Brenna shook her head, bewildered, as she sank back onto the sofa. It couldna be true. Could it? With a sinking heart, she realized just how much she hoped it wasn’t. Why did the thought of him with another woman make her stomach pitch? After all, she’d only just met him. It wasn’t as if she’d developed an attachment to him, not in so short a time. Had she? It didn’t matter if she had; the attachment would end now, before it was too late. Before she made a fool of herself. “Nay, he did not tell me about that,” she said at last, willing her churning emotions to abate and her voice to steady.
“Colin Rosemoor is a liar and a cheat, a man without honor. In short, a rogue.” Her father shook his head. “I do not know what games the scoundrel is playing, insinuating himself into your life and encouraging you to address him so intimately—”
“I assume her dowry has something to do with it,” her mother put in, her lips curled into an unbecoming scowl. “He is far enough under the hatches, from what I hear.”
Her father nodded in agreement, his face now a mottled red. “Likely so. By all accounts, he’s nearly done up. His entire fortune, squandered on drink and debauchery.”
Brenna inhaled sharply. Nearly done up? Was it really so bad as that? Could his attentions truly have been nothing more than an attempt to secure her dowry? A heated flush began to climb her neck as she cursed her own naïveté. No, her mind countered. It couldna be true. Surely there was some other explanation.
“You shall cease all association with him at once,” her father’s voice boomed. “Have I made myself clear on that count, Margaret?”
She could not do what he asked of her. Could she? Had she so thoroughly misjudged Colin Rosemoor?
“Answer your father, Margaret,” her mother demanded.
“I...I suppose so,” she stammered, realizing that she had no choice, not while she remained under their roof and their protection. “But what of Miss Rosemoor? Surely she canna be held responsible for her brother’s misbehavior.”
Her mother glanced at her father, who nodded. “Miss Rosemoor is a particular favorite amongst the ton, and I cannot imagine that her position in society will be affected overmuch. Yes, you may continue your acquaintance with her, so long as you avoid her brother at all costs.” Her mother eyed her sharply. “Have I your word?”
Brenna knew she must comply with her parents’ wishes. Even so, she had to swallow an uncomfortable lump in her throat before replying. “Yes, Lady Danv—Mama, I meant.”
Her father clapped his hands together, clearly pleased to be done with the discourse. His anger seemed to ebb away all at once, as if the strain of such strong emotion had drained him. “Yes, then, very good. Capital. You’ll excuse me, my dears. I’ll just be in my study.” With a tight smile, he strode over to Brenna and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, then took his leave.
Her mother rose before her, gesturing for Brenna to follow suit. “Now, Margaret, you must begin to prepare for dinner. Your brother has asked a guest to join us, and you must look your loveliest.” She paused to eye Brenna sharply. “Perhaps the sapphire silk gown will do nicely.”
“And who is this guest that I must dress so elegantly for?”
“Lord Thomas Sinclair, second son of the Duke of Eston. A very well-bred young man, and Hugh finds him most agreeable. Fifteen thousand pounds a year, Hugh says, and not a farthing less.” She reached for Brenna’s hand with a smile. “Lord Thomas is eager to make your acquaintance.”
“I suppose we shan’t disappoint him, then,” Brenna muttered. With a heavy heart, she set off to find her maid.
Far too many hours later, Brenna stepped out of the sapphire silk gown with a huff.
“Careful, miss. You’ll tear the hem, you will, stomping about like that.” With a scowl, Celeste gathered up the soft blue folds and gently shook them out.
Brenna strode to the vanity and, still inwardly fuming, began to pull the seed-pearl pins from her hair. One by one, the pins clattered to the marble as her hair fell softly across her bare shoulders.
“Let me help you, miss.” Celeste reached for the silver brush lying on the vanity.
“Nay, I can do it myself.” Seeing the maid’s face fall, Brenna immediately regretted her churlishness. “Ye must forgive me, Celeste. I dinna mean to snap at ye. I’m just feeling a wee bit out of sorts, is all. Go on to bed,” she said gently. “I can get into my nightdress myself.”
Celeste bobbed a curtsy. “If you say so, miss.”
