The Bachelor Trap (14 page)

“What is it?”

“Brandy.”

Grim-faced, he stood over her and held the flask to her lips. She choked on the first swallow but that did not deter him. He kept the flask to her lips until she drank deeply.

He sat on the banquette beside her and stoppered the flask. “Feeling better?”

She nodded. At least she'd stopped shivering. She felt awkward, remembering their last encounter, and she wondered whether to apologize or let sleeping dogs lie. The flint in his eyes showed that he had not forgiven her.

“I suppose,” she said, “I should get back to my friends.”

“You won't find Mr. Lewis. He left when the rain started.”

“Who?” For a moment she was stymied.

“You've forgotten him already? Now that surprises me. You seemed to be hanging on his every word.”

A moment before, the last thing she'd wanted was to quarrel with him. Now she quivered in indignation. “Mr. Lewis,” she said, “is a fund of knowledge. He was telling me about the battle and what would happen next.”

“Balderdash! All you had to do was watch the field.” He spoke slowly now, as though he were instructing an ignorant child. “That's why we reenact the battle, so people can see what happened.”

Her nostrils pinched. “You call that a battle? It was nothing but a barroom brawl. You were lucky the magistrate wasn't there, or the constable. They would have soon clapped you in irons.”

“The magistrate,” he replied tersely, “was one of the Cavaliers, and Constable Hinchley was my second-in-command.”

That gave her pause for thought. “That doesn't make it right,” she said finally. “It was still a disgusting display of masculine aggression.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “What's really going on, Marion? Are you pouting because you lost your latest flirt?”

She showed him her teeth. “You're a fine one to talk. I couldn't turn around but there was another lady hanging on your arm. You're not very discriminating, are you? Blondes, redheads—they're all the same to you.”

His lips began to twitch. “Don't forget the brunettes.”

“How could I? There were three of them.”

He put his hand over his heart. “Marion, you unman me. I didn't know you cared.”

With a snort of derision, she reached for the door handle. He grasped her wrist, preventing her escape. He was still amused but not, she thought, gloating. She stopped struggling.

“Those ladies who were hanging on my arm,” he said, “have husbands or fathers who wield influence. Their votes count. What do you think I've been doing this last week but visiting constituents to persuade them to vote for whoever wins my party's nomination? It's hard work. I'm not leading anyone on. I make it clear from the outset that all I'm interested in is winning votes.”

“And only men can vote.”

“Precisely.”

“Mrs. Chandos doesn't have a husband or a father,” she said, pointing out a flaw in his logic.

“Ah.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “The barracuda. You may have noticed that my good friend, Tommy Ruddle, entered on cue and rescued me from her ferocious jaws?”

She remembered the voluble gentleman who wouldn't take no for an answer.

“That was your friend?”

“He was when he agreed to do me a favor. Whether he is still my friend remains to be seen. It's not easy to shake off a barracuda, and man-eaters are insatiable.”

“Then you've nothing to worry about. Mr. Lewis rescued your friend from the barracuda.”

“In that case, I shall try to think well of him.”

A heartbeat of silence went by. “Marion,” he said, “did I hear aright? Out on the field, were you cheering for the Roundheads?”

“No.”

His expression hardened. “My mistake. I'm sorry I asked.”

“I was cheering for
you
.”

Their eyes locked.

A tightness in her throat made her voice hoarse. “Brand, I have an apology to make. I let you believe that I thought you were beneath me, that I was too good for you. I'm sorry. It's not true. I don't think that way at all.”

His smile flickered and died. “I know,” he murmured softly.

“How do you know?”

“Because I know you.”

He picked up her hand and traced the lines on it with the pad of his thumb. When she gave an involuntary shiver, he looked up. “That doesn't mean you don't confuse me. Sometimes your words say one thing and your eyes say another. I believe what I read in your eyes.”

When she didn't respond, he gave an odd little sigh and lowered his lips to hers. “This is what your eyes are telling me.”

His kiss was as gentle and unthreatening as the first time he'd kissed her, but her response was far different. She wrapped her arms around him and held on tight. Her heart ached with all the feelings she had forced herself to suppress. She knew him so well. What she felt wasn't romantic love. He was no Prince Charming and she was no starry-eyed debutante. But she cared. She wanted him to know that, present or absent, she would always care.

Brand brushed his mouth against hers, hardly able to believe the feelings she aroused in him. He was no stranger to passion or to the pleasure he could give to and take from a woman's body, but this was different. This was Marion. He didn't want to tumble her in a coach like some streetwalker he'd picked up in Vauxhall Gardens. That wasn't his style. Marion deserved…He was distracted by the tip of her tongue probing between his lips, so he started over. Marion…

Oh, God, he couldn't argue against nature. She was receptive, and he had wanted her for a long, long time, long before Fanny had introduced them in her drawing room, long before London, long before he knew of her existence. It seemed as though he had been waiting for her half his life.

When he cupped one breast and kissed her through the thin fabric of her gown, a wave of heat swept through her, making her go weak with need. She was dazed by the power of that kiss. She willed her pounding heart to slow down but it wouldn't obey. Her small sound of protest turned into a helpless whimper.

That involuntary pleasure sound almost broke Brand's control. He was stunned by her response, stunned and exalted. He dragged her onto his lap and clamped his arms around her small, trembling body. He kissed her until they were both breathless. He kissed her until she was as reckless with passion as he.
More,
her kisses told him.
More,
her body told him as she pressed her soft breasts against the hard wall of his chest.

