Emerald Garden (17 page)

“In Desmond’s case, a perceived rejection is the same as an actual one.” Quentin scowled at the memories. “Believe me, I know that firsthand.”

“You’re not thinking of yourself. You’re thinking of. Pamela.”

Quentin’s head snapped up. “Did Mother discuss Desmond with you?” he asked in surprise.

“Not in the way you mean, no. She never complained about his refusal to acknowledge her as Kenton’s wife. Quite the opposite, in fact. Pamela defended Desmond’s loyalty to his own mother’s memory. But I’d see the sadness in her eyes after each of her countless, unsuccessful attempts to reach him. On those days, she’d immerse herself in Emerald Manor, digging in the garden until long after the sun had set.” Brandi’s voice choked. “Pamela had the most extraordinary heart. She adored Kenton, and, needless to say, you—the son born of their union. Yet she had more than enough love left over for me and, most importantly, for Kenton’s firstborn. She tried so desperately to love Desmond. But it just wasn’t in his nature to let her.”

Pain lanced through Quentin like a knife. “No. It wasn’t.”

“Pamela came to accept that reality.” Instinctively, Brandi offered Quentin the solace he craved. “Thanks to you and Kenton, she always knew she was cherished. As a result, she felt truly blessed.” An aching smile. “As she blessed us in return.”

Slowly, Quentin shook his head, his expression filled with wonder. “You never fail to astound me, Sunbeam. Your insight is staggering.”

Brandi’s gaze was solemn. “I don’t know why that stuns you so. I may be unsophisticated, even immature for my age. But I’m not stupid. Nor am I a child.”

“You’re neither childish, immature, nor stupid. Unsophisticated? Yes, and thank God for it. I don’t think I could bear seeing you tainted by the world’s ugliness. Never change, Sunbeam.”

“You make me sound like a fragile doll that must be kept on a shelf, untouched and unscathed. I’m not a doll, Quentin. I’m a woman.” She considered her description, then modified it a bit. “An unruly one, I admit, but a woman nonetheless. I understand pain and hurt and love. And I recognize them when I see them. Better, it would seem, than some.”

“So I’m learning.” Quentin swallowed past the odd constriction in his chest. “And your tender heart is all the more reason why I want you to tread very carefully during your chat with Desmond. I don’t want him to retaliate.”

“You keep using words like
retaliate
and
consequences.
What is it you fear Desmond might do?”

“Knowing my brother, he could decide to reverse your decision for you.”

Brandi paled. “He’d force me to wed him?”

“If he were infuriated by your refusal and convinced that your decision was final, yes. Either that or marry you off to an equally unappealing substitute—all for your own good, of course.”

“He can’t order me down the aisle.”

“Yes, sweetheart, he can. As your guardian, he has every right.”

“Oh my God, I never thought of that.” Brandi wet her lips anxiously. “Quentin, what shall I do?”

“Stall for time.” Quentin had to fight the urge to reach for her, to enfold her in his arms and offer her himself, along with all the promises she deserved and which he could never keep. “Spend as little time in Desmond’s company as you can, and avoid all mention of the future. He won’t press you—at least not for a long while. He knows how deeply you’re grieving. I’ll make certain to emphasize that fact each time we speak. However, should he surprise us and broach the subject of marriage, tell him you can’t think clearly—not until the murders are resolved and you’ve had time to mourn our parents.”

“And then?”

“Then let time pass. By next Season, you’ll be one and twenty. At which point, Desmond can no longer force you to marry against your will.”

Relief swept through Brandi in great waves. “That’s right. Quentin, you’re a genius.”

He dipped his head in a mock bow. “At your service, my lady.” Straightening, he seized the bottle of wine, his lighthearted humor restored. “Shall we toast my superior intelligence?”

“Oh, indeed we shall.” Brandi held out her glass, feeling reckless and giddy with pleasure. “Several times, in fact. And then we must eat Mrs. Collins’s superb dessert.”

“You’ve recovered your appetite, I presume?”

An impish grin. “ ’Tis necessary, if I intend to remain champion of our fishing matches. How else would I gain enough energy to jostle so many trout free of your line?”

Rich, incredulous laughter erupted from Quentin’s chest, spanning Emerald Manor’s renewing gardens.

Several hours later, having just finished her second slice of pie, Brandi blinked in the direction of the fiery western horizon. “What time is it anyway?” she asked, licking flaky crumbs from her fingertips.

