She was afraid. She had this whole thing worked out in her bizarre little mind and couldn't bear to think that her own sister might have conspired against her. She would rather think ill of herself, blame herself rather than Lydia.
"It will change everything, Eleanor. It is not me or yourself you should mistrust, but your sister."
"I will not have you make such accusations against her, Brahm. I know she has done some rather regretful things in the past, but Lydia would never do something so devious, not after learning that we were betrothed."
So if Lydia had done this before their announcement to the family, it would have been excusable?
"Did you do this the night you found her and me together?" The question tumbled out before he could stop it. "Did you find a way to blame yourself rather than the drunk and the whore who caused you so much pain?"
She recoiled as though he had spit on her. "You will not talk of my sister in such a vulgar manner."
This was where she and he were different. Brahm would defend his brothers to the end of the earth, but he was at least able to recognize their faults.
"Forgive me." He wouldn't take the words back because he believed them, but he didn't wish to cause Eleanor pain. "You must admit, however, that all roads lead to her in this matter."
"The only thing I must realize is that you seem to want me to distrust my sister, when I see no reason.
She
was not the woman in your room."
Her jealousy was showing, as was her loyalty to her sister. She had been willing enough to believe that Lydia might have lied about his "seduction" of her years ago, but not that she might have been involved in this latest farce. Why? "Only because she knew even you would not be gullible enough to believe she and I fell into bed a second time."
She blanched. "I beg your pardon?"
Brahm winced. "Gullible" had not been a good choice. "Eleanor, she knew exactly how you would react."
She shook her head, denying until the end. "Lydia would never do this to me. Never."
Obviously there would be no persuading her. She refused to see the truth. He could strangle Lydia at that moment. How he was going to spend the rest of his life with that vicious harpy as his sister-in-law was a question he did not have the answer to.
But he wouldn't be spending the rest of his life with her as his sister-in-law— not unless Eleanor changed her mind and carried through with their engagement.
"Will you look at these letters?" He offered them once more. "You would know your sister's hand."
Her chin came up stubbornly. "No. I do not have to look to know my sister did not write those notes. I do not know who did, but does it really matter now?"
Brahm's patience was at an end. "Hell yes, it matters! Someone has deliberately tried to set us apart from one another— and it appears as though they have succeeded."
Shaking her head, Eleanor sank wearily onto the trunk at the foot of her bed. "It does not matter who is to blame for the instigation of this, Brahm. What matters is that it has made me realize some things about myself. I do not like feeling this way. I do not like knowing that I can be so small and petty, but it is there and I cannot ask you to live your life with a woman who will question everything you do."
"You will not question
everything
. And your insecurity will fade with time."
"Or it will get worse and drive us apart."
"That is a possibility," he conceded. "But it is a remote one. Eleanor, you only need to trust in us."
She wanted to believe him; he could see it in the tortured depths of her wide blue eyes. He could also see the determination there.
"But I do not trust in us, Brahm." Her voice was so hoarse and low he would not have recognized it as hers were he not standing before her, hearing it with his own ears. "You said yourself that I distrust you, and a part of me thinks you are right. But I also distrust myself. You do not deserve to be doubted by your wife."
She was right, he did not deserve that. "What about what you deserve?"
Her smile was sad. "I deserve to marry a man I do not doubt."
There it was, the final crack. In his chest, Brahm's heart fell away in shards that cut him from the inside out.
"You are right," he murmured. He could not argue with her on that point. She did deserve a man she didn't doubt, and as much as it was killing him to admit it, he knew he was not that man. He might never be that man. It didn't matter that he was mad about her, or even if she was equally as mad for him. Christ, it wouldn't even matter if they were in love. It wasn't going to work between them, not like this. And Brahm had no idea how to fix
this.
"Promise me something." He made it an order, not a request.
She jerked her head in a semblance of a nod. "Of course you will know if I change my mind."
"Thank you." That was good to hear, but it wasn't something he expected to happen. "That is not what I want you to promise me, however."
She looked surprised. Did her pride sting a little? Did she hope he would try a little harder, just once more to change her mind? He wasn't going to do it. He had his pride as well, and it was almost completely shredded to ribbons at the moment. It was all he could do not to let it dissolve completely and fling himself to his knees, begging for her to marry him.
"Promise me that if there is a child you will come to me."
If at all possible, she blanched even whiter. "I will."
He didn't need to add that she would have no other choice but to marry him in the event of a child. His heir would not be a bastard. He had seen what that kind of stigma had done to his brother North. He would raise his child and Eleanor could doubt him all she wanted, but she would be his wife regardless.
Satisfied with her promise, Brahm gave a stiff bow. "I will leave immediately."
Her mouth opened, her eyes widening as well. "You do not have to leave— "
He laughed then— bitterly, loudly, not caring if anyone heard. "Oh yes, I do. I cannot remain under this roof seeing you every day and know that you have refused me— again. Do not ask it of me Eleanor, for I will not torture myself, not even for you."
She bit her bottom lip as tears brimmed on her bottom lashes. "I am sorry."
He nodded, his own throat tightening with repressed emotion. "I am sorry too." He tossed the crumpled letters on the vanity and left her then, without taking his leave. He didn't care if it was rude. He was walking away from the only woman he had ever wanted totally and completely in his life. He had allowed her to reject him. He didn't mind saying he was sorry, because he was very, very sorry.
