Danger prowled beneath the surface if one dared to look. That quality had always been there. Nora had seen it the first night she’d invaded his bedroom. She had seen it because he had wanted her to see it. He had hidden it well from the rest of society. Now it was thoroughly exposed, lending him a sharp-edged charm. No matron seeing him tonight would consider him safe for their daughters to cut their flirtatious teeth on.
He must feel it too, Nora reflected, watching him in the mirror. Tonight was a decisive evening. Then he spoke and her hopes and fears were confirmed.
‘Jack has returned. He will seek us out at the ball with his news.’ There was tightness around his lips.
Perhaps he had already told Brandon. ‘Don’t spare me, did he say anything to you?’
Brandon shook his dark head. ‘No. I asked him to wait until later tonight. This affects us both.’
He moved to stand behind her, lifting the dark curls that fell down her back from an elegantly arranged pile of hair and pearls on top of her head. He let the curls sift through his fingers in a slow cascade so that they fell in a titillating tumble against her bare back. ‘You look beautiful, Nora.’
‘I’m not dressed.’
‘I know.’ His hand caressed the nape of her neck sending a frisson of longing down her spine. His eyes met hers in the mirror, conveying the promise of wickedness.
‘You’re dressed,’ Nora pointed out, barely able to contain her rising desire.
‘I am told opposites attract,’ he whispered, bending to nip the tender flesh at her neck. His warm breath blew sensually in her ear. Nora felt herself dampen. Good lord, she’d reach climax before he even took off his trousers. She turned from the mirror and reached for the waist of his trousers. Perhaps they could manage something without wrecking his exquisitely tied cravat.
She tried to be careful, but Brandon would have none of it. ‘Damn it, Nora, do you think I can look upon you in that flimsy dressing robe, all that passion darkening your green eyes, and take you gently?’
He pulled her to him, devouring her with his mouth. She hungrily arched against him, ripping and stripping until he was bare with her, skin against skin on the carpet of her boudoir. ‘We’ve never done this in my room before,’ Nora panted.
‘Then it’s high time we rectified that,’ Brandon growled fiercely, covering her with his length and plunging deep until she cried out her satisfaction. They plunged and soared over and over, each time soaring a little higher, a little closer, like Icarus to the sun, to the heat that begged to overwhelm them.
‘Now, Brandon,’ Nora cried, letting the conflagration of their passion sweep over her in hot waves. She let the flames of their climax brand her. There would never be a fire like this again with anyone else.
She fell to earth slowly at first, spent and dreamy. Then with a crash she plummeted the rest of the distance. Was this the last time? The possibility painted the after-bliss of their coupling with a bittersweet brush, explaining the intensity in Brandon’s eyes, the wolf-like quality to his stalking seduction, the ravenous frenzy they’d engaged in on the floor without a thought for seeking the comfort of her bed just feet away.
She looked at Brandon, rumpled and ruined, lying next to her. ‘You’re a wreck. We’ve destroyed your clothing.’ She gave a soft laugh, picking up the limp strip of linen that once represented his finely starched, impeccably tied cravat just minutes ago.
Brandon’s blue eyes, still glowing like hot coals from the intensity of their coupling, simmered now with humour. ‘It will put Harper’s talents to good use, trying to redress me in record time.’ He rose up, naked, and sorted through the pile of his discarded garments. ‘I have something for you. Ah, here it is.’ Brandon pulled a long, flat, blue velvet box from his jacket.
Nora pulled on her diaphanous dressing gown and sat down at the vanity. Her heart beat at the sight of the slender box. It was jewellery. She’d stolen enough of it to know the boxes it came in. She swallowed hard, nervous over the import of the gift.
‘Go on, take it,’ Brandon urged softly when she hesitated.
‘What is it?’ she asked gamely, smiling like a woman should when receiving gems. Every man was raised to believe women liked jewellery. She perpetuated the myth with a beatific smile. Brandon would expect it. None the less, she couldn’t allow him to fritter away jewels for a lost cause. She would have to refuse them. But first she’d have a peep inside the box.
