by Anne Stuart
She looked up suddenly, and her eyes met Melisande’s speaking ones across the table. The men on either side of her had broken protocol in the face of her abstraction—Brandon listening with polite interest as the matron described her eligible daughters, and the elderly knight next to her attentive to the woman who’d accompanied Frances Bonham, who presumably was accompanying her into her marriage as well. It left Emma in a quiet sort of bubble, free to observe, free to feel sorry for herself, she thought with a fair amount of mockery. Melisande’s bright blue eyes were troubled, and there was a tightness to her usually full mouth that signaled her distress as they looked at each other across the table.
Abruptly Melisande rose, causing a flurry of scraping chairs and clanking silverware. By rights she should have waited until the last course was removed, and normally the husband would then dismiss his wife and her female friends so they could smoke cigars and drink port and crack nuts.
Emma was fond of walnuts and white port, and she found the scent of cigar smoke oddly comforting, but no lady was allowed in the sacrosanct dining room once they’d been dismissed. It was different when it came to whores, and she’d worked two such gatherings in the past. Her own memories were far from pleasant, but there’d been something enticing about the ritual, at least, until she and her friends were put into play.
She shuddered. “We’ll have dessert in the salon,” Melisande was saying, her lush mouth tight with anger. “You gentlemen may enjoy your various indulgences. . .” and to Emma’s horror she cast a fulminating gaze at Brandon. To Emma’s relief the man beside her either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
Trying to extricate herself from between the two gentlemen, she momentarily found herself trapped. The knight was stolid and unmoving, his back to her as he conversed with Miss Bonham’s friend, but Brandon Rohan was standing, looking down at her, making no effort to pull out her chair or guide her from the table as the other gentlemen did.
She knew the rules of society—her family had been seemingly proper, and the rituals of the upper class had been simple to assimilate. Brandon was flaunting the rules, his big body trapping her.
She knew how to behave, but she also knew that at least half of polite society didn’t feel similarly obligated when it came to her. Melisande’s house had usually been a safe place, and if, for a scant moment, she considered whether Brandon was treating her as the vicar and his ilk did, she dismissed it. Brandon didn’t a damn who she was or what she had been, which was both a relief and . . . something else she refused to name.
She looked at him, wondered if kicking him at this vantage point would have any more effect. Probably not. “If you please, Lord Brandon,” she said in a cool voice.
He still didn’t move, looking at her, his expression totally unreadable, and he gave that cynical half smile, and shrugged. “Of course, Mrs. Cadbury,” he said, pulling the heavy chair out of her way so she could join the other ladies. She moved quickly, her skirts brushing against his long legs, and to her shock she felt his fingers close around her wrist, just for a moment, slowing her pace, and she felt his thumb stroke the inside of her wrist, where her blood was hammering wildly. “That’s better,” he murmured, and releasing her, he turned away.
Once the door to the dining room was closed behind her she stopped, taking several deep, calming breaths. She had no idea why she had allowed him to rattle her—it was probably lack of sleep and general exhaustion that had made her so vulnerable. She was behind the other women, and she could see Miss Bonham and her companion with their arms linked, their heads close together. It looked like nothing more than an intimate chat, until she saw the panic in Miss Bonham’s eyes, the despair in the other’s, and Emma felt sympathy rush through her. It was like that, was it? There would be no happy ending for Miss Bonham and her friend—society wouldn’t even admit such feelings existed, much less condone it. Miss Bonham was being traded to the highest bidder, Brandon, and the best Marion and Frances could hope for would be if he kept his resolve, married her, and then removed to Scotland.
It wasn’t a particularly happy group of women in the salon. Mrs. Beauchamp had found the cookies and was devoting her attention to them, and Melisande’s neighbor, Elizabeth, Lady Carlyle, was leaning back in a chair with complete disregard for those around them, her pregnant belly burgeoning in front of her. She had about five weeks left, Emma decided, and her color was good—she was, as most expectant mothers were, simply tired.
The others weren’t much livelier. Melisande looked murderous, Frances Bonham tragic, her friend Miss Trimby defensive, and Emma herself wasn’t certain whether she wanted to laugh or burst into tears.
She took her seat beside Melisande and a moment later polite conversation became the norm, aided by the social lubricant of tea. “I don’t know what happened,” Melisande muttered under her breath between declarations about the weather. “I never thought he’d go through with it. I’m going to kill Charles.”
“He’s simply looking out for his baby brother,” Emma said calmly. “And I have no idea why you consider it a problem.”
Melisande let out a quiet breath of exasperation. “Don’t lie to me—I’ve known you too long. You’re. . .”
“Felicitations on your engagement,” Emma said to Frances, speaking over Melisande’s whispered speech. “You must be looking forward to the happy day.” It was the first thing she could think of to say, more of the social piffle so beloved of society, but Frances’s martyred look reminded her it wasn’t the best topic.
“They have yet to set a date,” Miss Trimby announced repressively.
Frances managed to summon a wan smile. “It’s all so new. I imagine Lord Brandon is in no particular hurry.”
