Kathryn Smith (8 page)

Rachel nodded. “Of course I would. Even if Braven was interested in me—and I don’t know what makes you think he is—I would never sacrifice my mother’s well-being.”

“Rachel…”

Bolting upright, Rachel grabbed her friend’s hand in a grip so tight Belinda gasped. She’d never told Belinda just how awful Sir Henry could be, or how greatly she feared for her mother.

“Belinda, I’m afraid he’s going to kill her someday.”

Belinda’s dark eyes were round with shock. “My God.”

“I have to get her away from him.” Releasing her friend’s hand, Rachel dropped her head into both her own. “I just don’t know how much longer we can wait. If we can make it until my birthday, then I’ll have enough money to pay for a divorce and take her somewhere that he’ll never hurt her again.”

“Rachel”—Belinda’s voice was filled with concern—“your mother’s safety is just one more reason to get married.”

“Married?” Rachel’s head snapped up. “Why is it reason to get married? It’s just one more obstacle in my path. How can I take my mother away if I’m leg shackled to some man?”

Sighing, Belinda reached out and took one of her hands. “A rich and powerful husband can help you protect your mother—especially if he’s titled.”

It was an idea Rachel had thought of before—back when she was younger and still could dream of being swept off her feet by a handsome prince, one who didn’t care that she had no connections or that she was the stepdaughter of one of the most despised men in the county. Long before David had taught her that young men didn’t exactly have marriage on their mind when they tried to shove their hands down a lady’s bodice.

She thought maybe word of her inheritance would get around and that she would go to London and men would fall at her feet. Sir Henry never allowed her to go to London, and he let it be known that
he
would have the deciding say in whomever she married.

There weren’t many princes to choose from in Yorkshire.

Except one who was attending Viscount Charlton’s party for a friend. Did he plan on spying on Charlton for her?

Nonsense. It was foolish to think he would go to such lengths for her. It wasn’t as though they’d been close as children, despite the friendship between their fathers. And it wasn’t as though
he
was the sheltered virgin who’d only been kissed three times in her life. He’d probably kissed hundreds of women.

Reason took hold again. “Belinda, even if I could manage to find a rich and powerful husband, which I’m not likely to do, he would have to be very powerful to keep Sir Henry from my mother. She is his wife, and as you know,
therefore his property. He is
allowed
to beat her, and I seriously doubt there is a magistrate in the county that would side against him if he tried to take her back. Divorce is the only option.”

“But—”

“And there’s not a man alive who’d want his mother-in-law living under his roof, I don’t care what you say. And there’s no saying that such a marriage wouldn’t land me in exactly the same kind of predicament my mother is in. No. I would only contemplate marriage as a last resort.” She gave a sharp nod. End of subject.

“You’re the only woman I know who has ever referred to marriage as a ‘last resort.’”

Rachel shrugged. “Most women judge marriage by what they stand to gain. I judge it by what I stand to lose.”

Smiling, Belinda shook her head. “And what do I stand to gain by my marriage?”

An answering smile curved Rachel’s own lips. “A vast fortune, a beautiful estate, and a man who cannot live without you.”

“Now you make marriage sound very appealing,” her friend remarked in an arch tone.

“It is.” Before her friend could interrupt, Rachel continued, “For you. You were lucky enough to fall in love with the man who asked for your hand.”

“And wasn’t it scandalous of me, too,” Belinda drawled, rolling her eyes, and Rachel laughed.

Belinda’s love affair with her Mr. Winchelsea had set London society on its ear, it not being used to such matches among the monied masses. It was an odd society that didn’t even blink when couples married for fortune or rank, but thought it absolutely absurd that two people might actually
love
one another.

Her laughter fading, Rachel smiled warmly at her friend. “I shall miss you when you’re gone.”

“I shall miss you, too.” Belinda’s expression turned hopeful. “You must come to visit.”

Rachel nodded. “I will.” Even though she knew she wouldn’t—couldn’t—not while she and her mother still lived under Sir Henry’s roof, and even then Belinda’s house would be the first place he’d think to look for them once they did escape.