Nora stared in amazement, forgetting to breathe. A diamond necklace set with emeralds lay nestled among the folds of blue satin, flanked by a matching bracelet and earrings. ‘They’re magnificent, Brandon.’
‘They’re the Stockport diamonds.’
It was even worse than she’d thought. He hadn’t bought them. They were heirlooms. Nora snapped the lid shut at the import of the jewels. ‘I can’t possibly wear them,’ she said firmly. She held the box out to him.
Brandon took the box and set it on the vanity. He opened the lid and drew out the necklace. ‘You can and you will. They are your betrothal gift,’ he said with equal firmness, clasping the jewels about her neck.
‘Our betrothal isn’t real,’ Nora reminded him sharply. She laughed suddenly, fingering the diamonds. ‘I get it, these aren’t real, either. They’re paste. Quite good for paste. I haven’t seen anything of this quality.’
Brandon looked affronted. ‘I assure you, they are real. They’ve been worn by four generations of Stockport brides.’
‘But not by me,’ Nora rejoined softly. ‘It wouldn’t be right.’
Brandon ignored the quiet plea and fastened the earrings gently in her lobes, his hand skimming her bare shoulder where the peignoir had fallen away. ‘Everyone will expect to see you wear them tonight.’
Expectations again. His use of the word reminded her that the handsome, virile man in her boudoir had not forgotten this was indeed a ruse. He had not brought the gems to convince her of his affections. He’d merely brought them to keep up appearances and perhaps to remind her of all she was giving up if she refused his protection.
‘Say you’ll wear them, Nora,’ Brandon cajoled. He pulled her hair to one side, letting the light catch the diamonds. ‘They look stunning on you.’
He was still naked. Nora felt his manhood stir against her back.
She couldn’t fight his lethal persuasion. If she didn’t do something quickly, they would end up back on the floor and hours late for a function in their honour. ‘Don’t make it harder than it is already,’ Nora protested.
Brandon reluctantly stepped back. ‘I assume when you say harder you are not referring to me.’
Nora laughed and let her gaze drift lower to where the member in question lay in a state of partial arousal. ‘If the reference applies, my lord,’ she teased, glad to have the argument behind them if not resolved.
Unabashed by his nakedness, Brandon strode to the wardrobe and sorted through the myriad gowns. ‘What did you plan on wearing?’
‘It hardly matters since you obviously have a gown in mind. I don’t want to end up arguing about it.’
‘Afraid you’ll lose?’ Brandon countered, pulling out the gown he sought, deep green velvet trimmed lavishly with gold braid. The neckline was cut off the shoulders to showcase Nora’s shapely collarbones and jewels. Elegant and sophisticated, it was the perfect betrothal gown for a woman past her débutante years.
She gave a quirky grin. ‘I never lose. I merely let you think you’ve won.’
Brandon helped her into the various undergarments the gown required and fitted her into the dress with amazing dexterity. ‘Done this before?’ Nora queried playfully.
‘Give me some credit. Jack could tell you stories about our exploits. I used to be a man about town in my younger days.’
‘Rumour has it you still are,’ she bantered. The teasing levity between them helped keep the serious issues at bay.
‘If the reference applies…’ he tossed back easily, using her earlier words.
Tonight was pos
sibly the last night between them. Ostensibly it would be up to her. His offer of marriage still held, but for the wrong reasons. Nora found she didn’t want to think beyond the ball.
They dressed Brandon next in a second set of evening clothes, turning him out as pleasing to the eye as he had been before. Nora did a credible job of tying his cravat, even if the knot was simpler than the one formerly devised by Harper.
‘How do I look?’ Brandon asked, grabbing up his evening cape.
‘Hmm…’ Nora pretended to study him, contemplating her answer. She tapped a finger against her chin. ‘I think I liked you better undressed.’
Brandon flashed a wicked grin. ‘Maybe we can accommodate you later this evening.’
‘How much later?’ Nora batted her eyelashes up at him in flirtatious parody.
‘Tut, you’re a naughty lassie, already thinking of ways to sneak off to dark corners at the Squire’s.’
