by Anne Stuart
“Where are you running off to, Miss Emma?” she demanded in a disapproving voice. “What’s all that uproar in the meeting room?”
Emma tried to say something, but her throat had closed up, and she pushed through the door into the kitchen courtyard of the place, without answering.
Mollie stood in the door, calling after her. “You’ve never been a one to run from a problem, Miss Emma,” she chided.
Emma halted her mad dash for just a moment, calling back over her shoulder. “I am now,” she said breathlessly, and then she was gone.
Brandon stood frozen, not about to rush into action as everyone whirled around him. There was too much going on already. Emma and Melisande had leaped up, and a young woman was sobbing quietly in the arms of her companion, while Charles blustered and did his best to take the attention away from the weeping girl, who was now lifting her tear-streaked face from her hands and peering at him She looked absolutely terrified. He realized that from her position she could only see the scarred side of his face, and he supposed that was what had horrified her. He could hardly blame her—he’d stopped looking at his reflection long ago, but he knew perfectly well that he was a monster. When Charles had cooked up this Machiavellian marriage plot he obviously hadn’t informed his future bride about her proposed husband’s deficiencies. A man who looked like him would be a nightmare to any young virgin. Most people he knew did their best to avoid looking at him directly—in fact, there were only two people who always looked at both sides of his face. Noonan, of course, without a squeamish bone in his body. And now Emma Cadbury.
Charles took charge, of course, grabbing his arm and steering him out the front door, leaving the chaos behind. Brandon had just enough time to notice that Emma had disappeared, and he could imagine the conversation in the room when he was safely out of the way. Everyone was gathered around the pathetic Miss Bonham, making soothing noises, and then the door closed behind him. He was not in the mood for this.
He turned to look at Charles, a saturnine expression on his face. “I assume the weeping creature is my bride-to-be? Clearly a match made in heaven.”
Charles was furious. “Good God, don’t use that tone of voice with me. You sound like Benedick. Or that damned Scorpion,” he added, hoping to strike a mortal blow. Charles’s hatred of his brother-in-law was legendary.
Brandon moved further away from the house—he had no doubt that people were spying out of the mullioned windows. It took everything he had not to show any sign of pain or discomfort—it had been a hard ride on that miserable horse. He and his mare, Emma, and he inwardly laughed at his use of the name, were perfectly attuned. The new one jarred and shook his bad leg, and his mood was not precisely amiable. He was still chilled, damn it, his leg ached, and he’d just terrified some poor child into tears simply by appearing.
Not to mention whatever was going on with the beautiful Emma Cadbury. She’d vanished before he’d had a good look at her. What had spooked her?
He glanced at his brother, determined to prove he was unmoved by all this fuss. “I happen to like my brother-in-law,” he said, knowing it was family heresy. The notorious Scorpion, better known as Lucien Malheur, was persona non grata among the younger Rohans, though their parents seemed to tolerate him well enough. On the few occasions when Brandon had left the Highlands, he’d ventured as far as the Lake District and Miranda and Lucien’s massive home there, and he’d felt welcome. The Scorpion was no beauty either, and the raft of children took Brandon’s horrifying visage in their stride, unlike his pompous brother who was keeping his furious eyes a few inches past Brandon’s scarred face.
“Don’t play games with me. You deliberately frightened your betrothed.”
“First of all, Charles, she is most definitely not my betrothed, nor do I expect she ever shall be. I have no idea why you took it upon yourself to arrange my marriage without bothering to consult me, but it was a waste of time. I have absolutely no interest in getting married.”
“You owe it to your name!”
Brandon raised an eyebrow. “I doubt Mother and Father would agree with that. Benedick already has an heir—there’s no need for me to sacrifice myself on the altar of Venus.”
“One boy,” Charles shot back.
“Then you go ahead and try again. Your two daughters are charming girls, no thanks to you, but I imagine you could. . . er. . . rise to the occasion.”
It was a question whether Charles’s red face was from embarrassment or anger. “That’s not possible,” he said stiffly.
“Really? Did you suffer some injury?” The moment the words were out a truly fiendish idea came into Brandon’s head, and this time his smile was genuine, pleased with himself.
Charles growled. “Don’t be absurd! My wife has a delicate constitution—having another child at her age would be difficult.”
“If I recall she’s probably not much older than Mrs. Cadbury. She married young.”
Charles looked positively apoplectic. “Do not mention my beloved wife’s name in the same breath as that whore.”
Brandon’s lazy smile vanished along with his sorely strained good humor. “And I would suggest you not use that word when you’re discussing Mrs. Cadbury,” he said softly.
Charles has never been one to notice subtleties in people’s behavior. He sniffed. “And why not? Has she already become your mistress? Fast work, considering you only arrived here yesterday, but then, there’s no need for seduction with a creature like her. It’s just a matter of finding the right price. You needn’t worry—I’m sure Miss Bonham won’t object as long as you’re reasonably discreet, though I could wish your choice was a little less notorious.”
