasn't the only thing heating her anymore.

  Mariah waited for him to speak but he uttered not a word. Just stared.

  So then, she should speak.

  Really she should leave. She had told herself that she wouldn't spend any more time with him. And here she was. Spending.

  "If you'll excuse me," she mumbled and made to leave the room.

  But as she passed, Haverton reached out and grabbed her upper arm.

  "Wait," he said gruffly.

  Mariah's skin fairly blistered with the heat from his touch.

  This was not good. Not good at all.

  She waited. And still he did not speak.

  "Mr. Haverton, really I –"

  "You've been hiding," he said abruptly. "Why?"

  Mariah pulled her arm away and stepped back from him.

  "I've been busy."

  "Too busy to eat in the dining room?"

  "How do you know where I've eaten? You haven't been in the dining room either," she countered.

  "Yes, but I admit I've been hiding."

  Oh.

  "Why?" she asked, still refusing to admit to the same thing.

  He sighed then and moved to decant himself a glass of brandy, pouring another for her without asking if she wanted one.

  "I don't want another."

  "You spilled the first."

  "Yes, so I should change my gown."

  "Oh, I'm not complaining, just replenishing your drink."

  Mariah swallowed. He had the uncanny ability to render her totally speechless with just a few words.

  He crossed back to her and handed her the glass, which she took without comment.

  "Will you sit for a moment? I want to talk to you"

  Mariah hesitated before complying. He rarely spoke so nicely to her, and her curiosity was piqued.

  Besides, loath as she was to admit it even to herself, any chance she had to spend time with him was something for which she was grateful.

  She waited for him to speak, but for a long while he just sat staring into the glowing embers of the fire. Eventually he began to talk, his gravelly voice playing havoc with her already fraying nerves.

  "I must apologise for my behaviour at dinner the other night. I was unpardonably rude. And you don't deserve it."

  Well, that was a good start.

  "Thank you," she said. Then, because good manners dictated it, she continued, "I am sorry too. If you do not want to tell me things about your life then that is perfectly acceptable. I am only here to fix your library."

  He frowned at her t
hen, as if confused by her words.

  "I almost forgot about that. How are you faring with it?"

  "Oh, wonderfully. You have an outstanding collection here, Mr. Haverton. I do hope you will consider keeping it. You've gotten an absolute treasure in this place.

  He smiled indulgently, which caused her breath to quicken.

  "You are very passionate about books?"

  Mariah nodded enthusiastically but stopped herself from launching into a speech on the wonders of books and his library.

  She was far more interested in what he had to say.

  Another silence. It was most aggravating.

  "Tell me, Miss Bolton, do you think that someone less interested in books than you are, but who could desperately use a distraction of some kind, would like the collection in the library?"

  Mariah frowned at the strange question.

  "I suppose it would depend on what they were interested in reading, sir," she began, not sure what he was asking exactly. "But the collection is varied and interesting. There are even some terribly romantic gothic novels in there." She smiled, tying to lighten the suddenly maudlin mood.

  He did not return her smile, however.

  And for a moment he looked so bleak that Mariah almost reached for him. Almost. "Mr. Haverton, is everything alright?" she asked, unsure of herself.

  He started at her question, as if he had forgotten she was there. "I have treated you abominably, have I not?" he said quietly.

  Mariah felt sorry for him, her heart ached for him. But she wouldn't lie. "Yes, you have really. Not all the time, but yes."

  "You are refreshingly honest, Mariah."

  Her name again. She didn't correct him. She liked hearing it too much.

  "I was not always so ham-fisted when dealing with the opposite sex," he said with a self-deprecating shrug which she found rather adorable. "In fact, I was quite the rake in my time."

  She could well believe it. Anyone who looked like him and kissed like him was sure to have been the heartbreaker of many. "You miss it? The life you had in London?"

  "I miss how carefree my life was before—"

  "Before?"

  He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, looking suddenly older. "You asked the other day who the gown you wore belonged to."

  Mariah's heart hammered in her chest. Was he going to admit that actually, yes he was married? The thought made her feel queasy, and she placed her glass untouched on the coffee table.

  "You should know, you looked enchanting in it."

  "Thank you," she said dismissively, refusing to be sidetracked from the conversation by his pretty compliments.

  "The dress is my sister's. Was my sister's, rather."

  Mariah felt a surge of relief so intense it took her by surprise. But as the words sank in, she realised their meaning.

  "Was?" she asked quietly.

  "She died two years ago," he said, his voice emotionless but that ticking in his jaw gave him away again.

  "What happened?"

  Abruptly, he stood, almost as though he could no longer bear to sit still. He walked to the fireplace then stopped, his back to her.

  "My sister was beautiful, sweet and incredibly naïve." The words came out so quiet, she strained to hear. "She was the apple of my parents' eyes, and mine too. She was younger than me by some years, and I doted on her as did everyone who knew her."

  Mariah stood and went to stand by him, feeling suddenly cold and uneasy though not knowing why.

  "We knew that when she eventually came out she would be the toast of the ton. And incomparable, of the highest order. I worried, as overprotective brothers do, that she would be pursued by the very worst sorts of rakes as well as men of good character, and I was determined to stick by her side for the entirety of her Season."

