In Your Arms Again (36 page)

His expression was wry. “I thought I did.”

Shoving her arms into her sleeves, she shot him a dirty look. “Rutting does not count.”

“Rutting?” His anger was evident. “You call what we just did rutting?”

Octavia scooped up her chemise, the open neck of her gown sagging around her shoulders. “It certainly was not lovemaking, was it? That generally requires both parties to be in love—hence the term.”

He opened his arms, his palms up. “I told you—once I know you are safe, then I will be able to give you what you want.”

What was he, deranged? “So, what? Until then you just
give me what is convenient? That is not enough. I broke promises for you, North Sheffield. I made changes and decisions that are new and sometimes a little frightening just on the hope that you might return my feelings, and now you have the gall to stand there and tell me that I need to wait even longer? I have waited twelve blasted years already!”

“Then why can you not wait a little longer? I’m not asking for a year, Vie. I just want you far out of Harker’s reach.”

She stared at him. There was something disturbing in the pale depths of his eyes. Something unfamiliar in his gaze. “You are scared.”

He nodded. “Of Harker harming you, yes.”

She shook her head, her crumpled chemise held tight against her chest. “No. You are more scared of me—of us—than you are of Harker. You are afraid that if you tell me you love me I will use it against you, or hurt you in some way. You think I will reject you like society did all those years ago.”

North paled, but he did not deny it. If he had realized it himself before this, she would be surprised. “I am socially inferior to you, we both know that.”

Scooping his shirt up off the carpet, she shoved it at him. “Obviously you are intellectually inferior as well, because that is the most stupid thing I have ever heard you say!”

His mouth thinned as he accepted the crumpled linen. “What if someday you regret your choice? You should marry a man who deserves you—a man that can give you the life you want.”

“
You
are the only man who can give me what I want!”

He gaped at her, obviously as shocked by the force of her outburst as she was.

“I want you to leave,” she told him, her voice shaking. “Come back when you have decided not to live your life based on what other people think.”

“Vie—” But she didn’t listen. She turned her back on him
and stomped toward the door. Only then did she turn to face him, her heart breaking in her chest.

“Come back then, Norrie. If you are lucky I might still be waiting.”

What did she mean she
might
be waiting? She wasn’t serious, surely. After all that had happened between them, after her ending her engagement for him, she wouldn’t toss it all aside just because she didn’t agree with him. Would she? No, he couldn’t believe she would be that foolish.

But just because he thought it was foolish, didn’t mean she would agree, North thought as the hack he was in swayed through the lighted streets of Mayfair. She hadn’t been fooling when she told him to leave. She had meant it, and she had been genuinely hurt by his refusal to tell her he loved her.

It wasn’t that he didn’t
want
to say it, but those weren’t words a man just tossed around whenever the mood struck—or at least they shouldn’t be. Such a vow was one to be taken seriously, and such a commitment should only be given when he was certain he could hold to it. It was a vow he could not make while Harker roamed the streets. He was a threat to Octavia as it was, but if he learned just how much North thought of her—if she and North were to actually try for a future together, Harker would definitely not hesitate to use Octavia as a weapon when North closed in on him.

But that was only one of the reasons that he couldn’t tell her he loved her. There were others—most of them stupid and silly. He wanted to give her time to reconsider. It wasn’t going to be easy for him to step into society—they wouldn’t readily accept him as her husband. He wanted to be certain he wasn’t going to shame or taint her. He wanted to make certain he was accepted first.

He could spend all night rhyming off reasons why he and Octavia shouldn’t be together, but it boiled down to one sim
ple thing. She had been right. He was scared. Scared that he might lose her, scared that he might not lose her. Scared she might reject him, and utterly terrified that she might not reject him. Rejection and loss he expected. What the hell would he do if she didn’t leave? There had been so little true happiness in his adult life, so few good memories since his mother’s death, the idea of experiencing such things now was more than a little daunting.