“Judging from the position of the sun, I should say it’s close to five o’clock,” Quentin replied absently. He was absorbed in watching her, wondering when he’d ever seen anything as innocently erotic as Brandi’s tongue gliding delicately over her fingertips. His loins tightened with each exquisite motion, and he had to physically restrain himself from dragging her into his arms.

His attraction was fast becoming a compulsion.

“Five o’clock?” Brandi’s forefinger paused en route to her mouth, her tongue trailing the inside of her lower lip. “When did that happen?”

Quentin relented. Giving in to the need to touch her—however minimally—he smoothed her tousled hair from her brow… an infinitely safer gesture than the one he craved. “It happened while we were sprawled on this sundrenched blanket, in this beautiful garden, unceremoniously gorging ourselves on cold chicken, warm scones, sliced fruit, strawberry pie, and a continuous flow of wine. Somewhere during that time, the sun reached its zenith and began its westward journey for a soon-to-arrive evening descent.”

“Um.” Brandi resumed her nibbling. “In that case, let’s watch it set from our blanket. I’m far too sated to move.”

“ ’Tis a shame you feel so lethargic.” Quentin’s mind was racing, acutely aware that to remain here much longer would tax his will beyond endurance. “I was about to suggest an afternoon ride. A
late
afternoon ride,” he amended. “I was even feeling good-natured enough to offer Poseidon as your mount. But I suppose that’s impossible, given your inability to move.”

“Nothing is impossible.” Brandi was on her feet before Quentin had completed his offer. “I’m ready.”

A hearty chuckle rumbled from his chest. “That was the swiftest recovery I’ve ever seen.” His gaze drifted down-ward. “ ’Tis a pity your gown cannot make the same claim. Despite the fact that it has dried, I fear it is beyond redemption.”

Brandi glanced at herself, then rolled her eyes to the heavens. “Do you see why I need breeches?”

“I do. And you shall have them.”

“After which you’ll no longer have any hope of beating me when I’m astride Poseidon.”

“A sobering thought. It appears, then, that I’d better make the most of today—my final opportunity to best you while you remain encumbered by layers of muslin. Horribly rumpled layers of muslin,” he added, grinning. “But I won’t be a complete cad. I’ll wait while you change into a riding habit.”

“Only to ruin it? No, thank you for your magnanimous offer, but I’ll remain in this shredded garment. It couldn’t deteriorate any further than it already has.”

The next few hours proved her wrong.

Amid sharp-tongued banter, Quentin and Brandi toppled into the stables at half after six—filthy, wind-blown, and more than ready to return their mounts.

“Frederick?” Brandi called. “We’re back.”

The stableboy hurried out, then halted in his tracks, gaping. “M’lady, what happened? Are ye all right?”

“Oh, she’s fine, Frederick,” Quentin assured him dryly. “ ’Tis only her gown that’s ailing. I, on the other hand, have been brutalized.”

Frederick’s stunned gaze shifted to the scratches on Quentin’s face and brow. “Poseidon threw ye, m’lord?” he managed, assessing Quentin’s torn coat and berry-stained breeches.

“Quentin didn’t ride Poseidon,” Brandi corrected, stifling a giggle. “I did.”

Frederick leaned weakly against the stable door. “Goddess did that to ye, sir?”

“No, Goddess did not do this to me. Brandi’s bloody aristocratic assassin of a cohort did this to me.”

“I don’t understand, m’lord.”

“Lancelot is not an assassin,” Brandi countered. “He’s just loyal.”

“Loyal? That furry, quizzing-glassed beast is as devious as any of Newgate’s criminals. He specifically waited for me to pass under his tree, then blinded me with those damnable berries of his. And then, as if that weren’t enough, he pounced upon me like a tiger, scratching my face and covering my eyes with his unwieldy tail until I smashed headlong into a branch and crashed to the ground.”

Brandi’s eyes danced. “He prefers that I win.”

“Well, he certainly ensured that you did, didn’t he? I couldn’t very well cross the finish line lying facedown in the dirt.”

“I don’t know why you’re so irritated. I’m as filthy as you are and spent nearly as much time in the dirt. In truth, I deserve your thanks, not your annoyance. After all,
you
had no choice with regard to your undignified disarray. While
I
, on the other hand, willingly embraced the dusty ground, nearly toppling off Poseidon in my haste to dismount and rush to your side. And why? For the purely selfless purpose of ensuring you were unharmed.”