“Good night, Celeste,” Brenna said, rising and reaching for the young maid’s hand. Celeste had been some sort of lesser servant, a laundry maid, perhaps, and was only recently elevated to lady’s maid. Light blue eyes under pale brows eyed Brenna curiously as she tugged her hand from her mistress’s grasp.
“Good night, then, miss.” With a shake of her head, Celeste took her leave, softly shutting the door behind her.
Brenna slumped back onto the padded seat before her dressing table. She exhaled in a rush, wishing to forget the evening’s unpleasantness. She grasped the cool handle of the brush and began to run it through her hair, staring back at her own reflection as she did so. Her face appeared drawn, her mouth pinched. It most certainly had not been an enjoyable evening, and her countenance certainly showed the strain.
Oh, Lord Thomas Sinclair had been polite enough, his manners impeccable and his attentions solicitous. He was no doubt a handsome man as well. Perhaps too handsome for his own good. Yet there was something wolfish about his smile, and his eyes possessed a predatory glint that made her shudder. Several times during dinner she’d looked up from her plate and seen him watching her, his gaze possessive and full of heat. As if he...he owned her already. And it was clear that that was her brother’s intention—that Lord Thomas should own her.
When Lord Thomas had at last prepared to take his leave, he’d reached for Brenna’s hand and raised it to his lips while his fingers had stroked her palm. There had been something suggestive about the touch, and when her surprised gaze flew up to meet his, he’d winked at her. Or perhaps he’d had something in his eye, her mind countered charitably. No, she was very sure it had been a wink, the rogue.
No doubt Hugh was in collusion with him. She’d watched her brother escort their guest to the front hall, the pair conversing in low, hushed tones, then throwing their heads back and laughing aloud, as if they had shared a most amusing joke. She’d paused on the landing and distinctly heard Hugh say, “Didn’t I say she was exactly your type?” At that, Brenna had scurried up the stairs without waiting for the distasteful man’s reply.
Brenna smacked the brush back down on the marble, wincing at the sharp sound. Exactly his type? Rubbish. What did he know of her? Even her own brother knew very little of her true character, her interests and enjoyments. Hugh wouldn’t entertain talk of her years at Glenbroch. As far as he was concerned, her life began the day she arrived at Danville House.
She rose and padded across the room, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Hera crawled out from beneath the bed and rubbed against Brenna’s bare ankles. She reached down and scooped up the cat, depositing her on her lap. After several strokes, the cat was purring loudly.
“Oh, Hera, I do believe Colin Rosemoor understands me better than my own brother does.” Spoken aloud, the thought startled her, warming her cheeks. But it was the truth, plain and simple. If Mr. Rosemoor had winked at her whilst bidding her a good night, she would have found the gesture amusing, not disconcerting. It would have been done in jest; it would not have seemed lascivious or indecent in any way, shape, or form.
And then her parents’ warning came crashing down on her consciousness. A liar, her father had called Mr. Rosemoor. He’d nearly compromised a barkeep’s wife, for God’s sake, in Covent Garden of all places. Brenna knew enough about London and its environs to know that a respectable gentleman—a viscount’s son—did not wish to be seen patronizing such an establishment. There were enough public houses in London’s fashionable districts to serve men of reputation and character.
A gentleman only ventured to such seedy districts as Covent Garden when one was desirous of participating in illegal—or illicit—activities. Brenna could only wonder which it was that had lured Mr. Rosemoor there on the night in question. Considering the way in which the night had ended—with the threat of a duel—she supposed it must have been the latter.
She scowled, continuing to stroke the cat’s fur. Now that she’d been forbidden to associate with the man, she’d likely never learn the truth, especially if the ton truly preferred gossip to fact, as Mr. Rosemoor had suggested. Perhaps it was for the best, she reminded herself. Scratching the cat beneath the chin, she met Hera’s steady, green gaze. “Perhaps I have let myself grow too fond of Mr. Rosemoor, haven’t I, Hera?” No sense in that, especially as she planned to return to Glenbroch come autumn. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she valiantly struggled to force away all thoughts of Mr. Rosemoor. Setting Hera on the bed, she rose to fetch her nightclothes from the high bureau in the room’s corner.
