"Of course." In actuality, he hadn't. He did now, however. He had thought only of what seeing Eleanor again meant to him, not what it might mean to her. Were the situation reversed, he would not be so keen to reunite with a woman who claimed to want to marry him and then frigged his brother.
But if she wasn't open to the meeting, why had he received an invitation? She was mistress in her father's house; the servants listened to her. She planned everything that went on in that house, from menial daily tasks to the grandest parties. She had to know he was invited. Hell, she had to have issued the invitation. Hadn't she?
Wynthrope eyed him curiously, his blue eyes unreadable. "Be careful, brother."
It was a warning in every sense of the word, but Brahm's throat tightened with emotion at the sentiment behind it. "Of course," he repeated. He could be nothing else. He was always careful when sober. It was only when drunk that he was reckless.
Reckless enough to piss in a punch bowl. Reckless enough to allow his father, the former viscount, to enter a carriage race that led to his death— and Brahm's limp. And apparently reckless enough to sleep with his betrothed's sister. He mentally shook his head at that one. Of all the things he had done— remembered and not— injuring Eleanor was the one he regretted most, outside of his father's death.
Wynthrope rose to his feet. "Then I shall leave you to your preparations."
Brahm watched his brother. Wynthrope was so elegant, so thoroughly cool and composed. There had been a time when he thought his brother made of ice, but then Wynthrope had met Moira, and the ice melted. Brahm knew, even if his brother would never want it acknowledged, that Wynthrope ran much deeper than he appeared.
"I will be fine, Wyn," he heard himself assure the younger man.
He was pinned to his chair by a simple, plaintive gaze. "If you find yourself in trouble— any kind of trouble— send for me. I will come for you."
Again Brahm's throat tightened. Wynthrope meant liquor, he was certain of it. "I will. Thank you."
Wynthrope only nodded and took his leave. Brahm sat there at the desk for a long time after his brother was gone, staring at the portrait of his father that hung above the fireplace.
Of all his father's sons, he was the most like the former viscount. He alone had developed the same vices, perhaps even the same virtues. He had his father's dark hair, the same nose and chin. In one respect, however, he was very much different from the man who sired him. He would never, never marry a woman he did not love simply to increase his fortune and beget heirs. He would not relegate the woman he adored to mistress and allow one of his sons to be born a bastard, as Brahm's brother North had been.
No. Brahm would marry the woman he loved, or he would not marry at all. As the years went on, he began to think the latter would be his fate. But now…Now he might have been given a second chance, and he'd be damned if he'd let it pass him by. He was going to accept this invitation. He would go to Burrough's estate and he would confront Eleanor. He would do whatever was necessary to force her to listen to his apology, to prove to her that he was a changed man. And then he would discover whether her opinion of him had changed. Beyond that, he dared not speculate. There could be no predicting what his reaction would be to her, or if either of them would find anything appealing in the other.
All he dared hoped was that if she didn't accept that he had changed, he might be able to finally put her in the past where she belonged. That he would stop thinking of what could have been and start concentrating on what was. She was the last person to whom he wished to make amends. After that, he would truly have a fresh lease on life.
Yes, his future and the path it would take relied almost entirely on Eleanor Durbane and her forgiveness. If he still drank it would be a sobering thought.
What was she like now? He knew from the few times he had seen her over the years that she had maintained her looks, maturing into a beauty even more heartbreaking than in her youth. She had never married. Was she bitter? Had he ruined her for other men? Somehow he couldn't bring himself to feel much remorse at the thought. What would his reaction be to her after all these years? Would she still fill his heart with joy? Would she still make him want to be everything she desired?
More importantly, he wondered what her reaction would be when she saw him. Would she be pleased? Or would she want his head on a platter?
Chances were he wouldn't be lucky enough to achieve either.
* * *
"I must be stark raving mad."
Across the parlor, her sister Arabella looked up from her needlepoint. "What was that, dearest?"
Good Lord, she hadn't said that aloud, had she? Eleanor's cheeks warmed as she met her sister's pale gaze.
"Sorry, Belle. I pricked my finger." That was such a lie. Her own needlework hadn't been touched in almost half an hour. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy stitchery, normally she did very much. She had finished numerous projects, and each had given her a great amount of pleasure and peace in her life. Sometimes the days were so long, she needed something to pass the hours, such as the needlework in her hands.
But her task did nothing to take her mind off the fact that she was two-and-thirty and well and good on her way to becoming a spinster. And if by chance her mind did stray to thoughts of spinsterhood, she needed something to keep it from straying to the fact that she could be Lady Creed right now, if only she hadn't gone to Brahm's room that night…
But she wouldn't think of that awful night, not now. Not with Arabella watching her. Because Arabella did not know that the one man Eleanor had ever entertained thoughts of marrying had bedded their sister Lydia. In fact, to Eleanor's knowledge, even Lydia didn't know that Eleanor had seen her in bed with Brahm. Lydia never would have done what she did— oh, what she did!— if she had known of Brahm's proposal to Eleanor. What sister would?
At times Eleanor rather wished her sister had confessed to her. It would have made forgiving her a little bit easier, would have made her resentment a little easier to live with. But Lydia never said a word.
And truth be told, Eleanor sometimes wondered if her sister even cared. Did Lydia ever wonder if maybe Eleanor knew about her and Brahm? Did Lydia make a habit of betraying her husband, or had Brahm truly seduced an innocent woman?