‘Well, first we have to get there.’ Nora glanced at the carved wood clock sitting on a side table. It was time to go. As they left the room, Nora felt as if the curtain was going up on the last act of their play, but she still wasn’t sure how it ended. If only she could convince herself that Brandon’s protection was a valid substitute for his true affections.
The ball was well attended. The squire filled his home with businessmen from Manchester, the investors and the appropriate people of his acquaintance from the village. For a countryman, he was extremely well connected and it showed in his guest list and in the extravagance on display.
Squire Bradley pumped Brandon’s hand with bonhomie and began a round of introductions immediately upon their arrival. Most everyone had met Brandon at various functions, but many had yet to meet his bethrothed.
Witherspoon was there, oozing a barely masked jealousy that Brandon had been right about The Cat halting attacks. But Brandon didn’t have time for such petty nonsense. He swept the ballroom for a sign of Jack. He found him across the ballroom, gleaming like crystal. Good lord, the man carried fashion to its furthest extreme.
‘Lud, man, are those real diamond buttons on your waistcoat?’ Brandon asked incredulously when Jack finally wended his way to their group, dressed opulently in evening attire and sporting a highly dandified waistcoat with buttons that sparked beneath the chandelier.
‘Indeed so, you’ve quite the eye for fine things, Stockport,’ Jack said smoothly to Brandon while taking Nora’s gloved hand and bending over it adroitly to make sure no one missed the double entendre of his words.
‘Viscount Wainsbridge, it is splendid of you to come,’ The Squire, standing next to Brandon, offered.
‘Squire Bradley, this is a lovely affair. Your wife has outdone herself,’ Jack complimented. ‘I dare say a London hostess could have done no better.’
‘Why, thank you.’ The squire fairly preened under the admiration lavished on him by the foppish Viscount Wainsbridge. ‘I’ll be sure to pass your compliments on to Mrs Bradley. She’ll be thrilled.’
The Viscount turned to Brandon. ‘Might I have a word with you, Stockport?’
The Squire jumped in before Brandon could respond. ‘We are ready to make the announcement and have our honoured couple lead out the first dance.’
Brandon silently cursed their bad luck. He had hoped the squire would opt to make the announcement before the exit to supper. It would give him time to hear what Jack had to say. Brandon studied Jack’s face, trying to guess in what direction his news lay. He sent Jack a silent appeal.
‘Ah, Squire Bradley, I had hoped Stockport would have arrived earlier so that I could have conversed with him before the announcement,’ Jack filled in. Brandon didn’t miss the pointed look Jack cast his way as if to say he knew exactly what Brandon had been up to and why he and Nora had arrived in the nick of time.
The bluff Squire didn’t take the hint. Instead, he clapped Jack on the shoulder. ‘I am sure it can wait. After all, this is Stockport’s betrothal party. He doesn’t want to talk business on a night like this.’
Brandon recognised defeat when he saw it. He acquiesced to the Squire’s request. At least he could lay plans to speak with Jack in the immediate future. ‘Wainsbridge, if you could wait until we open the festivities, I would be happy to speak with you.’ He hoped Jack saw the message in his eyes. He understood there was urgent business, but he could not address it just yet without raising eyebrows.
The Squire made his way to the front of the ballroom and banged on a goblet until he garnered everyone’s attention. Then, puffed up with importance, he formally introduced the Earl of Stockport and his lovely bride-to-be, Nora Hammersmith. He made a polite speech about Brandon’s dedication to their community, but Brandon heard little of it. He was too busy staring at Nora, drinking in her beauty and pretending in his mind that this was indeed their engagement ball.
Of course, if it was, it would have been held at the townhouse in London, which would have been overrun weeks before the actual event by his sisters and countless second and third cousins, great-aunts and all their progeny. What would his predominantly female extended family have thought of Nora?
Nora looked like a natural Countess in the family jewels, her head held high while the squire prattled on to the crowd. He was proud of her. It had taken consider gumption to carry off her role with such success.
Looking past Nora, he saw Jack standing close behind Witherspoon and a few of the other investors. Whatever news Jack brought, he’d find a way through it. There was always a way. He was a man who knew how to get what he wanted and he wanted Nora. She could not doubt his intentions or affections. Yet he sensed she still wavered. Something unknown to him held her back from committing unequivocally to their passion.