“I bought you a little something to remember me by,” Belinda told her, picking up one of her packages and setting it in Rachel’s lap.

“You shouldn’t have.” Half-embarrassed, half-pleased, Rachel plucked at the cover of the bandbox.

“Consider it a thank-you gift for being such a good friend.”

Rachel loved surprises. It was one thing she’d never grown out of. In fact, the older she became the more she appreciated the random acts of kindness and generosity that went into a surprise.

She removed the cover. It was the rose-velvet bonnet.

“Oh, Belinda.” Touched beyond words, Rachel’s eyes burned and her throat ached. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

“You can thank me,” her friend replied with a calculating smile, “by wearing it.”

“Oh, I will. I promise.”

Belinda’s grin grew. “The next time you see Lord Braven.”

Glancing around at the many scenes of debauchery being played out before him, Brave wondered for the eighth time that evening if perhaps he shouldn’t have just stayed home. Everywhere he looked men and women were strewn about in various stages of undress, openly fondling one another. Some had enough courtesy to retire to their chambers, but few others seemed concerned that they were putting on a show for everyone else.

Or perhaps providing entertainment was their object. It
was really quite embarrassing. He didn’t want to be caught watching, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was like a terrible accident. One didn’t want to see the wreckage, but couldn’t help but look. What else was there to do? He certainly didn’t want to join in, no matter how many invitations he’d received from the women present. The idea of lying with a woman who might have already been with at least one man that evening made his skin crawl.

“You look just like you did that time Letitia made us those hideous lemon tarts,” Julian remarked, falling into the chair beside him.

Brave smiled. Five years ago, Julian’s youngest sister had wanted to impress her older brother’s friends with her culinary skills. The results had become a long-standing joke between the friends.

“They would have been delicious if she’d remembered the sugar.”

Julian shrugged. “She got it right eventually.”

A soft chuckle escaped Brave’s lips. “If she’s half as stubborn as she used to be, I’ve no doubt she now makes better tarts than your cook.”

Julian stared at him, his expression one of open curiosity. “Why are you here, Brave?”

“I was wondering when you were going to get to the point.” Brave took a sip of his port. It was excellent. Charlton certainly knew how to entertain.

“I do not have the patience for hedging that Gabriel has.”

It was on the tip of Brave’s tongue to tell Julian that Gabriel wasn’t any better at wiggling information than he was, but decided against delaying the inevitable any longer.

“I could tell you that I’m here because it’s been too long since I’ve had a woman—”

“It has been too long since you’ve had a woman.”

Brave ignored him. “But in truth, I’m here because of a friend.”

Stretching his long legs out in front of him, Julian watched the near orgy before them with artistic indifference. “Would this friend be Miss Ashton, by any chance?”

Brave started. “What makes you ask that?”

Julian pinned him with a knowing stare. “Only that you’ve talked of little but her since we ran into her earlier today. And you took the bonnet she forgot home with you.”

A frisson of discomfort ran between Brave’s shoulder blades, making him squirm in his chair.

“I was worried that if I left it at the shop, it might get misplaced.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “Please, there’s no way on this earth that anyone would mistake that shabby thing for a new hat, and I can hardly imagine any lady mourning its loss.”

“Ra—Miss Ashton is not like most ladies of your acquaintance, Jules, and I have no doubt that she will miss the bonnet. I doubt she has many others.” He thought of how fetching Rachel had looked in that pink—
rose
—velvet bonnet and wished he could have found a good excuse to buy it for her, but such a gesture would have been highly inappropriate, no matter what his motives.

Especially since even he didn’t quite understand his motives.

“Yes,” Julian agreed, a shrewd gleam in his eyes. “I can see that Miss Ashton is quite extraordinary indeed.”

Brave frowned. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Julian replied diplomatically. “But may I ask what your being here has to do with Miss Ashton?”

Normally, Brave would not share a confidence with someone else, but he knew that Julian would not repeat what he heard. Perhaps his old friend might give him some insight, or at least help him figure out why a woman he had not seen in years, and who had never been within his intimate circles, should suddenly mean so much to him now.