She knew for a fact that Brahm Ryland rarely had to stoop to seduction. Women used to flock to him like flies to manure. Even now, with his tarnished reputation, he was reported to have his share of feminine attention.
Well, there were obviously a lot of women in England with a total lack of morals and taste.
"Ellie?"
Eleanor's head jerked up. Arabella was watching her with a sympathetic smile on her face. "What has you so distracted?"
Feigning surprise, Eleanor laughed— it sounded sharp and disjointed in her ears. "Distracted? Why would you believe me distracted?"
Arabella nodded at the needlework sliding off Eleanor's lap. "Because you have been staring into space for a full five minutes."
Eleanor knew when she was caught. Only Arabella would notice that she was out of sorts. Lydia and their other sisters, Muriel and Phoebe, were usually too busy with their own lives to have an interest in anyone else's. Arabella was different. Arabella was happy with her life, her husband, and her situation. The others— including Eleanor herself— often were too distracted by their own problems to have an interest in another.
Surely Eleanor had to take some responsibility for that. After the death of their mother, she had practically raised her four younger sisters. If their lives had turned out less than what they had hoped for, couldn't they blame her for some of it?
"So," Arabella prodded when Eleanor remained silent. "What has you so addled? Is it this party of Papa's?"
Unfortunately, Arabella's attention to others often led to her noticing things better left alone.
Eleanor sighed. "Yes." She dropped her needlework into the basket at her feet. "He is determined to marry me off."
Her sister's smile was patient. She spared a glance at her canvas as she slipped her needle through it. "You sound so very displeased at the prospect."
She was. She had only agreed to it because their father was ill and she didn't want to upset him. "I do not need help finding a husband."
Arabella shrugged. "You never leave the house. Obviously, if you are to find a husband, you need him to be brought to you."
"I leave the house!" Even as she protested, Eleanor knew there was little point. She didn't leave the estate that often. She went to church on Sunday mornings, to the village once in a while for thread or ribbon. It was only during the Season that she traveled, and even then it was only to London. She didn't even socialize much while she was there, not now that all her younger sisters were married and there was no need for her to play chaperone.
The truth was, she didn't go out much in London anymore because Brahm was becoming more and more of a fixture among the
ton
. His reputation wasn't as black as it once was, rather a dark shade of gray. Some hostesses even thought him fashionable— and the sight of him proved to be more than Eleanor's bitter heart could bear.
"He invited so many bachelors, Belle." She couldn't keep the whine from her voice. "Everyone is sure to guess why. Our guests will all know that he's trying to sell me off like a broodmare at market."
Arabella's flaxen brows knitted in a fierce frown. "What an awful thing to accuse Papa of! He is not trying to
sell
you to anyone! He simply wants to know that you are looked after in the event of his death."
How could her sister speak so matter-of-factly about the fact that their father would one day die? Maybe it was because Eleanor had spent more time with him, had seen him be so dependent on her after her mother's death, that the idea of losing her papa brought a hard lump to her throat.
She refused to feel guilty. "I will be looked after. My inheritance will ensure that I never want for anything."
Inheritance
, it had such a nice ring to it. Much nicer than,
unused dowry
.
"It is not the same," her sister admonished. "A lady needs a gentleman to look after her, to share her life with. It is a woman's duty to provide her husband with companionship and children."
Eleanor stared at her. Arabella truly believed that. More importantly, Arabella
lived
it. It was what she wanted, and she had it with her husband. They were expecting their first child, and were one of the happiest couples Eleanor had ever seen. They rarely quarreled, and when they did, it made both of them miserable. They were partners, which was an oddity in itself among their set.
God, how Eleanor envied her sister. She envied her even though she often didn't understand her. Maybe Arabella had turned out so different because she was only two years younger than Eleanor. Arabella remembered their mother better than the other three. Eleanor had been twelve when her mother died. Arabella had been ten, Lydia seven, Phoebe four and Muriel a mere year. Arabella had enjoyed their mother's influence. She even looked the most like her.
Caroline Durbane had been a lovely, graceful woman with pale blond hair and pale blue eyes. Only Arabella was just as fair, just as lovely. The rest of them had darker hair. Eleanor and Lydia shared the same shade of dark and light blond mixed. Phoebe was a brunette, and Muriel's hair was honey gold.
But why was she thinking about her sisters when she should be contemplating a way out of this mess her father had gotten her into?
She agreed to the house party because he wanted it— and the truth was, she was terrified he was dying. She'd walk to London barefoot if she thought it would keep him with her longer. Odd how she couldn't bear to lose him, even though she sometimes felt suffocated by him.
But then she learned that he was inviting unmarried men to the party. There would be several bachelors living under their roof for the next month, bachelors invited with the hope that one of them would propose to Eleanor— and that she would accept.
A broodmare at market, indeed.
She had taken over the responsibilities of running an estate at an age when most girls developed crushes on their dance instructors. She had raised her sisters— granted, she might not have done such a fine job of it. And she had cared for their father. Where had anyone, particularly Papa, gotten the idea that she needed a husband to look after her?
She didn't
need
anyone. Yes, it was true that she sometimes thought it would be nice to have someone to lean on, but that didn't mean she needed a husband. It simply meant she needed…someone to lean on.
And she certainly didn't need a husband from her father's list of potentials. Lord only knew the kind of men he had chosen to show her off to. It had been he who had brought Brahm Ryland into their house all those years ago, and look where
that
had gotten her.
"…your attention."
