Brenna raised a hand to shield her own eyes. “I hope she was able to find her reticule.”
As if Miss Rosemoor had read her mind, the woman raised one arm, the accessory in question dangling from her slender wrist. Brenna waved a hand in reply, then turned back toward Mr. Rosemoor. “And to answer your impertinent question, Mr. Rosemoor, the answer is off.”
“Off?” He shrugged, his brows drawn.
“The gown. Off.” She couldn’t help but smile triumphantly at Mr. Rosemoor’s stunned expression as his sister joined them on the bridge.
“Well?” Miss Rosemoor’s gaze swung from Brenna to Mr. Rosemoor, who visibly strove to regain his composure. “Whatever did I miss?”
“Verra little,” Brenna answered, her eyes meeting Mr. Rosemoor’s. His seemed to darken a shade—more steely than blue—and then swept across her form, from head to toe, and back up again. Never one to care overmuch for feminine trappings or flirtations, Brenna suddenly felt more female, more attractive, than ever before. No doubt it was something about the way he looked at her. She glanced down at her frothy, overly ornamented dress and, for the first time since her arrival in London, felt a sudden, inexplicable surge of appreciation. For once, she was glad to be rid of her serviceable woolens, glad to be admired.
Her heart began to race; her palms dampened. Dear Lord, she was attracted to him, she realized. Terribly so. And why not? He was surely handsome enough, and he didn’t find her interests silly or frivolous. And the way he looked at her—it made her almost dizzy, made her limbs feel weak. Nay, this was nothing like the girlish infatuations she’d entertained in her youth; this was far more physical, more visceral.
She shook her head in frustration, forcing a halt to her indecent thoughts. For they were no doubt indecent. Dinna be a fool, she scolded herself, remembering his careless words about the Clearances. Nay, nothing good would come of it. He was an Englishman, after all.
Colin absently stroked his whiskers, unable to think of anything save the vision of Brenna lying on the rocks in nothing save her undergarments. Blast it, didn’t she know what a statement like that did to a man? Truthfully, she very likely did not. She’s an innocent, he reminded himself, struggling to divert his thoughts.
“Well, ladies,” he managed at last, stepping between Jane and Brenna and offering each an arm, “shall we continue to take our exercise?”
Together they descended the slope of the footbridge and continued their meandering way down the wide, tree-lined path. “I still cannot believe I managed to leave behind my reticule,” Jane muttered beside him. “I’m not usually so forgetful. Lucky for me, it was still sitting right where I left it. I do hope Colin was on his best behavior in my absence. Didn’t knock her to the ground again, did you, Colin?”
Colin ruffled at the insult.
“Not this time, Miss Rosemoor,” Brenna said, smiling sweetly. “I assure ye, he was the perfect gentleman.”
“See, Colin? That wasn’t so very difficult now, was it?”
“I suggest you hold your tongue, Jane Rosemoor. Haven’t I enough troubles as it is without my own sister suggesting I’m anything but a gentleman?” He was only teasing her; still, his chest tightened at the reminder. He’d heard the tabbies gossiping about him in the cake house, several of them taking no pains to lower their voices. Some of them had even been so brazen as to follow them out onto the promenades, like lionesses following the scent of blood.
He’d hoped that the business at White’s would eventually blow over, that after a few weeks time, they’d forget what had happened and move on to the next scandal. Instead, nearly the opposite had occurred. According to Lucy, the gossip grew daily; every past misdeed of his had been rehashed and embellished till the tale began to take on epic proportions. No longer considered simply a cheat, he was now apparently labeled a rake, a reprobate, and even a drunken sot. All of which were entirely untrue.
Yet men of long-standing acquaintance now passed him on the street with nary a word of acknowledgment, and ladies struck him from their invitation lists. The now-familiar flame of anger and frustration shot through him, tensing his muscles uncomfortably.
He would prove his innocence and expose those who had set him up. The alternative was insupportable. But he needed time to clear his name and restore his honor.