His cloak was in the way, so he tugged it from her shoulders. She responded by twining her arms around his neck and kissing his eyes, his cheeks, his throat. He laughed in sheer masculine exaltation.

“What are you feeling?” he whispered.

She felt as though she wanted to stay here forever, wrapped in his arms, in this small snug sanctuary, shut off from all her fears and troubles.

“I feel—free,” she said, and smiled drowsily. “Brand, don't stop. Please don't stop.”

He couldn't believe his ears. He couldn't believe that he'd allowed things to go so far. He had to stop.

When he took Lady Marion Dane to his bed, it would be with all the pomp and circumstance befitting a gently bred girl.

He looked out the window. Thank God, they had arrived at the Priory.

Suddenly, she found herself lifted and set down on the opposite banquette. Her bottom lip trembled. “Brand?”

He draped his cloak around her shoulders and grinned down at her. “We've arrived, Marion. Better tidy yourself before we meet the others.” He shoved her bonnet on her head and eyed her dubiously. “I'm sure Clarice would be more than happy to lend you a gown.” He kissed her swiftly. “Don't look so stricken. It was only a kiss.”

With that, he opened the carriage door and jumped down. Marion looked out the window. The great portal of the Priory was lit up by a blaze of wall torches. There were people standing around on the steps, some in small groups, greeting each other before they entered the house.

She looked down at her gown. It was practically transparent, and clung to her in all the wrong places. She couldn't meet all these people looking like this.

Manley opened the carriage door. When he handed her down, his eyes widened momentarily then were instantly blank. She wished the ground would open and swallow her up.

She saw a group of men surround Brand and clap him on the shoulder. Oh, God, what had she done? What should she do? What could she do?

Brand was calling her over. She was in no state to meet his friends. They would take one look at her and they would
know
!

Know what? It was only a kiss. Isn't that what he'd told her? Embarrassed, and just a little bit hurt, she turned her back on Brand and his friends and spoke to Manley. “Tell Mr. Hamilton I've gone home to change my gown.”

“I'll take you in the carriage, my lady.”

“No. The walk will do me good.”

She did not wait to argue the point, but turned aside and made for the shrubbery at the edge of the turf. As soon as she was out of sight, she ran like a wild thing.

Brand had seen her go. “Marion!” he shouted. He left his friends and went to Manley. “What happened?” he asked.

“Lady Marion has gone home to change her clothes.”

“Hell and damnation!” Anger and alarm roughened Brand's voice. “Drive the coach to her house. I'll meet you there.”

He sprinted after Marion, cursing under his breath. Why hadn't she taken the carriage? They were both too old to go romping through the woods. Why did she always have to make things difficult?

As she ran full tilt through the underbrush, it came to her that this wasn't the first time she'd come this way. She didn't hesitate or have to think about where she was going. This was where Clarice and she had played as children. Aunt Edwina's cottage was halfway down the hill.

She burst into a clearing and came to a sudden halt. The light was fading and she blinked rapidly as she tried to get her bearings. Of course—this was where she and Clarice had lain in wait for their ghost to appear. There was nothing here but broken-down walls and, towering above them, the stone pulpit. The broken-down walls, as she remembered, were all that was left of the abbot's house.

She ran on. Something was different. This wasn't how she remembered it. Something was missing.

What did it matter? She had more important things to worry about. What was she going to do about Brand? What could she say to him after the way she had behaved in the carriage?

When she dashed from the cover of the trees and saw the cottage nestled in its hedgerow of yews, she let out a sound that was halfway between a sob and a laugh. This was more like it. This was where she belonged.

She fetched the key from under the flowerpot near the back door, let herself in, and thought about what she should do next. She could almost hear her mother's voice reminding her that she should always remember that she was an earl's daughter and act like one.

She would change her clothes, pin a smile on her face, and attend the dowager's reception as though nothing had happened. And if Brand dared to mention what had happened in the carriage, she would deny, deny, deny…

Her foot was on the bottom step when she thought she heard someone moving around in what was now the breakfast room and where Phoebe did her lessons.

“Phoebe?” she called out. “Emily?”

There was no answer.

“Who is there?”

Silence.

She almost took fright but managed to check herself. She was overwrought. If she didn't get a grip on herself, she'd end up in Bedlam.

She debated one moment more; then, teeth clamped together, she marched to the door and threw it wide. The curtains had been drawn and the room was in darkness. She knew the window must be open because she could feel a draft of air blowing in.

She was stunned. She had locked all the windows before she went out. So, someone
had
broken into her house. Her housebreaker had chosen his moment with care, when he knew they would all be at the dowager's fête. She wondered how many other homes he'd broken into when everyone was at the fête. He'd get small pickings in her little cottage.

Indignant now, she hastened to close the window. Two steps into the room and she was brought up short. There was no time to scream. An arm clamped around her throat, cutting off her breath, and the cold muzzle of a pistol was pressed against her temple. Her assailant was behind her.

“Where are Hannah's letters?” a coarse masculine voice demanded.

Her throat worked, but no sound passed her lips. His arm was clamped so tightly around her throat, she was sure she would suffocate. She began to struggle.

He released the pressure on her throat to give her a shake. “Answer me!” he snarled.

She gulped in great draughts of air. “There are no letters,” she choked out. Her heart was pounding so hard, she thought she might die of fright.