If Love Were Enough (11 page)

“Hurry, Pris. She’s in her room. Come quickly.”

It had taken a few minutes more for them to redress, straighten her coiffure, and make themselves presentable. Priscilla then hurried to Anne’s room, Brandon at her heels. When she reached the door she gave it three sharp raps.

“Come! Come!” It was her brother’s voice still intense with emotion.

“Thank God you’re here.” He came to her, grabbed her hand harshly, then jerked her to the bed.

Brandon strolled in behind her, shut the door quietly, then leaned against the nearest wall. Making himself as unobtrusive as possible, he watched the tableau playing out before him.

Anne was propped up in her bed as pale as the white linens she lay against. Presumably it was her maid plying a damp cloth against her mistress’s forehead.

Asher picked up one of Anne’s wrists. “Look what she’s done!” His voice cracked as he displayed the bandage wrapped just above the pale hand.

“Oh my goodness. Thomas, has she slashed her wrists?” Priscilla seemed to waver as if she might faint. Brandon made a move to go to her aid but she steadied herself.

“Agnes,” Asher nodded toward the maid, “found her on the floor in her dressing room not ten minutes ago. I was lucky to be in my rooms when she screamed. I ran in to see what was the matter. There was blood everywhere. Jasper, you know my valet, followed me to the source of the screaming. He retrieved some handkerchiefs while I was wrapping her in a robe I found laying on the chaise lounge.

“We wrapped her wrists as tight as we could. Then Jasper set the staff looking for you. I think the bleeding has stopped. Why would she do this? What possible reason could she have to try and kill herself?”

Was this to be part of Anne’s revenge on him? The infliction of guilt?

“Thomas, have you sent for the doctor?” Priscilla was leaning over her sister-in-law. She lifted an eyelid, lifted a wrist as if looking for a pulse. Her manner was firm but tender and Brandon could imagine the care she must have taken of her late husband for the more than ten years of their marriage. She must have had much practice with such nursing chores.

“A doctor? Yes. Rogers sent one of the grooms. He’ll be back soon. What should we do now? Why did she do this?” Asher was pacing the room, pulling at his hair, making a hash of it. Still distracted and unfocused, he stopped by the hearth, pulled out the silver case he kept in the inside pocket of his jacket and fussed with a cheroot. With an unsteady hand, he grabbed a hot stick from the low-burning fire to light the end.

Did Asher have feelings for his wife?

Brandon was pretty sure why Anne had done it. Attention. The woman needed constant attention. And, he shunned her, left her in his room alone without a thought.

How could he have known she would go and do this? Had she really come close to death? Or, was she just making a good show of it for the attention she craved? The revenge she promised?

Priscilla moved to her brother, stopping him in the middle of his latest trek across the carpet. She placed a hand on each cheek, lifted his head. He blew a stream of smoke away from her face. “Thomas, she will be all right. If you stopped the blood flow so easily the slashes could not have been deep. It was probably a half-hearted attempt. The doctor will come and you’ll see she’ll be just fine.”

Ashes fell to the floor at his friend’s feet without regard.

Brandon scanned the room and saw the decanter with a couple of glasses on the open escritoire. Whether it held brandy or sherry, it would have to do. In moments, he was pouring a dram into a glass. He went to Asher. With one arm around the man’s shoulder, he nudged the glass into his friend's free hand. Cilla stepped back, her eyes rose to meet his with an appreciative look followed by a nod.

“Go ahead, Asher. Take a sip of this. It will clear your head. Calm you down.” Brandon did not release the glass until he was sure Asher had a firm grip on it. He guided his distressed friend to the settee in front of the fireplace, a small trail of ashes drifting to the floor behind them. “Sit down. I’m sure what Priscilla says is true. Anne will be just fine. The doctor is on his way. You will know very soon. I would not be surprised if she was on her feet tomorrow.”

Brandon sat next to him, but his eyes followed Cilla as she returned to the bedside. She picked up each of Anne's wrist in turn, gingerly removing the wrappings and inspecting the damage. When she was done she leaned toward Anne.