Yes, his mother had loved him. Yes, his father had loved him. But his mother had loved his father more. And his father had loved wine and whiskey first, Nell Sheffield second, their son third. As good a man as his father could be, North could never depend on him to be there when he needed him, especially not if Viscount Creed found a drink first.

So yes, it was terrifying, the thought of putting his trust in Octavia. How could he be sure she would always be there? How could he be certain that he wouldn’t end up hurt and disappointed again, with nothing to show for it but the vow to not be so stupid ever again.

He couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t be certain. What scared him the most was the thought of what might happen if he
didn’t
at least try to trust that he deserved to be happy, that he deserved to be successful and content with the hand life dealt him. His brother Devlin had found such bliss. Why couldn’t he?

Still, he had to do what he had to do. He couldn’t go to Octavia as any less than what he wanted to be. And he could not be truly happy with her if he was worried every moment that Harker might try to hurt her.

And that led him full circle back to this badly sprung carriage, stinking of sex and feeling like shite.

Christ, he needed a drink.

“North, good morning.” Brahm smiled as North entered the little area of the east parlor he liked to use as a breakfast nook. “Coffee?”

Bleary-eyed, with a tongue that felt like carpet and a head that felt like pounded granite, North nodded. “Please.”

This was the room their father often used to entertain friends, its cherrywood paneling and dark green upholstery making for a very masculine atmosphere. The shelves were still lined with leather-bound volumes, the desk gleamed with a high polish—everything was exactly as their father had left it.

Except that where there had once been a liquor cabinet, there was now a breakfast table.

In fact, Brahm looked as though he had been eating a fair bit lately—making up for all those years of surviving on little but liquid, perhaps. He looked good, better than he had in years. Dressed in a dark wine coat and buff breeches, he looked hale and hearty—the way a wealthy viscount should look.

His brother eyed North with interest as he gingerly lowered himself into one of the chairs across the table from him. “You look like shite.”

North tried to smile, but it turned out more like a grimace. “I feel like it.”

“I thought you did not like to drink.” Brahm’s tone was hesitant, as though he feared that North might have changed his mind.

“I don’t.” That was true. He didn’t like drinking at all, and despised the loss of control that came with being totally foxed. Last night, however, he had simply tried to shut himself down—stop feeling, stop thinking. He had succeeded. In fact, he couldn’t remember much of anything—not about being drunk, at least. Unfortunately, everything else had come back to him this morning with painful clarity.

If he lived to be one hundred, he would never understand what appeal drunkeness held for his father or elder brother.

Brahm passed him a cup of coffee. “Drink this. It will help.”

The coffee was strong and black as pitch, but so sugary sweet, North winced. “This stuff is awful.”

His brother simply smiled. “I know, but it works.”

It worked, no doubt, because it was so bloody awful people forgot about the pounding in their heads. “So, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?” North asked after ingesting half a cup of the awful brew.

“Your future.”

His future was bleak. Without Octavia in it, the future was nothing more than the rest of his life. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing to hope for. “Christ, I should have stayed drunk.”

Brahm chuckled. “I know you have as much interest in the topic as I do.”

Draining the rest of his coffee, North set the empty cup aside with a shudder. Brahm was right; it did seem to be helping a bit.

His brother handed him a glass of water. “Now drink this. It will help, trust me.”

It seemed bizarre to drink water for such an ailment, but if anyone knew a cure it would be Brahm.

“Is there sugar in it?” Any more sweetness and he was going to turn into a bonbon.

“Just water. It helps just as much if not more so than the coffee.”

North didn’t ask how he knew these things. It was obvious. Brahm knew because he had used them himself. North downed the water in one long gulp.

“I hope you have a chamber pot in here. I’m going to need it.”

Brahm shot him a warning glance, so very much like that their father used to favor. “You know where the water closet is.”

So he did. “All right, tell me what is so bloody important about my future that it couldn’t wait until a decent hour.”

“Why do we not start with you telling me why you look as though you have been to hell and back? You look even worse than you normally do.”

