Or perhaps Lord Taylor was simply being rude. Regardless, it didn't flatter him. Of course, if the poor man had been cordial, that wouldn't have painted him in a better light either.
Leaning to his right, Brahm slipped his cane between their chairs, letting it fall onto the grass. The movement brought his shoulder against hers, his sandalwood-scented hair dangerously close to brushing her face. Even as she froze, trying to shrink in her chair so as not to touch him, Eleanor inhaled a deep breath, drawing him into her lungs. Was she so starved for male companionship that she would react so basely to any man, or was Brahm Ryland special?
Please, God, let it be that I am simply starved for companionship.
He mumbled something as he straightened, something that sounded like "strawberry." She had used strawberry cream on her skin that morning, along with a dollop of specially made perfume of the same scent.
"Does my perfume offend you, Lord Creed?" she asked softly, haughtily. The others at their table were engaged in their own conversations as they waited to be served by the footmen carrying trays of food from the house.
He turned his head toward her. He truly was a handsome man. Too bad he was such a cad. She might have loved him if his insides had been as lovely as his outside.
"Not in the least," he replied in his low, smooth voice. "You smell exactly as I remember— like wild strawberries on a hot summer day."
It was an innocent enough description, but the sound of the words on his tongue brought a wave of heat washing over Eleanor. How could she despise him for humiliating her as he had and still find him so attractive? Was it some kind of weakness on her part, or was it simply an example of his seductive power over women?
She didn't know how to respond, so she didn't. She simply reached for her glass of lemonade and took a sip, hoping the tart drink would cool the flush under her skin.
He didn't speak to her again during the meal. In fact he didn't speak much at all, save when conversation was directed at him. Occasionally his knee bumped hers under the table, sending her heart into a cacophony of beats that surely could be heard in Scotland. What was wrong with her? It had to be her nerves. She didn't know his reasons for accepting her father's invitation. She didn't know what game he intended to play with her— if he played one at all.
Dessert was bowls of fresh, ripe berries covered in rich, sweet cream. It was then that Brahm broke his self-imposed silence. Dipping his spoon into the bowl, he retrieved a lush, red strawberry. Beads of cream dotted its shiny surface. Eleanor watched, unable to look away, as he lifted the spoon to his mouth. He popped the berry in whole, biting into its sweet flesh with such an expression of satisfaction that Eleanor was ashamed to look, but look she did. Her gaze was fixed on his lips, where a tiny drop of cream threatened to drip away until his tongue flicked out and caught it.
Eleanor shivered.
Returning his spoon to the bowl, Brahm cast her a slow glance, accompanied by a smile that might have been apologetic if it hadn't looked so blasted mocking. "Strawberries are my favorite."
Eleanor's attention whipped back to her own bowl, where she intentionally avoided the strawberries. Tomorrow she would use the rose water instead of her berry scent.
It might be worth the experiment just to see if roses then became the viscount's favorite flower.
Perhaps she was being unfair, but he deserved no more from her— and it was far safer than imagining him devouring her as he devoured that strawberry, for that was the image his words conjured.
No doubt that was his intention.
When the meal was finally over, Eleanor was all too glad to be given the opportunity to finally escape. She was stiff from holding herself so far away from him during luncheon, and she was beginning to develop a pounding in her temples that had nothing to do with the heat.
Brahm followed her to her feet. Even with his cane for support, he was unsteady on the uneven ground. Eleanor reached out to assist him. It was either that or let him fall, and even she wasn't that cruel.
He moved his feet, seemingly shifting his weight to his good leg while stretching the other. No doubt his leg was balking at carrying him after resting for so long.
Brahm's face pinched a bit as he slowly levered some of his bulk onto the injured limb. The skin between his brows furrowed with the effort. Despite her better judgment, Eleanor couldn't help but feel for him. The pain must be unbearable at times.
A self-conscious chuckle escaped him as he slowly pulled free of her hold. Reluctantly Eleanor let him go. If he fell, she didn't think she could catch him.
"We are in for rain, I believe," he remarked, taking a tentative step away from the table.
Eleanor raised a brow. So much for thanking her for her assistance. Had that much pride, did he? "You can predict the weather, can you?"
The grin he flashed her was meant to be careless, perhaps even roguish, but it was too uncertain to succeed. "Did you not know that about me?"
She could have walked away from him then, but she didn't. Instead she fell into step beside him, silently lending him whatever support she might offer until they reached the house. "I imagine there are a great many things I do not know about you."
"It is unfortunate that we never had the chance to rectify that."
She shrugged, her gaze fixed on the house rather than the man beside her. She had forgotten how tall he was. "Or fortunate, depending on how you look at it."
He was walking more easily now. "Yes, I suppose so."
Silence lingered until they were almost at the steps leading to the house. He stopped, and she didn't hesitate to come to a halt as well. Lifting her gaze to his, she waited for him to speak. How strangely calm she was now that he wasn't so close. She wasn't expecting the words that came so softly out of his mouth.
"I do not expect you to accept any apology I might make. I know I can never make right what happened, but I want you to know that I am truly sorry for any hurt I might have caused you. Injuring you was the last thing I wanted to do."
Was he jesting? He couldn't possibly be
that
dense, could he? "Surely you must have realized I would have been injured by…what you did."
His gaze was remorseful, but candid all the same. "I was beyond realization, Ellie, and far too foxed to separate reality from imagination."
It may not have been the prettiest of answers, but it certainly sounded honest. The familiar shortening of her name only added to her confusion.