Nora coughed discreetly at his side. ‘Brandon, the Squire expects you to say something.’
Brandon uttered some glib nonsense that was met with applause and he gratefully heard the orchestra strike up the opening dance. At a usual ball, the first dance would have been a quadrille, but, in honour of the engagement, the orchestra played a waltz. He took Nora in his arms and made a wide sweeping arc that caused comments to ripple throughout the ballroom.
He smiled as he caught bits and pieces. ‘It must be a love match.’ ‘Look how much he adores her.’ ‘They make a handsome couple.’
‘We’ve put on quite a show for them, sweetheart,’ Brandon said as they took the last turn. Too bad the waltz was over. He’d have to share her with other well-wishers.
‘I have to go find Jack,’ he said reluctantly as the music finished, relinquishing her to a group of well-wishers. ‘Stay here—we can’t deprive the Bradleys of all their honoured guests at once.’
Jack found him first and quietly ushered him down the hall to a private room. ‘Brandon, things are getting a bit too dicey for my taste,’ Jack began before they were even seated.
‘What has happened?’ Brandon asked cautiously, sitting down in a chair and adopting a casual pose so that any accidental passer-by would think the two gentlemen were lounging and catching up on gossip.
‘Witherspoon has been asking questions. He’s been talking to Squire Bradley about newcomers to the area. He’s been exceedingly interested in the spinster, Eleanor Habersham, and he hasn’t been shy in sharing his supposition that The Cat is a woman.’
Brandon nodded gravely, recalling the very similar conversation he’d had with the Squire upon his arrival in December. ‘I know. You’ve been away. This is old news to me. He’s already come to me with his information. He found a necklace taken from his wife at the dinner party in a pawn shop and his men identified the woman pawning it as Eleanor Habersham, even though she used a false name on the ticket.’
‘That could be damning.’ Jack whistled low.
‘Not really. Nora’s already stolen it back. She lifted it out of his pocket at Stockport Hall before he even got out the door,’ Brandon said smugly, lighting a cheroot.
A smile split Jack’s usually cynical face. ‘You’ve got yourself a live
one, Brandon.’
Brandon only smiled. ‘Let’s talk about Witherspoon later. I want to hear your news.’
Jack sat down and crossed his legs, adopting a casual pose similar to Brandon’s. ‘I suppose you do, since there is the issue of bigamy at stake.’
‘And is it? Is bigamy going to be a problem?’ Brandon drew on his cheroot.
‘I should make you stew a bit for all you’ve put me through this past month, but I find I haven’t the stomach for torture. In short, no. She is no longer married to Reggie Portman. Mrs Nora Portman is officially a widow and has been for two years. The bounder had the good grace to die from a stab wound obtained in a tavern brawl.’ Jack offered the last with distaste.
Brandon stared at Jack, motionless, trying to separate out the emotions tumbling through him at the news. He’d imagined this moment in recent days. It had always been a triumphant moment in his daydreams. Now that it had arrived, he was filled with conflicting emotions. He did not want to celebrate a man’s death. Yet, he did want to celebrate that Nora was free to choose him.
Nothing more stood in their way. Things couldn’t be wrapped up any neater. They had packed off Eleanor Habersham and placed most of the blame for The Cat’s antics on the spinster’s shoulders. The rotter of a husband was dead. He wanted to find Nora immediately and tell her. He wanted to celebrate—not because a man was dead, of course, but because he and Nora had triumphed against insurmountable odds. They’d found a way to be together. But Jack wouldn’t let it go so easily.
‘The morning we talked in your study, you were besotted with the wench, Brandon. From the look of things tonight, that hasn’t changed. You do realise you don’t have to marry her, Brandon? Have you forgotten the engagement is just an impromptu ruse? Engineered by her, I might add. Did you stop to think she might have gone so far just to force your hand?’ Jack fiddled with his elaborate lace cuff. ‘Maybe she knew your honour wouldn’t allow you to back out. After all, she gains everything here, Brandon. You gain very little. Have you thought of what could happen if someone finds out sooner or later who your wife-to-be is?’
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