Oh, my. She was calling him by his title—that didn’t auger well for the future. “I’m certain you’ll be very happy,” she said with complete insincerity. Brandon would be kind to such a meek creature, but completely bored, and Frances didn’t appear as if she’d get over her terrors easily.
Miss Trimby surveyed her with a piercing look. “Have you hurt your wrist, Mrs. Cadbury? You keep rubbing it.”
Dropping her hands to her lap, Emma felt embarrassed heat rise to her cheeks. She’d been holding her wrist where Brandon had grasped it, rubbing the skin, caressing where he’d touched her. She was going mad.
“How kind of you to notice,” she said stiffly, and then managed a smile. She recognized Miss Trimby as well as if she knew her life’s story—living on the edge of society as Emma now did, prickly and defensive and devoted to her best friend.
But Emma had lived among women who were open and honest with their affections, and she had no doubt that Miss Trimby’s feelings for Frances were more passionate than sisterly, and those feelings were returned. That was all well and good in the world Emma inhabited, but there was no way for Miss Trimby and Frances to find happiness together, more’s the pity, though if Brandon gave her the protection of his name and then abandoned her that would go a long way toward it.
And why was she so busy trying to come up with happy endings for everyone else when her own were to be forever denied? Not that she actually knew what she wished for. The chance to work, to practice medicine without having to hide behind some incompetent man, would be enough. The chance to help her friends and the women who’d survived by selling their bodies, either out of choice or necessity, would add to her satisfaction with a hard life.
She’d learned ways to compensate for the things she could never have. She had never had to resort to the kindly old lady down by the docks who assisted professional women whose less than reliable protection had failed them. In the beginning there’d been no protection at all, until the other women had taken her in hand and told her what little she could do to keep herself from the unwanted consequences of their profession, but she knew she hadn’t needed it. She would never be able to bear children, but she could revel in Melisande’s growing brood. She had no interest in the attentions of men, but she could enjoy their good poi
nts with the company of Benedick and . . . and . . . surely there must be other good men, though at the moment she couldn’t think of any. Except, strangely, Brandon.
In fact, she should be delighted that she would never have to worry about men and their invading bodies again. The one man who had stirred unwanted, unrecognizable feelings inside her was now safely out of reach, engaged. She should be feeling happy and relieved.
Instead she was anxious, uneasy, restless, wanting something and not knowing what it was.
She did know what it wasn’t. It wasn’t sitting in an overheated drawing room with a group of torpid women in the throes of various emotional upset. Melisande was still simmering with rage, even comfortable Lady Beauchamp’s love affair with the biscuits seemed to wane, and Lady Carlyle was doing her best to hide her worry about her first confinement, taking refuge in a not quite believable somnolence. Emma knew she would explode if she didn’t escape.
She rose abruptly, and Melisande stared up at her in alarm. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m exhausted,” she announced, even if she felt as tightly coiled as some hideous foreign snake. “I pushed myself a bit today, and if I’m to leave tomorrow I’ll need a good night’s rest. If you don’t mind I think I should make for my bed.”
No one in the room protested her early departure from the house party, she noticed with slightly grim amusement, though it might, perhaps, have nothing to do with her inconsequential self and more with the unhappy preoccupations of the women. It didn’t matter—soon she’d be back in her own world, facing Mr. Fenrush and his coterie of bullies, and she wouldn’t have to waste a moment thinking about the people here.
Melisande rose beside her, a smile on her face, rebellion in her eyes, and Emma knew that escape was still going to require an effort. “Of course, my dear. Would you like me to call for a maid to assist you?”
It was an infelicitous choice of words, reminding all what had happened to the young woman who had previously taken care of her, and the tense atmosphere in the room heightened.
“I’ll be fine,” Emma said firmly. “I’ll bid you all good evening, and if I’m gone by the time you arrive downstairs, then a goodbye as well.”
Miss Trimby was watching her with that peculiar fellow feeling of the classless, and even young Miss Frances looked a little distressed at her defection, which was ridiculous. She might be terrified of her new fiancée, but she could hardly think Emma might be the one to distract him.
She was ready to collapse when she finally made it to her bedroom. All her clothes were loose, designed to be easily removed without the aid of anyone, and she almost left them on the floor where they dropped. The dress she’d worn when she’d been attacked was hanging up, and it appeared that most of the blood had been successfully removed, though there were still some faintly darker patches. From now on it would be her primary work dress—even with enveloping jackets, surgeons tended to get splashed with blood. With a sigh she scooped her clothes from the floor, flung them across a nearby chair and crawled into bed, the heavy linen sheets cradling her.
She stared up at the ceiling in the darkness, only the faint flickers from the damped fire making any movement. It was warm enough there, though it would doubtless chill during the night, but in the meantime she was safe, tucked away, and if luck was with her she might never see Brandon Rohan again.
Turning her cheek, she buried her face in the pillows, letting the night close around her, and for a rare, precious time, she slept.
Chapter 16
Emma opened her eyes, blinking in the murky darkness. Her dreams had been so vivid—the man with the knife, slashing at her, his familiar eyes vivid, but this time they were someone else’s eyes, someone’s uncovered face, and she sat up in sudden panic.
