The Bachelor Trap (11 page)

Ovid nuzzled her when she came up to him. Forrest snapped his fingers and one of the stable boys ran to get a slice of apple, which Theodora fed to the gelding, all the while murmuring words of endearment.

Thunderbolt poked her beautiful black head over her stall door and whinnied, drawing Theodora's attention away from the gelding. Laughing, Theodora went to pet her horse.

To Forrest, she said, “You seemed very cozy with the Earl of Brechin when we were looking over his stock. You're not thinking of leaving me, are you, John?”

His brows went up. “You know me better than that, milady. The earl is an interesting man to talk to. He knows, lives, and breathes horses. If he was a plain man like myself, I'd offer him a job.”

She laughed, genuinely pleased with his answer.

“Besides,” Forrest went on, “I'm too old to change my ways. I wouldn't fit in with a new master.”

And that response made her eyes sting.

She looked at Forrest, and it occurred to her, not for the first time, that he was getting older and could not be with her forever.

The thought was too painful to contemplate and she pushed it to the back of her mind.

Their first day in Longbury had tired them all out, so it came as no surprise when Phoebe went to bed without a fuss. It was a pleasant tiredness, Marion thought. The house felt like home. They now knew their neighbors, and Phoebe had found a friend.

Like Phoebe, Flora was an orphan. Half the year, she came to live with Theodora at the Priory, and the other half, she lived with another aunt outside London. According to Clarice, Theodora allowed the child to run wild while she was here.

It was an odd arrangement in Marion's opinion, but the girl seemed none the worse for it. Flora was a tomboy and just the kind of friend Phoebe needed to get her nose out of her books.

Marion and Emily spent the next little while quietly reading in front of the parlor fire. Emily was following the adventures of one of Mrs. Radcliffe's heroines and Marion tried to take an interest in the machinations of Jane Austen's Emma, but her mind kept wandering to other things—Clarice, the Priory ghost, and, for some odd reason, Hannah. Apart from her friendship with Clarice, Marion's memories remained vague.

Was it possible that Hannah had eloped? That's what she'd picked up from snatches of her parents' conversations. Entirely possible. The man, of course, would have been unsuitable, not up to Mama's or Edwina's expectations. Was that the quarrel she remembered? Poor Hannah. She must have been in desperate straits before she gave up everything—her home, her family, her place in society—to go off like that.

Maybe she thought it was worth it. Maybe she was desperately in love.

Before she could prevent it, a picture of Brand formed in her mind. He wasn't the kind of man to throw caution to the winds and elope with the woman he loved. He would think that that was the coward's way out. He would stand his ground. And the lady of his choice had better be prepared to stand with him. Marion had not known him long, but she understood that much about him.

Restless now, she set aside her book. “Ready for bed?” she asked Emily.

“More than ready. It has been an eventful day.”

While Emily went upstairs, Marion went from room to room with a candle in her hand, making sure that every window and door was locked. She was just about to extinguish the lamp on the kitchen table when she heard a tapping on the back door. Her heart leaped to her throat.

“I know you're there, Marion.” It was Brand's voice. “I saw your shadow pass in front of the window.”

She opened the door with every intention of lecturing him for giving her a fright, but when she saw him standing there, his tall frame filling the doorway, his dark hair glistening with raindrops and a crooked smile on his lips, every rational thought went out of her head except one. It could be different with him, if only…

The smile left his face. “What is it, Marion? Why do you look like that?”

Immediately alert to her danger, she said coolly, “How could you tell it was my shadow? It could just as easily have been Emily's.”

“Your profile. I'd know it anywhere.”

His careless compliment warmed her heart, but only for a moment. She had to watch her step with this man. If she wasn't careful, she'd be telling him all her secrets.

She was becoming bored with the familiar litany. All the same, it was worth repeating.

She tried to sound matter-of-fact. “What brings you here at this time of night?”

“It's only ten o'clock. And you can drop the pose. I saw from your expression that something had upset you, and I want to know what it is.”