And what was Jane playing at, besides? She knew his reputation was all but destroyed, that high society no longer received him. Yet here she was, insisting that he squire about Brenna, whose own position in the ton was tenuous at best. He should not have offered her the choice to remain in his company. It was far too imprudent. She was not yet familiar enough with the ways of the ton to realize the repercussions of such a decision.
“I should go,” he blurted out, an uncomfortable sensation settling in his gut.
“Don’t be silly,” Jane admonished, tightening her grip on his arm. “I hear what they are saying, Colin. Do not let them ruin this fine afternoon.”
He said nothing in reply, squinting against the sun as he continued to follow the tree-lined path around a sharp bend, toward the Long Water. “Shall we walk along the canal?” he asked, attempting to staunch his growing resentment.
“A fine idea,” Jane answered, her approval evident in her tone. “Oh, look, there’s Lady Wellesley up ahead; perhaps I’ll stop for a moment as I’ve something to discuss with her ladyship. But the two of you must feel free to take your exercise and collect me on your way back.”
“Subtlety is not your strong suit, is it, Jane?” he said under his breath, leaning toward his sister. She only grinned in reply. “A wasted effort,” he added. In truth, his blood began to stir at the thought of finding himself alone in Brenna’s company once more, and he cursed himself such weakness.
What else would the naive girl say, furthering his erotic visions of her—visions that he must banish from his mind or he’d go mad? Never in his life had he entertained such impure thoughts about an innocent—an innocent who would return to Scotland come autumn, he reminded himself. Who did not need the blight of his association, besides. And who was in no way the kind of woman he should marry. If she’d even have him; her talk of returning to Scotland and her life there made it seem unlikely.
Bloody hell, he was losing his mind. Little more than a sennight ago he’d thought himself in love with Honoria, eager to ask for her hand. And now here he was, sniffing around this enigmatic Scotswoman like a hound. And further ruining her prospects in the process. Maybe he was a reprobate after all.
For several minutes, they walked in silence. Finally Colin chanced a look at Brenna’s face, cast into shadows by the brim of her straw bonnet. The exertion had brought a flush to her cheeks, staining them the faintest petal pink. Her eyes shone, round and wide under a thick fringe of lashes. A smile danced on her lips, dimpling one cheek in a delightful fashion. He supposed her features were what one would consider rather ordinary, except for her brilliantly hued eyes. Surely the fashionable set would scoff at the freckles that dotted her nose. Yet there was no denying that her face delighted him in every way. True, she was not a dazzling beauty, not what the ton would call an Incomparable. But she was exceptionally pretty nonetheless, in a simple, fresh-faced way. Her countenance bespoke of intelligence and sensibility; how, he could not exactly say. Yet it did. And it was damn bloody appealing, too.
“Are ye finished, Mr. Rosemoor?” she asked, her eyes never veering from the path ahead, the smile never leaving her lips.
He started in surprise, drawn from his ruminations. “Am I finished what?”
“Why, examining me, of course.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Had he been so obvious? Even if he had, most English misses would not have dared to comment on it.
“Hmm, if you say so.”
“Yes, well...ahem. I say, you must have left many broken hearts behind in Scotland.”
“Nay, sir, none at all,” she answered honestly, all coyness gone.
“I find that difficu
lt to believe.”
“’Tis true, I’m afraid. I hadn’t the time for such things as flirtations. I was busy running an estate, ye know.”
“Still, most women think of marriage. Far more than they should, from what I’ve gathered listening to my sisters talk.”
“Oh, one day, when the time comes, I’ll take a husband. There are several men I respect in Lochaber, men I’ve known all my life who would be pleased to add Glenbroch to their holdings. Men who work their own land, Mr. Rosemoor, as I do. We haven’t had the time or leisure to devote to the frivolities of courtship, as the English are so fond of.” Her tone was light, playful, even as she scolded him. “But someday...” She shrugged. “How about ye, Mr. Rosemoor? Surely ye have broken many a heart in your time.”
“Spend an afternoon in any Mayfair drawing room and you’ll hear tales that I have broken dozens.” He shook his head. “I should be so lucky. The truth is, most ladies see me as the brotherly type—the type they dance with and confide in while the true objects of their affection, the very rakes and rogues they protest about, look on.”