  "It turned out that while we were all preparing for her catching the eye of a disreputable gentleman during the Season, she had already caught the eye of one much closer to home. "

  "She was seduced by the son of a neighbouring earl, who was significantly older and married. We none of us guessed it. We only found out when she came to me, utterly distraught. He — he had gotten her with child, and when she went to him and told him, he told her of his wife and children. Told her to stay away from him and swore that he would deny any knowledge of their supposed affair."

  Mariah gasped, feeling the pain radiating from him as he told his sorry tale.

  He went on as though she had not spoken. "I was murderous. I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. But Father convinced me to stay home while he went to the earl. I did not know what good he thought he could do. She was ruined. Her life destroyed at fifteen years old.

  "Father returned, as I knew he would, with the news that the earl had threatened to use all of his power to keep my family quiet about what had happened." His lips pressed into a thin line, and the vein in his temple throbbed.

  "Daphne was inconsolable. She became a shadow. Her belly grew with her child, but her soul withered more and more every day." He ran a hand through his hair, pulling slightly at the strands, his face a picture of helplessness and despair. "We none of us knew how to help her. We kept quiet about it as best we could. Servants were bribed, visitors were sent away. People gossiped of course, but we ignored it."

  Mariah felt herself trembling with rage, with sympathy, with a myriad of emotions that wouldn't help him now so she bit her tongue to keep from speaking.

  "I took over the estate and began to build my various business ventures. I had thought if I made enough money I could give her and the child a peaceful life in the country, away from prying eyes and vicious tongues." He sighed wearily and it sounded as though it came from the very depth of his soul.

  "When word came that she had had the child, a little girl, I returned home."

  His eyes closed but not before Mariah saw a flash of pain so raw that her eyes filled with tears.

  "I did not even recognise her. The birth had been hard, but it was more than that. She was lifeless. Like a ghost. She barely ate, she would not speak. And the strain had taken its toll on my parents too. My father's heart gave out completely not long afterwards. Daphne did not even attend the funeral."

  He paused and swallowed convulsively. The crackle of a log settling was the only sound. She wanted desperately to reach out to him but she held herself still, wanting him to finish, sensing he needed to talk about it.

  "Anyway, years passed. I went away again and worked like a dog. I admit now that I was avoiding my responsibilities. I did not know how to deal with Daphne's sickness and my mother's grief." He shook his head, his eyes bleaker than she'd ever seen them.

  "I stayed away until I got the letter."

  He stopped again, his voice having cracked on the last word. Mariah was filled with dread. She wanted to tell him to stop, that she did not need to hear anymore. But something told her that he needed to speak it aloud.

  "When Charlotte, my niece, was three years old, Daphne took herself into the woods surrounding our estate and — and shot herself. She was not yet even twenty."

  "Oh, Brandon," Mariah knew she shouldn't have spoken his Christian name, but she didn't care about such mundane things right now, so consumed was she by pity. She raised an arm and placed it on his, feeling how tense his muscles were beneath his shirt sleeve.

  "I wasn't there. If — if I'd been there I could have stopped her. If I'd moved her away sooner, brought her here where nobody could know, I could have saved her." He grimaced at the glass in his hand then slammed it forcefully onto the side table. "I failed her, and now she's dead. My niece is without a mother, my own mother has been utterly destroyed by it, and all they have now is me, a man who has made more money than he can spend in his lifetime and cannot do right by them. I was a coward, and they have all suffered for it." He pulled away from her sympathetic touch and leapt to his feet.

  Mariah was horrified by the sadness of his tale. She was horrified that he should blame himself so much.

 
She jumped up and walked towards him.

  "Brandon, no. No! You cannot blame yourself. I won't let you."

  His face was an emotionless mask, devoid of all feeling. She could tell he was barely listening but she pressed on.

  "Please, hear me. Your sister, your poor sweet sister, she became sick, Brandon. So sick that she could not bear it any longer. It would not have mattered had you been there. She had already stopped living. It was not your fault. You are not to blame."

  Still he did not turn to her, still he did not react. He was a statue. His grief was no longer showing on his face but she knew he felt it keenly from the set of his jaw, the stiffness in his spine.

  In desperation she grabbed his shoulders and turned him to face her. "Listen to me," she practically shouted. "You cannot help your sister now, but you can be the man you need to be for your family. For your mother and for Charlotte."

  "How?" he asked brokenly. "How can I ever make it right?"

  "By being happy," she said firmly. "By creating a happy home for them. By being proud of your niece, not ashamed. The sins of her father and the mistakes of her mother are not hers. Give her a loving home. Be the father she needs. Show your mother that she still has a child to live for."

  "I haven't lived in a year. I stopped living the day she did."

  "A year?"

  "It was last Christmas. Christmas day." he admitted softly. "That is why I was so desperate for this place to be readied. I do not think my mother can bear to stay where she is. And I don't want Charlotte to be there, where her mother died, for any longer than she needs to be."

  Hot tears streamed down Mariah's face. In that moment she knew she was, without reason or sense, falling desperately in love with this man. Even though only days had passed. She couldn't explain it. It was illogical and foolish, but it was true. She was falling hard and she wanted so badly to help him.

  "Brandon, a big library, a new house. It's wonderful, but it isn't enough. They need you. Not things. And the only way to make them happy is for you to be happy. And to be happy you must forgive yourself. You must." In her desperation for him to listen, she grabbed at the lapels of his jacket, shaking him as she spoke.

  Bit by bit, his eyes focused on her. They'd been somewhere else entirely up until that point. He'd been looking at the past he couldn't escape, not her. But he was looking at her now.