“Anne, are you awake? Anne, it’s Priscilla. The doctor will arrive soon. Can you talk to me, Anne? Thomas is beside himself. Please wake up and tell us you're all right.”

Agnes took the rag from Anne’s forehead and placed it in the wash basin. “I’ll just get some more water, my lady. If that’s all right with you.”

“Of course, Agnes. Go have a cup of tea. I’ll stay with her until the doctor arrives.” With a light touch, Priscilla brushed the damp, blonde hairs back from Anne’s forehead.

Asher had taken a couple of gulps from his drink, shook his head, drew deeply on his cheroot, flicked ashes, then set the glass down on a nearby table. “She shouldn’t have done it, Brandon. Why would she do such a thing?”

“Asher, I'm not sure I know. I do know Anne loves attention at every level. Might she have done it for that?”

Asher’s hand trembled as he ran it through his hair again. More ashes from the burning cheroot fell to the carpet without regard. “I give her everything,” he lamented. “She has all the freedom she wants. She carries on with whomever she damn well pleases and I say nothing. Nothing! She has the clothes, the jewels, the lovers she wants. How can she need more attention? What else can I do for her?”

So he did love her. Asher let her run rampant to prove he loved her. Or, to keep from losing her. Did Anne have any idea how her husband felt about her? How did she feel about him? Was that why she played the trollop? To get his attention?

A soft groan permeated the room.

Asher flicked the spent cheroot into the hearth, jumped to his feet, ran to the bedside.

“Anne, Anne. Speak to me. Are you all right?” Asher was so desperate it was almost pathetic.

Priscilla put her hand on her brother’s arm. “Easy, Thomas. Give her a minute.”

“Asher? Asher, is that you?” Anne’s voice was a raspy murmur.

Priscilla poured a glass of water from the pitcher next to the bed. “Help her sit up, Thomas. Easy, easy. Here, Anne, have something to drink. You must be parched.”

Thomas sat down on the bed. Anne leaned back against him.

“What happened?” she asked.

Brandon was not convinced. He was sure, as sure as his title was soon to be viscount, that Anne had pulled this stunt for the sole purpose of gaining further attention.

And she was getting it.

And, just maybe, to make him feel guilty for rejecting her.

He would not put it past her. She was determined when she set her mind to a task.

Anne took the glass in pale hands, placed it against her lips and sipped. “Oh, Asher, I’m so sorry. I . . . I . . . just didn’t know what to do. I was so melancholy. I’m never happy. Never. I just wanted . . . I just wanted to end it all.” Tears trailed down her cheeks as she looked back over her shoulder to her husband.

Brandon had to give her credit, had she not been born to money and title, Anne could have had a fabulous career on the stage.

A knock came on the door. Without hesitation it opened admitting the doctor. He hurried in on stout legs with short purposeful steps, his manner concerned, his gray hair flying after him, his coat being discarded as he headed for the bed.

“What have we here? Lady Asherton? What has happened to you that I must leave a new born babe and his mother?” Asher eased his wife back against the sheets. In a few quick strides, he was shaking the doctor’s hand.

“George, I’m so glad you hurried. There’s been an accident. Anne’s been hurt. Come, check her wrists. Tell me she’ll be all right.”

Brandon rose from his seat on the settee as Cilla’s gaze met his. She stepped back silently as the doctor came to the other side of the bed. As her brother’s conversation continued with the doctor, she made an unobtrusive withdrawal.

By the time she made it to the door, Brandon had it open for her.

“Did you not tell me theirs was not a love match?” Brandon asked Cilla, as he held her elbow and led her to her rooms.

“No. She married for a greater title. Her father was a baron. Thomas needed the funds as father left little to keep the estate. He has been astute since father’s death and has rebuilt the family fortunes.”

Brandon opened her bedchamber door. “He has fallen in love with his wife.”

Cilla snapped back to look at him when he closed the door and locked it.

“No, I think not. With the way she has always carried on. The men. The clothes. The total lack of discretion.”

“Were you not listening, Cilla? He was beside himself with fear of her safety. He could not understand her actions because he felt he was giving her everything she wanted.” Brandon walked past Cilla to lean against the frame of the open French doors and looked out on the pristine grounds of the manor.