“But why, then, do they tell tales about ye that aren’t true?”
“Because the ton prefers a scandal to the truth any day. They delight in them; they revel in spreading lies and untruths amongst themselves. It gives them something to do. And at the present, I’m their favorite scandal. I should be honored, really.”
She shook her head. “Truly, I’ll never understand the English.”
“Are the English really so very different from the Scots?”
“Perhaps such intrigues play out in Edinburgh. I wouldna know. But the people of Lochaber—my people—are a more industrious lot. We have far better ways to occupy our time and our minds.”
“I’m not entirely sure I believe you. Human nature is universal, after all.”
“’Tis true, but only idleness and lack of meaningful occupation can nurture such tendencies, I think. And in my opinion, the English are far too idle. At least, those who reside in Mayfair are.”
“Those like me, you mean?”
“Nay, I didna mean...that is, I’m sure ye...well...” She’d never appeared so discomposed. “Ye must forgive me, Mr. Rosemoor. I spoke without thought.”
“Don’t apologize, Lady Brenna. You speak the truth. Would you like to hear how I put my time to use whilst in Town? I rise after ten, some days as late as noon. I read my papers over my coffee, allow my valet to help me dress, spend the afternoon at my club—or at least I did until my membership was revoked.” His breathing became fast as his anger mounted, and he reached up to loosen his cravat.
“At five, I might take a ride down Rotten Row, just to be fashionable. My evenings are spent solely in the pursuit of pleasure, attending balls and soirees, routs and musicales, perhaps the opera or theater. And then I might end the night in one gaming hell or another, enjoying a hand or two of cards and a bottle of brandy—well, more like gin these days—before retiring to my lodgings. And if I’m lucky, I might wake in the morning to find some unknown woman in my bed and no idea how she came to be there.”
He heard her shocked gasp at his vulgar words, yet he continued on. “That, my dear, is how I spend my days in Town. Lovely, isn’t it? Have you a better example of idleness to offer?”
Only then did he notice that they’d stopped strolling and stood facing each other by the banks of the canal. He reached a hand up to his temple, disgusted that his hand shook as he did so. “You must forgive me, Lady Brenna. I had no right to speak to you in such a manner.”
“Nay, Mr. Rosemoor. I deserved the comeuppance. Who am I to preach to ye? Ye must think me a self-righteous shrew.”
“No, not a shrew.” He reached for her hand. “Not at all.”
“I shouldna have spoken so carelessly. ‘Tis just that I forget...that is, ye seem so verra different from the rest, from Hugh and the other gentlemen I’ve become acquainted with.” She swept her gaze from the top of his beaver hat to the tips of his boots. “Despite your appearance, that is.” At last, a tentative smile reappeared on her lovely face.
At once the tension in his body seemed to dissipate. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And whatever does that mean?” he asked, releasing her hand.
“Well, look at ye. Not a crease in your trousers. Your neck cloth is knotted into...Well, I canna even describe it, but it looks as if it took hours to accomplish.” She lowered her gaze to his feet. “Your boots are like a looking glass, so polished are they. And truly, no man in Lochaber would take his afternoon exercise in both waistcoat and coat, not on a day as fine and warm as this.”
“Is that so?” he countered. “And have you taken a look at your own attire?”
She glanced down at her dress, skimming her hands across the folds of the skirts. “I know. ‘Tis silly, isna it? A ‘walking dress’ they call it. There are morning dresses, walking dresses, riding habits... a different gown for every purpose. This one is bonny, though.”
“It is,” he murmured. “Made more so by its wearer.”
She did not heed the compliment. “And to think, I used to believe that simple woolens were all one needed.”
“I must say, I’m glad you changed your mind on that count.” Again, he reached for her hand, grasping her gloved one in his, stroking her palm with his thumb through the kidskin.
She kept her gaze on their joined hands, as if mesmerized, but said nothing.
“Brenna?” Her given name slipped easily off his tongue. The sounds of the park receded, becoming nothing but a hum in the distance. He was conscious of nothing save the sight of her tongue, darting out to wet her lips. Then her gaze rose and met his, and the breath seemed to leave his body in a rush.