She pulled her chemise over her head and replaced it with a soft, lawn night rail. As she buttoned the tiny pearl buttons at her throat, her mind was involuntarily drawn back to Lord Thomas Sinclair. Just his type, was she? Very well; she would make it her aim to ascertain exactly what his type was, and then fashion herself entirely the opposite.
Shaking her head, she blew out the candle beside her bed and settled herself under the bedcovers, rubbing her cheek against the soft-as-silk linen. Their own linens back at Glenbroch seemed almost coarse in comparison, yet she’d always found them perfectly acceptable before now.
With a sigh of frustration, she sat up in bed and looked wistfully toward the window, its drapes drawn tight against the night sky. Throwing back the bedclothes, she leapt up and hurried across the room, where she drew the drapes and secured them back against the silk-covered wall. Soft, silvery moonlight flooded in at once, and Brenna immediately felt a measure soothed. As her eyes drank in the sight of the bright moon and the twinkling stars, the tension she’d felt bunching the muscles behind her neck eased, if only a bit.
Mr. Rosemoor had appreciated the sky, had listened to her idle talk of the moon and stars with interest. Was he perhaps looking up at the sky himself right now, remembering the words they had shared? Recalling the gentle touch of his hand to her face, as she was? Or did that moment hold far less significance for him than it had for her? For she realized that she had not been able to push him far from her thoughts since that night in Lady Brandon’s garden, try as she might. What was she to do? Forget him. She must. She had no choice but to do so. Even if her parents hadn’t forbidden it, there was no room for him in her life. She was here in London to become acquainted with her true family, and to raise awareness of the Clearances. Nothing more.
Not removing her gaze from the calming sight beyond the glass, she returned to bed and slid back between the linens, shivering as the fabric skimmed against her bare calves. Hera meowed, then curled herself next to her, the familiar, deep purr filling the room’s silence. With a sigh, Brenna glanced one last time at the open window. No, the night sky hadn’t changed; it remained as it always had, continuing its cycles uninterrupted. If only she could say the same for her life.
***
Colin tipped back the tumbler in his hand, draining its contents in mere seconds. He shuddered as the gin burned a path down his throat. Damn the cheap liquor. His face felt cold, almost numb. With a scowl, he examined the glass in his hand, noting the chip on its lip, the stain marring its base. He glanced wildly about the crowded room, wondering just how he’d come to be there, drunk as the devil, in some disreputable East End establishment. The White Bull? No, that wasn’t it. White Boar? Was there some such creature as a white boar? He hadn’t any idea, nor did he care overmuch.
Here he was viewed as nothing but a rich man, a gentleman. He didn’t have to listen to the whispers, endure the stares. Certainly far more pleasurable than anywhere in Mayfair, that was for certain. But where was Ian Staunton? He distinctly remembered arriving with the man. They’d played several hands of faro in the back room before Staunton had disappeared, following a comely serving wench through the crowd.
Colin set the glass on the table with a thunk and stared unseeing at the far end of the room, which teemed with bodies crowded in much too small a space. The stale air reeked of body odor, of smoke. Of cloying perfume, he mentally added as he felt something soft brush against the back of his coat.
“’Scuse me, gov’na,” a throaty voice said just behind his ear, and just before he felt her press her breasts into his back once more, perhaps for good measure. He reached for the woman’s arm and pulled her around to stand before him. She giggled, tossing her mane of ebony hair over one shoulder as she did so. A scarlet-colored bloom, now wilted and browning at the edges, was tucked behind one ear. Her faded red satin gown clung to her shapely figure in all the right places, nearly bursting at the seams—seams that were visibly beginning to pull. Sweeping his gaze across her rouged face, he guessed her to be no more than twenty, perhaps two-and-twenty. Yet her dark, kohl-smudged eyes were dull and lifeless. Old eyes. Worn eyes.
“See anything you like, gov’na?” she asked, raising one brow suggestively. She reached for the empty glass that sat on the table before him, shrugging her shoulders as she did so and giving him an eyeful of round, high breasts crowned by deep, rose-colored nipples. Something in his blood stirred involuntarily at the display.
“I believe I do,” he muttered, tossing some coin to the table to cover the cost of the drink.