“Miss Ashton’s stepfather, Sir Henry Westhaver, wants her to marry Charlton.”

Julian’s jaw dropped. “He what?” Leaning over the arm of his chair, he whispered, “Does he know what kind of man Charlton is?”

With a grimace, Brave pointed to the far corner, where a heavyset man had his hand down a courtesan’s bodice. “That’s Sir Henry there.”

The poet made a moue of bad taste. “Charming. So you’re here to find out exactly what kind of man Charlton is, or to try talking sense to the stepfather?”

“I’m not sure,” Brave replied. “I don’t imagine either will do much good. Sir Henry obviously knows what he’s dealing with, and since he appears to be cut from the same cloth, I doubt there is much chance of changing his mind.”

“Miss Ashton can always refuse to marry Charlton.”

Brave nodded. “For all the good it might do her.” He was fairly certain refusing would get Rachel nowhere.

Julian’s expression was one of polite disinterest, but Brave knew better than to accept it as such. “And what help can you possibly be to Miss Ashton if Sir Henry does try to force the marriage?”

“I don’t know,” Brave’s voice was wrought with frustration. “But I will do all that I can to help her.”

“Why?”

Brave thought for a moment. “Because it is the right thing to do.”

“For whom? Is it the right thing to do for Miss Ashton because you’ll save her from marrying a degenerate, or right for you because you’ll feel better for not having been able to save my sister?”

Scowling, Brave leaned toward his friend. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh stop scowling.” Julian took a drink. “And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Perhaps you should explain so I don’t hit you for the wrong reason.”

Julian laughed at that. “You’ve never hit me in your life.”

Brave’s anger faded a bit. “I could start.”

Meeting his gaze evenly, Julian’s smile was sympathetic. “Brave, I know your…problems after Miranda’s death stem from the fact that you were unable to prevent it.”

He made it sound so pathetic. “And just how do you know that?”

Julian’s smile faded. “Because I felt the same way. Only as her brother, I was able to see my way clear of it.”

“I loved her,” Brave announced bitterly. “I should have been able to help her. Instead, I turned my back on her.”

“Brave, she didn’t want your love, and she didn’t want your help. There was nothing you could have done.”

But she had wanted Brave’s help. She’d begged for it, in fact. And he hadn’t given it to her.

It was the first time they’d spoken of Miranda’s death since he and Gabriel had talked him into seeing Phelps. Talking about it didn’t hurt like it used to, and Brave wasn’t sure how he felt about that. It should hurt. He deserved to hurt.

He had loved Miranda and wanted to marry her, but she was in love with someone else—a groom on her parents’ estate. The young man was dismissed, and when Miranda realized she was carrying her lover’s child, she came to Brave for help, and he, too caught up in his own hurt, had refused. Miranda killed herself rather than face disgrace.

Brave could accept that she hadn’t loved him; what he couldn’t accept was that he had been responsible for her death. He could have married her so the child could have a name, but he’d been so hurt by her earlier refusal that he’d lashed out and rejected her. Instead of giving her his help, he’d helped fish her body out of the pond she’d drowned herself in.

He could have prevented the whole thing.

And if he could do anything to prevent Rachel from having to marry Charlton, he would.

“Would you let a young woman marry something like
that
”—he pointed to where Charlton was sprawled on a sofa with his face buried in one woman’s bosom, his hand up the skirts of another—“if you could possibly stop it?”

“Of course not, but I would also make certain I was clear as to my reasons for doing it.”

“Protecting her from a lecher isn’t good enough for you?” Brave demanded mockingly.

Julian rose to his feet. “If I’m protecting her from a lecher out of the kindness of my heart, that’s one thing, but if I’m protecting her because I have a personal interest in her, that’s quite another. I would want to be very certain of what I was doing before someone else decided she needed to be protected from me. Now, I’m going to fetch another drink. Care to join me?”

Brave glanced up. “Will you stop talking?” He didn’t even want to think about what his friend had just said, because then he’d have to question himself and his motives toward Rachel, and that was something he just wasn’t prepared to do.