Knowing that he would badger her until she gave him an answer, she said shortly, “I'm tired. That's all. It has been a long day. I was about to go to my bed.”

When she glanced over her shoulder toward the door to the stairs, hinting him into leaving, he seized the opportunity of stepping over the threshold, forcing her to retreat a step or two.

“It's raining out there,” he said ruefully. “We can talk more comfortably in here. Do you mind if I sit down?” He gestured to the table.

“Does it matter what I say?”

“No, because I know you don't always say what you mean.” She stiffened, but he didn't give her time to respond. “Edwina,” he said, “used to offer me a brandy when I dropped in on her of an evening, you know, just to talk things over and make sure she was all right.”

His words blunted her wrath. Brand had every reason to expect Edwina's nieces to treat him with the utmost consideration. He'd been a good friend to her aunt. Lucky, lucky Edwina, she thought, and meant it.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “we don't have any brandy.”

“Oh, you'll find a bottle in the pantry, in a crock marked ‘Barley.' It's contraband, of course, but that didn't bother Edwina. She thought it was her patriotic duty to support the smuggling trade, if only to provide a living for the smugglers' families.”

In spite of herself, Marion smiled. “And I suppose you thought it was your patriotic duty to drink my aunt's brandy?”

“Hardly. Edwina's patriotism came in small doses. A thimbleful, to be exact. I'm hoping you'll do better than that.”

She almost laughed, but she kept her lips pressed together as she crossed the room and entered the pantry. When she returned, she set the brandy bottle in front of him with a thump, along with a glass that could easily have served as a small vase.

“I do appreciate a woman with a sense of humor,” he said.

She suppressed her own smile as she took the chair next to his. “You know this is highly irregular? There are no servants here, no one to chaperon us.”

“There's Emily, and let's not forget Phoebe.”

“But they are in their beds.”

“Who is to know it? Tell you what, Marion: I won't tell anyone if you don't.”

His ability to stand his ground was beginning to annoy her. “You were about to tell me what brought you here at this ungodly hour.”

He captured her hand in a move that was so unexpected she did not think of resisting. Eyes on hers, he brushed his thumb over her fingers, then her wrist.

“I can feel your pulse,” he said. “It's beating hard and fast. Now, that tells me far more than your frowns and your shrewish words.”

She snatched her hand away. She was careful to make her words cool and impersonal. “Last chance, Mr. Hamilton, or I show you the door. What brings you here?”

He took his time before replying, pouring himself a small measure of brandy, taking a sip as he watched her with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Two reasons,” he said. “First to apologize for the behavior of my female relations this afternoon. They are atrociously outspoken. I'm surprised you didn't strangle them.”

“Don't think I wasn't tempted! On the other hand, Clarice is like a confiding child. It's impossible not to like her.”

He lifted a brow. “She doesn't confide in me. What did she tell you?”

Marion hesitated, then ventured cautiously, “That your father valued your judgment.”

“Ah. She told you that he named me as trustee of his estate?”

She inclined her head.

“Don't read too much into it. The truth is that he didn't have much choice. It was either my uncle or me, and Robert is so open-handed that Clarice and Andrew would have bankrupted the estate before he turned around.”

She was looking at him curiously.

“What?” he asked.

She shrugged. “You must have been very young for such a responsibility.”

“I was twenty-six when my father died. Clarice was twenty and my brother, Andrew, was only eleven or so.”

Now she was beginning to understand Clarice's straining at the bit. It could not be easy having a brother, who was not much older than she, controlling the purse strings.

“I'm surprised,” she said, “that your father didn't name his attorney, or a close friend.”

“He might have, but that would have meant I would have been free of him at last.” His voice had taken on a hard edge. “He has a long reach, my father.”

“We can all say that. But in your case…”

“Yes?”

She was sorry she had said so much. Shrugging helplessly, she went on, “You know him better than I. Could he have been trying to make amends?”