“How magnanimous of you.” Quentin arched a sardonic brow. “But tell me. Why is it that you came to my rescue only
after
you’d completed the race—and won?”

An exasperated sigh. “Very well, would you feel better if I conceded my victory?”

“No.” Quentin shot her a disgruntled look. “I would not. I’d feel better if that wretched creature found himself a new home.”

“Are you admitting you were bested by a squirrel, Captain Steel?”

“Tread carefully, Sunbeam,” he warned, wincing as he touched the gash on his jaw. “I’m not feeling at all congenial right now.”

Frederick cleared his throat. “Pardon me, m’lord. Shall I relieve you of Goddess and Poseidon?”

“I’d prefer you relieve me of Brandi’s pet,” Quentin retorted. “But, since he has long since fled into the oak’s concealing branches, the odds of accomplishing that are nil. Therefore, very well, Frederick. Take the horses.”

“Yes, sir.” Frederick complied, looking suspiciously like he was smothering a chuckle.

“Come, Quentin.” Brandi seized his arm. “I’ll tend to those scratches.” She leaned toward him, a conspiratorial forefinger pressed to her lips. “And fear not. Your secret is safe with me. No one will ever know you were undone by a rodent.”

“That’s it.” He lunged for her.

Anticipating his response, Brandi was already in motion. Choking back laughter, she flung open the barn door and tore across the dusky lawn in a halfhearted attempt to escape.

Quentin caught up with her near the gazebo, grasping her waist and tumbling them both to the ground. He rolled Brandi to her back, looming over her like a vengeful god.

“Are you finished enjoying yourself at my expense, little hoyden?” he demanded.

“Never.” She smiled up at him, undaunted by his mock fury. Abruptly, her smile faded as a thin stream of blood trickled down the side of his face. “You really are hurt,” she murmured, gently touching his jaw. “I had no idea it was this bad.”

“It isn’t.” His gaze fell to her lips. “But thank you for caring.”

“I care,” she whispered. “Oh, Quentin, I care so much.”

Quentin’s breath lodged in his throat, and helplessly, he felt his defenses topple.

When they’d plummeted beyond his reach, he lowered his head.

Brandi raised hers.

Their lips met, parted, then met again in an exquisitely poignant, sensual caress—velvety soft, infinitely gentle. Possessing none of the urgency of their earlier encounters, this kiss was slow, deep, tender.

Terrifying.

Quentin gathered Brandi closer, sealing her mouth with his. He threaded his fingers through her glorious, disheveled hair, draping the burnished tresses about their shoulders, enfolding them in an intimate cocoon all their own. Twilight vanished, the gardens receded, and Quentin’s heart thundered in his chest as his lips moved eloquently over Brandi’s, conveying an emotion as vast and foreign as the impact of that which he could no longer deny.

With a whisper of a sigh, Brandi’s arms stole around Quentin’s neck, entwining tightly, wordlessly telling him that she felt as he did—yet with none of the apprehension, none of the clamoring reservations that gnawed at Quentin’s soul.

His terror intensified.

“Sunbeam, I have to let you go,” he breathed against her lips.

“No. You don’t.”

He raised his head. “Yes,” he countered gravely, his hazel eyes darkening to a deep smoky gray. “I do.”

Rolling away, Quentin gently eased Brandi to a sitting position. “The sun has set. I’d best get you back to the cottage.”

“Quentin …”

“Don’t, Sunbeam.” He shook his head, lifting her hand to kiss its soft palm. “Some things are best left unsaid.”

“I can’t go back,” she whispered, tears shimmering on her lashes.

“ ’Tis late. You must.”

“I wasn’t referring to the house. I was referring to us.”

“I know you were.” Slowly, Quentin came to his feet, feeling tired and drained and strangely empty. “Come, sweetheart. We don’t want Mrs. Collins to worry.”

Brandi rose, fighting back tears, wondering why she felt more bereft now than ever. She gazed at Quentin, her fingers reflexively going to his jaw. “At least let me treat your scrapes before you leave.”

He nodded, aching at the raw pain he saw on her face—pain he could do nothing to alleviate.

Silently, they walked toward the cottage.

Halfway, Brandi came to an abrupt halt, two tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Why do I feel like I’ve lost you?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“You haven’t.” He pressed her head to his chest, feeling her arms steal around his waist, closing his eyes against the lightness of holding her. “You never will—not so long as it’s in my power to decide.”