“Mmm,” she purred, licking her lips. “I was hopin’ you would, a fine gentleman like yerself.” She leaned down to whisper her price in his ear, affording him yet another look at her wares, and he had to admit they were appealing. Why shouldn’t he? He was a man with no attachments. No lovers. What difference would it make if he accepted her offer? He could use a warm embrace, after all. A soft touch. It had been far too long since he’d enjoyed such pleasures.
With a nod of acceptance, he rose to his feet and straightened his coat before following the woman through the crowd, around the side of the bar, and up a narrow, dark staircase.
Minutes later, a door shut behind him. Unbuttoning his coat, Colin glanced around the small, drab room. A waning fire burned in the fireplace, sending wisps of smoke curling into the room, over a lumpy brocade chair before the fire and across a bed in the corner, haphazardly made, as if someone had hurriedly pulled up the bed coverings before taking their leave. Gray, shapeless drapes hung across one window, shuttered against the night. A wardrobe stood like a sentinel in the far corner, a chest of drawers beside it.
The woman sashayed across the room, her hips moving sensuously and purposely. Clearly a practiced move. She reached for a candle on the table beside the bed, and knelt before the fire to light it. Cupping one hand against the flame, she returned the candle to its iron holder, then turned to face Colin with a sultry smile.
“What’s yer name, gov’na?”
“Colin,” he answered simply, still rooted to his spot by the door.
“Well, now, Colin, they call me Rosie. I think we’re goin’ to get on just fine.” She kicked off her slippers, then hiked up her skirt and placed one foot on the brocade chair. Colin’s eyes were drawn to the curve of her thigh as she rolled down her stocking, inch by inch, purposely prolonging his anticipation. At last she deposited the stocking on the floor beside her slippers, then began the process anew with her other leg. As she did so, her gaze locked with his, as if she dared him to look away from the display.
He didn’t. Once the second stocking lay on the dusty floor with its mate, she stood facing him, reaching around herself to untie a single lace that held together the back of her bodice. “Now, Colin, why don’t you tell Rosie what brings a man such as yerself here. A fallin’ out with yer lady?”
Colin swallowed, his cloudy memory brought painfully back to the folded missive he carried in his breast pocket. “Something like that,” he finally
muttered, unbuttoning his waistcoat.
Rosie pulled down her bodice to reveal the bare breasts he’d hungrily admired only moments before. “She don’ understand you, do she, love?”
Oh, but she does, his mind countered. As no one else does. Not Honoria Lyttle-Brown, not Hugh Ballard, certainly not Lord and Lady Danville. No one save his own family, and he wasn’t even entirely sure of them, now that he thought about it. He blinked hard, trying his best to focus his gin-muddled brain on the pair of breasts before him. Round and milky white, they stood high and proud even without the support a corset afforded.
Rosie moved across the room on silent feet till she stood just inches from him. With a lusty smile, she let her gown fall entirely to the floor around her feet. Colin’s gaze drifted down, across her stomach to the dark triangle of curls where her thighs joined, and back up again to her breasts. He reached out to touch one dusty-rose nipple, wondering even as he did so what Brenna’s bare breasts would look like, would feel like to his hungry touch. Damn his traitorous mind!
Inhaling sharply, he forced himself to continue fondling Rosie’s breasts, taking one nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She was here now. Not Brenna. Never Brenna.
The whore’s flesh immediately puckered to his touch, and she tipped her head back, eyes closed. “Yes, gov’na,” she purred. “Just like that. Go on, take it in your mouth.”
Colin’s hand dropped to his side, and he stood motionless, frozen in self-loathing disgust.
Perceiving his hesitation, Rosie opened her eyes and peered at him curiously. “Well? I thought you were up for a good rut, I did. Rosie won’t let you down, y’know.”
“I’m sure you won’t.” Perhaps he did need a good rut. Perhaps a good rut would permanently erase Brenna from his mind, as her parents wished. As Brenna wished, for all he knew.
He drew Rosie toward him, his mouth slanting across her eager one. He barely felt her roving hands shove his coat from his shoulders and tug his linen free from his trousers’ waistband. Valiantly he struggled to focus on her mouth, her lips soft, wet, and yielding. But raucous shouts from downstairs distracted him, drawing his attention away from the woman in his arms. As if she sensed his distraction, she slid her hands up his torso, her nails raking across his skin.
Undressed (Undone by Love) Page 7