He'd be damned if he'd say good-bye.
* * *
He left at dawn. Eleanor watched from her window as his carriage was brought 'round and his belongings loaded on. Men were so fortunate that they didn't have to pack gowns and corsets and stockings and beauty aids. All they had were their clothes and a few toiletries.
That she was thinking of toiletries when her life was in ruins did not surprise her. She was numb from head to toe, inside and out. What else was there to think about? She was an old maid once more.
No, not a maid, though no one but she and Brahm would ever know that.
How could she stand there watching and not feel anything? She had given him her body, had offered him her heart but obviously not her trust— the very thing she should have offered first. She'd done everything backward, acting on impulse rather than rational thought. She thought she had forgiven him. Bah. She'd lied to herself as surely as she had lied to him. Forgiveness. What did she know of that?
The man had come to her trying to prove that he had changed, and she wanted to believe it so badly she talked herself into it, but she hadn't believed it, had she?
What did it matter that she realized the truth later? She could not spend the rest of her life doubting him. It would destroy their relationship, their friendship, their marriage. He deserved someone who wouldn't look at every woman as a potential threat. Someone who didn't think so little of herself that she automatically thought lowly of everyone else as well.
A soft rap fell upon her door. "Who is it?" She didn't bother to look away from the window.
"Arabella." The door opened, finally drawing Eleanor's attention. She met her sister's worried gaze. "Dearest, are you all right?"
Obviously Arabella knew Brahm was leaving, and now, looking at Eleanor, she would know that Eleanor was the reason. Of course she would want to talk. But Eleanor didn't want to talk— not now.
"I'm fine, Belle. I just need to be alone."
She'd hurt Arabella with her rejection, that was obvious, but Eleanor couldn't bring herself to feel badly about it. She would have, if she had been capable of feeling, but there was nothing in her heart.
"Later, dear," she added as a concession, knowing full well that she would desperately need her sister when the ability to feel returned.
Arabella nodded. She was obviously not pleased, but did not push.
When she was gone, Eleanor turned back to her window. A man in a greatcoat and hat left the house. It was Brahm. Even if she hadn't caught a glimpse of his cane she would have known it was he. Despite the watery light of an overcast dawn, she knew him. She would recognize him from any distance until the day she died, of that she was certain.
A footman opened the door to his carriage and held it for him. Doffing his hat, Brahm made to enter. He paused on the step and turned, looking over his shoulder and up.
Their gazes locked. She stared at him helplessly. He was leaving. She did not want him to leave. She opened her mouth to call out, to say something— anything that would keep him with her.
He turned away, but not before she saw the coldness in his eyes. He climbed inside the carriage, the door shutting after him. A few moments later the horses were spurred into motion and the coach rolled down the drive.
It seemed her heart went with it.
Was he thinking of her as the distance between them slowly grew? Did he despise her now? No, not yet. Right now he was disappointed and hurt, but he still cared for her. It would take a while— not too long, a few weeks perhaps— and then he would start to resent her. His regard for her would fade long before hers did for him. She would go back to living her sheltered, quiet life and he would go back to town where so many diversions would keep him from dwelling on thoughts of her.
She would have nothing to think of but him. Not unless she accepted the suit of one of the bachelors still slumbering in the north wing. The thought of marrying anyone but Brahm caused every part of her to rebel, but she would not be marrying Brahm. She would never marry Brahm. No matter what happened in the future, he would never renew his address, he would be a fool to propose to her three times in his life. If she were Brahm, she would never speak to her again.
Yes, her only chance at happiness now, her only chance at any kind of life, was to marry someone else and hope for the best.
At least by marrying one of these bachelors she had no hopes, no expectations. She would not care if he drank or if he took lovers. No doubt the less time they spent together, the happier she would be. She would end up like Phoebe or Muriel, or poor Lydia.
Poor Lydia. Her gaze drifted from the window, and the spot in the drive where Brahm's carriage had stood, to the wrinkled paper on her vanity. The letters Brahm had left her, the ones he claimed were written by Lydia. He had no proof, only his own suspicions. Eleanor could prove her sister's innocence simply by looking at the handwriting.
The handwriting might also prove Lydia guilty.
Eleanor turned back to the window. She caught another glimpse of the carriage as it continued down the very long lane that connected the estate to the main road.
She did not want to believe Lydia would hurt her so. She did not believe Lydia would hurt her so. There was no "want" about it. Lydia was her sister. They had suffered through their mother's death together. They had played together, leaned on each other. They would do anything for each other. They would never hurt each other, not intentionally.
No, Brahm was mistaken. He was wrong. Someone else had sent the notes. Perhaps even Lady Dumont herself had fabricated them, or Lady Merrott. Maybe one of the gentlemen had thought to play a joke— not that it was very amusing.
It did not matter who sent the notes. The notes did not matter. All that mattered was she had hurt Brahm and lied to herself. Realizing that she doubted him, that she doubted herself, was crushing, but at least she had realized it before it had a chance to ruin their marriage. Living without him would be hell, but living with him and slowly earning his disdain would be even worse.
Dear God in heaven, please let there be no child
. She would keep her promise to him if there was, but it would be so awful to marry for that reason, to have the poor child grow up in a house where there was no love. Brahm, she knew, had been raised in an environment much like that. Surely he would not wish the same for his child.