It was on the tip of North’s tongue to inform his brother that he had seen him looking far, far worse, but he didn’t. He knew just how awful his appearance was. His hair was an unruly mess and in need of a good wash. He hadn’t shaved for three days and his face itched, and he was wearing the same coat and trousers he had worn yesterday. This was disgusting, even for him.

“Octavia called off her engagement to Spinton,” he admitted with a sigh, knowing full well Brahm would not stop badgering him until he confessed all.

Dark brows arched. “I thought that would be cause to celebrate—or is that what you were doing?”

“No, I was not celebrating.” Would he look so wretched if he were truly happy? If he were celebrating, he and Octavia would still be in his bed, naked and sweaty. “She told me to stay away from her.”

“Good God.” Brahm refilled his coffee cup—no sugar this time. “What the hell did you do?”

North glared at him. Even his eyebrows hurt. “What makes you think
I
did something?”

His brother rolled his whiskey brown eyes. “You would not be so keen on self-flagellation if she were the guilty party. Besides a woman usually only tells a man to stay away if he has hurt her—badly.”

Oh, this was just what he needed! First Octavia, now Brahm. Was there anyone else who wanted to tell him just what an awful person he was?

Another sigh. “I would not tell her I loved her.”

Brows knitted in an expression of disbelief, Brahm stared at him. “Why the devil not?”

Did no one understand? He thought Brahm would. “Be
cause those are not words a man should say when he is uncertain.”

“But you are not uncertain, you great idiot.” His brother graced him with a scowl that could have peeled paint from the walls. “You have loved her since you were old enough to know what love is.”

He had? “I was infatuated with her as a boy, of course. And our friendship—”

“Oh stop.” Clearly Brahm’s patience had reached its end. “Do not insult my intelligence nor your own with insipid excuses. You love her, she loves you. Why could you not simply admit to it?”

North’s mouth opened but no sounds came out at first. He tried again. “Because I am afraid that it will not last.” There, he said it. He admitted it out loud, to someone other than the stray cat he fed in the back garden.

Buttering a piece of toast, Brahm shrugged. “Does anything?”

That was something of a cynical viewpoint, was it not? “Well, yes.” But for the life of him, he couldn’t think of what. “This house has lasted centuries.”

Brahm glanced around him. “No more than two at the very most. And it may last for two or three more, but fire could just as easily destroy it tomorrow.”

North raised his brows. And he thought
he
had a negative outlook.

Chewing his toast, Brahm swallowed and took a sip of coffee. “Look at this coat. It is a fine coat, is it not?”

North nodded. It looked expensive.

“It cost me a fair penny for this coat, but it was made by one of the best tailors in London, out of the finest wool. It will last me for years. In fact, I will probably be too fat to wear it in the near future. But as good as it is, eventually it will start to fray or moths will make a meal of it. However,
does that mean I ought not to have commissioned it in the first place, if someday it will be gone?”

North saw his point—it was perfectly clear. “Octavia is not a coat.”

Brahm smeared marmalade on another piece of toast. He was right. He would be too fat for the coat someday soon. “Of course she is not, nor is her regard for you. Love is not a tangible thing, North. One cannot predict its lifespan, but real love—true love—can last forever, I believe, or at least a lifetime, which is an amazing gift at that. Some people live their entire lives never experiencing what you have the chance to.”

How effortlessly Brahm drove his point home and then twisted it.

“And I will experience it,” he replied. “Once Harker is safely disposed of.”

“Ah yes,” Brahm’s smile was twisted. “Harker. Whatever would you do without that villain to chase? You might actually have to stop running.”

This was not helping North’s temper. “Bugger off. Harker is my concern, not yours.”

“You are quite right. My concern is for your future. You told me you were considering my offer to put you up for election in Hewbury.”

North nodded, thankful that the subject of love was forgotten for the time being. “I am.”

“I do not believe it will be any trouble to get you elected as member of Parliament. The people there know and like you and they are loyal to our family regardless. They will vote you in.”