Priscilla came up behind him, placed a gentle hand on his sleeve. “He could just be concerned about the scandal, Brandon.”

“Yes, I’m sure, but it’s more than that. It was his frantic actions, the look in his eyes. He’s in love with her. I just know he is.”

“What good will it do him when Anne is oblivious and so self-centered, selfish to a fault. Except for her children, she shows no care for anyone except her own wishes.”

Brandon looked down into her face. “Just maybe all of her travails are to garner his attention. Maybe she wants him to stop her. Maybe she keeps trying something even more drastic in hopes he’ll take notice and stop her, show her he cares enough to keep her from self-destructing.”

“Could she be so desperate, Brandon, to attempt taking her own life?”

“You said yourself the slashes were not deep. It could all be a ruse to push him to his limits. She seems to be pushed to hers. She is so wretched she will not take no for an answer. Look at how she pursued me. With all the other men here she did not need to withhold her attentions from the others so she could gain mine.

“I told her persistently I was not interested, yet she would not give it up. Even this afternoon she was in my bedchamber, naked in my bed, when I returned to it. I left her there alone to come to you. Could it not be she saw my friendship with Asher differently than his others and felt he would take greater notice? Was she trying to make him jealous? Was he jealous all this time of each of her lovers and yet held his tongue so he would not lose her?”

The clock on the mantle chimed.

“I cannot think the way Anne thinks,” Cilla said. “She seems to have been raised in a family so dissimilar to ours I cannot fathom why she would go to such great lengths to keep all eyes focused upon her.” She squeezed his arm. “It’s getting late. We must dress for dinner.”

Brandon turned to face her directly, his gaze intent, his eyes dark. “We could stay in your room and dine alone.”

“Someone must see to the guests, Brandon. It’s obvious Anne and Thomas will not be able. I must act the hostess whether I wish to or not. If you would rather, you can stay in your rooms and dine there. You can return to my room later this evening if you like.” She stood on her toes to kiss his cheek then moved to turn away.

Before she could escape, Brandon wrapped his arms around her and drew her tight to his chest. As her face turned up to his again, he dropped his mouth on hers. His one hand moved to cradle her head, the other caressed her breast inciting it to swell, her nipple to tighten. The heat and passion in his kiss weakened her knees. She slid her arms around his neck to hold him closer. She would not lose these few moments they could have together.

“I will join you downstairs for dinner, my love.” He brushed his lips over hers then pulled back. With gentle hands he framed her face, locked his gaze with hers. “Then, we will return here for dessert.” He ravished her mouth again before taking his leave.

When Brandon escorted Priscilla into the dining room for dinner, there were few present. Both Dimsford and his wife, Sally, attended, as did Lady Blackston and Lord Haddon. Priscilla had no idea where Lord Blackston, Lady Haddon, Squire and Mrs. Tilden were and she refused to speculate on who was coupling with whom. Frankly, she did not care. She would not be at the table herself if either her brother or her sister-in-law could be in attendance. She imagined they were both secreted upstairs in Anne’s bedchamber.

As if dealing with Robert’s death and the complex circumstances it had created were not enough, along with her increasingly intimate feelings and desires for Brandon and her guilt of how she was using him without his knowledge, now she had to deal with the high drama her brother and his wife put upon her.

It was too much by half.

What was Anne thinking? She could have killed herself. True, the slashes were superficial but if her hand had not been steady, if someone had not come in time even with the minority of the cuts. . . .

She just did not want to think about what could have happened.

And, could Brandon be correct? Had Thomas fallen in love with his wife? In spite of her constant indiscretions? Was she carrying on so to gain his attention?

It was making her head hurt with the convolutions, inanity, and insanity of it all.

Brandon drew out her chair to the left of the one Thomas frequented. Once he made his way around the table, he settled in across from her.

Priscilla nodded to Rogers; the meal began.