"Reality from imagination?" She was certain she wanted the answer, as part of her already suspected what it would be, but she needed to hear it all the same.
His gaze was frank, without a hint of embarrassment. "Who was actually in my bed versus who I wanted it to be."
Eleanor flushed to the roots of her hair as she turned and began walking once more. Brahm followed silently, and Eleanor was glad he did not try to speak again. Her mind was already overwhelmed by what he had said to her that afternoon.
Did he mean for her to believe that he had pretended Lydia was she that night, or had he actually believed it to be so? Or was this confession simply scandalous words from a smooth-tongued devil who sought to toy with her affections once more?
And more importantly, which of the three did she wish was true?
Chapter 4
B
rahm wasn't about to allow Eleanor to resume ignoring him— not after his minor victory at luncheon.
It wasn't much to crow over, but he saw a flicker of uncertainty in her gaze when he told her how drunk he had been the night he bedded her sister, and he saw the concern in her eyes when he almost stumbled because of his leg. Finally that damn injury had come in handy. Any embarrassment at having her see him weakened was a pittance when faced with the idea that she might actually soften toward him. He hadn't expected her to give him a chance quite so quickly, nor was he willing to give up said chance now that it had presented itself.
He had been seated too far away from her at dinner to talk to her, and now he was in the drawing room making small talk with those who would speak to him while he waited for the right time to approach her.
Perhaps "small talk" was not quite the right phrase. "Interrogation" might be a better term. It was an awful thing, being notorious. It gave people all kinds of strange thoughts as to one's character. Oddly enough, it seemed to give rise to the notion that he was some kind of exotic creature, rare and exciting. If they only knew just how utterly boring he was.
It also gave people the sense that they could ask whatever they pleased, tossing propriety to the wind.
"Is it true that you killed a man, Lord Creed?"
Brahm's heart stopped dead. For one split second he thought the man referred to his father. Rationally Brahm knew that he could not have prevented his father's death. If it hadn't happened that night while they were thoroughly foxed and wild, it would have happened some other night. Still, a voice persisted that surely he could have done
something
to prevent the accident.
"I beg your pardon?" The man asking was one of the bachelors invited to vie for Eleanor's hand— a dandyish sort whose name escaped Brahm. If the fool was trying to irk him, then Brahm wanted to force him into explaining himself. Explanations were so very wonderful for making people look as foolish as they deserved.
But the fop didn't look chastised at all. "I heard that you killed a dastardly criminal in defense of your brother. Is it true?"
Oh
that
. Yes, that was true. He had shot a man who threatened his brother North. "I believe the gossips to have greatly exaggerated my part in that intrigue." He could have boasted of his involvement, but his brothers were more deserving of a hero's laurels than he. He never aspired to such acclaim. Besides, all he had done was rid the world of one vermin. Aside from preventing any harm from befalling North, he hadn't done anything more special than killing a rat.
He was saved from any further questions by a footman offering refreshment. "Champagne, my lord?"
Brahm shook his head. "Thank you, no." It was easy enough to resist. He'd never cared much for champagne.
"Perhaps you would prefer something stronger?" the dandy suggested, craning his neck to glance toward a sideboard near the back wall. "I've a mind for a whiskey. What say you?"
At the mere mention of the word, Brahm's mouth seemed to leap to life. He could almost taste the bitter smoothness on his tongue, the gentle burn as the whiskey slid down his throat. He could smell it, could feel the tension draining from his muscles as the liquor worked its potent magic.
Christ yes, he would prefer something stronger.
A tiny trace of moisture beaded along his hairline. He could do this. He was stronger than the craving.
"No," he said, sharper and louder than he intended. Many of the guests turned to see what had caused his outburst. "Thank you."
The fop obviously did not know when to stop. "Bourbon then?"
Brahm gritted his teeth. Bourbon would be delicious. "I appreciate the offer but I no longer imbibe."
It seemed that the second he finished speaking, the entire room fell silent. Gazes fell upon him like blossoms shaken from a tree. Some were surprised, some were pleased, and some were disbelieving. A few even voiced their support of the decision, congratulating him as though he had achieved some great feat.
He didn't care what the other guests thought of him, however. He didn't care what Eleanor's sisters thought. Praise was always appreciated, even if it was unwanted and unnecessary, but it wasn't as though he based his own sense of self on it. He cared for the reaction of one person and one person alone. His gaze found her easily, watching him from a short distance away, a glass of champagne in her hand.
Eleanor's normally smooth brow was puckered as she gazed at him with an expression he couldn't quite decipher before she looked away. Did she believe him? Was she now entertaining the idea that he might have indeed changed?
Why her opinion mattered so much was a mystery. Why he craved her forgiveness so badly he couldn't fathom. He didn't care if anyone else in this room believed that he was a changed man; only Eleanor's belief in him signified.
The dandy— Lord Faulkner was his name, now he remembered— was not to be satisfied. He gave a low chuckle, as though he thought Brahm had just told an amusing joke.
"Surely you can have one drink," he insisted. "One glass of bourbon never hurt anyone."
It was harmful enough to the man who had never been able to stop at just one.
Brahm shook his head. The stares were starting to weigh on him. "I cannot."
It was humiliating, admitting that he dared not have even one glass. Here he sat, among these people, many who knew just what a bastard he could be when deep in his cups, admitting that he was not strong enough to resist temptation. It was debasing to have so many see his weakness.