It took her a moment to catch her breath, and then she forced a shaky laugh. In her nightmare the marauding attacker had been no other but Mr. Amasa Fenrush, chief surgeon at Temple Hospital, his eyes mad with murderous fury.
Which was, of course, a total absurdity. Her attacker had been huge, Fenrush was a small, bird-like man. He had almost colorless blue eyes, her attacker’s eyes had been small and black, like currants. On top of that, the thought of such a fastidious man as Fenrush lowering himself to a brawl in a rain-soaked field was simply absurd.
It was no surprise that her sleeping mind had chosen Fenrush. If she had to name one person who truly hated her it would be her erstwhile superior, and a part of her was dreading what was awaiting her when she returned to London. He wouldn’t take his demotion with any good grace, particularly by a woman, and she rather dreaded facing him.
And then there was Brandon. His appearance in her dreams had been no surprise—he’d been haunting them since he’d strode back into her life. If she were truthful she’d admit he’d haunted her for almost four years, but she steadfastly refused to consider it.
She tried to summon up the healthy irritation that kept him at arm’s length, but she couldn’t remember why she was angry with him. He hadn’t done anything to hurt her. In fact, it seemed as if he’d actually been kind to her, in his own way. In her sleep-drugged state she couldn’t remember much, she just had a general sense of unease, but the memory of Brandon was different. He somehow felt . . . right.
She opened her eyes again, growing slowly more alert as her memory filtered back. Brandon Rohan was the farthest thing from “right.” He was engaged to marry a very sweet, very unhappy girl. And yet he’d kissed her—several times, very thoroughly, and she hadn’t fought him.
Hadn’t fought him? She’d gone willingly, damn her idiocy! Hadn’t she learned after all this time?
The house seemed almost unnaturally still, even for the dark of night, and then she realized what was different. The lashing rain had finally stopped.
It was well after midnight—she’d always had an instinctive sense of time, whether it was close to dawn or dusk, and it didn’t fail her now. It was the depth of the night, the time she usually woke when her sleep was troubled. A sound finally came to her—the muffled wail of a miserable baby, and she recognized her unhappy goddaughter.
The floor was cold beneath her feet when she rose, reaching for her heavy shawl. The crying was getting louder now, and she pushed open her door, making her way slowly down the hall, wishing she’d at least had stockings to warm her bare toes. When she finally returned to her self-contained rooms in London she’d appreciate the tight confines that enabled her to stay warm. One always assumed the wealthy had the best in life, but those who lived in these grand old houses were probably freezing to death. She’d take her rooms in the slums any day.
She slipped into the nursery, closing the door behind her silently, only to stop short, wishing she were anywhere but there. Nanny was nowhere in sight, neither were any of the nursery maids. Instead a man leaned over the cradle, speaking in a soft, soothing voice to his infant niece and goddaughter, and Emma wondered whether she could slip out of the room before he noticed.
Brandon didn’t lift his head, but his warm voice carried across the room. “Are you going to just hide there in the shadows, Emma, or are you going to help me with this squalling brat?”
While the words were harsh, the tone was at direct opposites, and there was no mistaking the tenderness in the man as he reached down toward the crying baby. She didn’t need to see this. She was already having a difficult time sorting out her feelings for this unpredictable man—there was nothing more guaranteed to melt her heart than the sight of a big, strong man caring for a baby.
He looked beautiful in the candlelight as he reached down and picked up the infant. His too-long hair was loose, he was wearing only breeches and a shirt, and he was everything she had ever dreamed of, cradling the infant against his chest before he turned to look at her, and the undamaged side of his face came into view.
It was only then that she realized she’d been mooning over his scarred face, seeing the man, not the damaged flesh, and it was one more reminder that she was in dee
p trouble.
“Where are the servants?” At least she could sound cool and controlled.
“Benedick sent them away. We’d managed to calm the wee scrap, and my brother wanted to check on Melisande. Apparently she’s been having difficulty sleeping and he didn’t want to disturb her.”
Wee scrap. The Highlands must be having a subtle effect on him. It was no wonder—he’d been up there for more than three years. The last thing she wanted to do was move closer to him, but the cries were growing louder, and she crossed the room in efficient strides before she could give in to the temptation to run away. He was hardly going to start kissing her again when a baby was crying, and a small part of her regretted that fact. “Why didn’t you send for someone?”
He glanced down at her. “She’s eaten and had her nappies changed—there’s nothing anyone can do that I haven’t. You don’t have to have tits to care for a baby.”
“They do help,” she said dryly. “Give her to me.” She reached out her arms, and Brandon raised an eyebrow.
“You think you can do better with her?” he said, rocking the baby gently as she nestled against his broad chest.
“Of course.” In truth, she wasn’t sure. There seemed no better place in the world than resting against his shoulder—but Alexandra didn’t seem to be enjoying it properly, the foolish wench.
“You’d best sit down first, and I’ll give her to you. You’re still looking a bit pale,” he said, surveying her critically.
“It’s too dark for you to see that,” she said crossly, moving to the large chair Nanny used when the children needed rocking.
He leaned down and put the infant in her arms, and he was suddenly too close, too warm, his mouth. . . “I’ve been paying attention,” he said. Then, thank God, he moved away.