“Yes, Colin?” she asked, her voice low and husky.
“There you are.”
Colin spun toward his sister’s voice, dropping Brenna’s hand as he did so. He swallowed hard as Jane approached, smiling broadly, with Lady Wellesley by her side.
“I wanted to introduce Bren—Lady Margaret to Lady Wellesley,” Jane said gaily, though he saw her eyes dart suspiciously from Brenna to him and back to Brenna again.
What had they seen? Or worse yet, heard? He wanted to kiss Brenna. More than anything, he wanted to take her in his arms, right there by the canal, and kiss her till her legs went weak, till she clung to him in desperation, calling out his name over and over again.
He forced himself to look at her, standing there demurely, clasping her hands in front of herself while Jane made the introductions. She looked like an angel, as unspoiled and untouched as any woman he’d ever met. God’s teeth, he was a rogue. He would be the ruin of her yet.
“If you’ll pardon me, ladies.” Without another word, he turned and walked away, wishing to put as much distance between himself and Brenna as possible, yet wanting more than anything to remain by her side forever.
Chapter 6
“Ye wished to see me?” Brenna asked, stepping into the salon. Her mother sat in a stuffed chintz chair before the fire, her father standing behind his wife with one hand resting upon her shoulder. Brenna’s palms suddenly felt damp, and she wiped them across her skirts as her heart fluttered in anticipation. Why ever had they summoned her? Had she done something to displease them?
“Please have a seat, my dear.” Her father motioned toward the sofa directly across from them.
Brenna nodded and took a seat, clasping her hands in her lap. She waited expectantly as her mother glanced up at her father.
“Ahem. Well, then. Yes. Your mother tells me that you spent the day at St. James’s Park with Miss Jane Rosemoor.”
“’Tis true. I like her verra much, sir.”
“Yes, yes. Capital. But she also tells me that Miss Rosemoor’s brother, Mr. Colin Rosemoor, joined you on this outing, taking refreshments with you and squiring you about the promenades and such.”
“Aye, he did.” Her hands grew suddenly cold. “We were introduced at Lady Brandon’s soiree.” It wasn’t
entirely true, as they were never formally introduced. But she thought it wise not to mention the true nature of their initial encounters, either here at home or in Lady Brandon’s garden. She somehow doubted either would be deemed appropriate.
“Well, my dear, first impressions are often misleading. I’m afraid he is not the gentleman he may seem to be. Young Rosemoor has always had a bit of a wild, reckless streak in him, but now he’s gone too far.”
“Much too far,” her mother interjected, her mouth set in a hard line. “Despite his fine family and advantageous connections, he has—”
“But none of it is true.” Brenna rose, her hands balled into fists by her sides. “Mr. Rosemoor is an honorable man.”
“Says who?” her mother asked. “Miss Rosemoor? Of course she would take up for her brother.”
“Nay, Miss Rosemoor has said nothing about her brother. But Colin has said—”
“Colin?” her father barked, his face reddening. “Has he trifled with you, Margaret?”
Her mother leaned back in her chair, rapidly fanning her face. “Dear Lord above. I need my vinaigrette!”
“Nay, sir. Of course he has not trifled with me. He is a gentleman in every respect.”
“A gentleman? Bah.” Her mother sat upright, her fan suddenly stilled in her lap. “Did he tell you that he has been cast from White’s? That he was caught red-handed, fleecing the Duke of Glastonbury out of a fair amount of blunt? That he’s no longer received in any respectable drawing room in all of London?”
“Yes, but—”
“There are no buts, Margaret,” her mother interrupted. “What about that business last week in Covent Garden? Did he tell you about that? About Lord Mandeville dragging Mr. Rosemoor out of some seedy public house just before he’d compromised the barkeep’s wife? It is only thanks to Mandeville’s interference that Mr. Rosemoor did not have to face the man the next morning in the meadow over a brace of pistols. I’m sure he did not tell you about that now, did he?”
Undressed (Undone by Love) Page 6