As she sipped her asparagus soup, she made note of the others at the table. Though no one seemed in the mood for conversation, she met their gazes in turn and nodded in recognition. It was Dimsford who did not lift his head toward her. He sat stiff, intent upon his meal, alone, as his wife was chatting with Lord Haddon who had arrived with Lady Blackston on his arm. How the two of them would manage in bed was beyond her. There was enough extra flesh between the two of them to make a third and fourth person.

“Is there something amiss with Lord Dimsford,” she asked Brandon, lifting her white wine glass to her lips.

He looked down the table then a smirk flickered across his face. “Nothing serious, I expect. We had words earlier this morning and I made it clear he would be dueling at dawn if he should make any further lewd movements or comments to you.” Brandon chuckled. “I also told him how delighted I would be to put him out of our misery.”

“Brandon, say you did not,” Priscilla reproved him, but could not contain the smile that played upon her lips. That explained Dimsford’s look over to Brandon at luncheon before he assaulted her with yet another sexual proposition.

“I did, Lady Rutherford. And, I might add, I meant every word of it.”

Priscilla’s heart lightened slightly as she looked back down the table.

Dimsford’s wife looked back at her moments later. “Lady Rutherford, we are missing our host and hostess. Might I inquire where Lord and Lady Asherton are this evening?”

Remembering Sally and Thomas in the summerhouse in the throes of indiscreet passion, the last thing Priscilla wanted was to have to explain, no less make excuses for, her irrational family members. She looked to Brandon but he gave her no more assistance than an almost imperceptible shrug.

Stalling, she laid down her spoon and straightened her napkin on her lap. When she made to answer, the dining room door opened; her brother strolled in, his nonchalant manner so unexpected after the traumas earlier in the day she nearly gasped at the sight of him.

“Pardon my tardiness, ladies, gentlemen,” he said with a slight bow. “I am afraid my lovely wife is a little under the weather this evening and will not be joining us.”

That was putting it mildly.

Thomas pulled out his chair at the head of the table, waved for service from the footman who was already making haste, then smiled a banal smile at the small company gathered before him as he sat down.

Gathering her wits, Priscilla flashed a warm smile at him not wanting to generate further inquiries from the guests and thankful he arrived when he did, before she made any inane excuses that would be untenable later. “Thomas, how is Anne?" she asked in a quiet undertone. "What did the doctor say?”

Brandon leaned forward, interested in the response.

Thomas kept his voice low and a pleasant look upon his face. “It was as you said, Pris. The wounds were superficial. She was more in shock from having done it than from the loss of blood itself. George wanted to bleed her further, but I forbade it. What more bleeding could she need?”

“Asher,” Brandon placed his hand on his friend’s arm, “Do you have any idea what all this was about? Has Anne done something similar in the past?”

Probably to keep up appearances, Thomas maintained his serene attitude. “No, not as long as we have been married. I have no knowledge prior to that but I cannot remember ever seeing any scars. This will leave scars, no matter how faint they might be.”

“Thomas, have you talked with her? Has she said anything that would explain?” Priscilla wanted this resolved. Sooner or later she would have to leave. She would prefer to know her sister-in-law was not mad, that she would not be taking a knife to her brother, niece or nephew.

“I am letting her rest for now. I see no reason to upset her further by discussing these traumatic events. I am sure, when she is ready, she will confide in me.”

He went back to his meal, his actions and words demonstrating he had no further desire to discuss the matter.

Priscilla wanted to slap him. Would Thomas and Anne just go back to the status quo without coming to some understanding? This incident, as deplorable as it was, could change their relationship for the better if they would both discuss their feelings. Maybe it would even modify the fruitless and hurtful actions they had been engaged in for nearly eight years. Did neither of them not see that? Were they both too proud? Or just too stubborn?

God help her if she should ever put herself in such a relationship.

She looked at Brandon for assistance, comment, guidance, anything. But he just gave her another of his minimal shrugs then returned his interest to his plate.

The balance of the meal went without event. When finished, she begged off for the evening, leaving the other guests to have tea or port or return to their chambers. She guessed the men would remain for port and cigars, but she was so aggravated with male rationale she cared not if her brother smoked and drank himself to oblivion and Brandon with him.

Brandon had been of no help either.