He swallowed a mouthful of brandy. “Some things are beyond mending. He turned his back on my mother before I was born. She wasn't a high-flier. She was a respectable, decent girl, but she had neither the fortune nor the bloodlines to tempt him. I won't bore you with the details. It's a familiar story. Suffice it to say that it was only when I became an orphan, when my grandfather died, that my father took an interest in me. And that was largely my grandmother's doing.” As if suddenly realizing that his fingers had tightened around his glass, he deliberately relaxed them. His smile flickered momentarily. “The old buzzard knew I would not refuse to pay my debt to him.”

“Your debt to him?”

He shrugged awkwardly. “He paid for my education. He made sure my grandfather's house was not sold from under me when I was a boy. I always knew I had a home I could go to. Andrew was only eleven. I did not want him to grow up to be a typical aristocrat, thinking that he was entitled to his wealth and estates. He was an orphan as I had been. It seemed the least I could do was fill the void. He is my brother.”

“Yes,” she said, “Clarice mentioned that, too. You
are
a FitzAlan. Brand FitzAlan Hamilton is your name. Whose idea was that?”

Faint color ran under his skin. “It's a long story, but believe me, it was not of my doing.”

She'd thought she'd gone too far, and color tinted her cheeks as well.

Brand dragged a hand through his hair. “You might say,” he said, “that my father put his mark on me. He had the means and the will to take me away from my mother when I was born. My grandfather had no choice but to let my father have his way. I never used the FitzAlan name until I was brought to live at the Priory.” A smile flickered and went out. “However, my grandmother never lets me forget that I'm a FitzAlan.”

She sat back in her chair, gripped by an emotion she did not understand. For the first time, she didn't see him as capable and ambitious, sure of where he was going. He seemed like a lonely, solitary figure who rarely let his guard down, even with himself.

As she sat there, staring at the harsh lines of his face, everything inside her softened. She had heard the story of his life from others, but it had not made a lasting impression. In that moment, she felt as though a blindfold had been removed from her eyes. This truly remarkable man still carried the ghosts of his past inside him.

And, oh, how she wished she could be the one to lay them to rest.

She had to resist the impulse to reach out and take his hands in a comforting clasp. Anyway, she doubted that he would allow it. She could imagine him as a small boy, picking himself up after a fight, glaring, challenging, daring the world to do its worst. He would not accept a facile sympathy.

They were becoming too cozy, too intimate. She had enough sense to steer the conversation into safer waters.

“You said that you had two reasons for coming here. What is the second?”

He considered for a moment, hesitated, then nodded, as eager as she to change the subject. “Next Thursday afternoon,” he said, “my grandmother is hosting a garden party at the Priory, an informal affair. You and your sisters are invited.”

“A garden party?” she said carefully.

“She calls it a ‘fête.' It's more like a fair.” A knowing smile touched his lips. “I can't say that my grandmother won't take the opportunity of looking you over, but that's not the purpose of this event. It's one of the traditions of Longbury, and she holds it every year. There will be quite a crush, so it's quite possible that you and I may see each other only in passing.”

A garden fête seemed harmless, and if there were plenty of people about, she could lose herself in the crowd without causing comment or speculation. Maybe she could avoid the dowager altogether.

And Brand.

“Thank you,” she said. “We shall be there.”

He studied her for a moment over the rim of his glass, drained his brandy, then set the glass down. There was an edge to his voice. “Smile, Marion. You might even enjoy yourself.”

When he got up and walked to the door, she went after him.

“Brand,” she cried, “what on earth has got into you?”

He opened the door and stepped onto the porch. She followed him out.

“Brand, what is it?”

He turned, his expression like ice. “Is it me or is it my family you want to avoid?”

She shook her head. “I just don't want people to get the wrong idea about us.”

His expression did not change. “And what idea is that?”

She lifted her shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. “That there's something between us.”

“Good God, woman, must you think that every man who pays you a little attention has designs on you?”