But Brandon was back under control now, even if he really, truly wanted to throw his smug brother out a window. “I’m not in the market for a mistress at the moment,” he said coolly. “And I’m afraid your grand plans have come to naught. I have no intention of getting married, ever. I imagine that will bring a great deal of relief to that poor girl—who is she, by the way? She looked as if she were about to faint when she caught sight of my elegant visage. You might at least have warned her you were attempting to wed her off to a horror.”
At least Charles didn’t protest Brandon’s description of himself—Brandon would have had to hit him if he did. “You mistake the situation,” Charles said in an effort at civility. “Of course she’d be shocked by your appearance—it’s almost impossible to prepare someone for it. And she is Miss Frances Bonham.” Charles looked at him, as if expecting him to react to the name.
Brandon didn’t say anything. Emma Cadbury hadn’t been shocked by his appearance. She’d looked at him, at both sides of his face, and she hadn’t even blinked. “Agreed,” he said.
“This marriage is a perfect arrangement for both of you. Your reputation is in the gutter, and you’ve dragged down all of the family’s efforts to prove themselves respectable, ruined all the progress we made over decades!”
“All the family’s efforts?” he echoed with a hoot of laughter. “I don’t recall Benedick or Miranda doing much to walk the straight and narrow, and I think our parents would be greatly amused to hear they’d been trying to salvage the family honor. That was long gone generations ago, and even my sins, at least the ones you know of, are no worse than our grandfather’s.”
“Will you stop arguing with me?”
“No. Not as long as you’re spouting nonsense.”
Charles ignored him. “Miss Bonham is in a similarly difficult situation.”
“You mean she’s ruined herself? Soiled goods? She looks awfully timid for a scarlet woman.”
“Of course not! Miss Bonham is all that is respectable. She’s also an heiress.”
“I’m very happy for her. She should have no trouble attracting an acceptable husband, and I expect you know, interfering sort that you are, that I have more than enough money on my own.”
“No one ever has enough money,” Charles said gloomily. “Her brother also left her
a large estate that borders on the edge of Marchings, but there are strings attached.”
Brandon’s laugh was not pleasant. “Now we get to the crux of the matter. Her land adjoins yours, and you think bringing it into the family would be a good idea. Why don’t you just buy the place from her if, as I understand, she’s now an orphan?”
Charles gave him a sour look. He’d always been a pinchpenny, a changeling among the imprudent Rohans, and he never paid for something if he could avoid it. “It’s more complicated than that. Although Miss Bonham is twenty-two she should still be able to manage the rigors of childbirth, though as you can see she’s a very timid soul. She’d never interfere with you in any way. You’ll need to bring her companion along as well, but Miss Trimby gives Miss Bonham all the company she needs. You just need to marry the girl, get a couple of sons on her, and spend her money. That’s hardly a great sacrifice, is it?”
“There’s just one flaw in your clever plan, brother,” Brandon said, enjoying himself.
“What’s that? Whatever it is, I’m sure we can dispose of it.”
“I’m impotent.”
It was even better then he’d imagined. Charles looked aghast. The emotions that chased each other across his face were swift and revealing. First horror, then embarrassment, followed swiftly by distaste and frustration.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m afraid I’m not. My war injuries were quite severe. “
“But. . . but. . . you were part of the Heavenly Host! Licentiousness is. . .”
“I liked to watch.” In fact, it was close enough to the truth. He’d found no pleasure disporting with the paid companions, and the opium had left him uninterested in doing more. It was an ugly memory, and he quickly banished it. “While I suspect that Miss Bonham would be more than happy to dispense with my stud services she might find that when she’s older she develops an interest in bedsport.”
“Brandon,” Charles said, shocked. “She’s a lady!”
“And ladies don’t like bedsport?”
“Certainly not!”
Brandon’s mood was much improved, and he laughed. “Poor, poor Charles,” he said softly. “No wonder you only have two children.”
“I request that you cease this discussion of such a private topic. It’s in bad taste.”
Brandon was unmoved. “Did you know your wife was going to be such a dud in bed? It certainly wasn’t a love match. What a waste! And you’re such a paragon that you probably don’t have a mistress.”
“Of course not! And leave my wife out of this!” Charles’s color was high, and Brandon took pity on him.
“It’s neither here nor there. You may as well accept it; your well-orchestrated plan has fallen to pieces. But you needn’t worry about any lingering embarrassment—I plan to go back to Scotland the first chance I get and with luck no one will ever know a possible alliance was being considered.”
“I sent a notice to the Times.”
For a moment Brandon didn’t move. The idea of fratricide had a certain appeal, but Benedick would probably stop him, and it would make his parents unhappy. “Then you’re just going to have to send in a retraction.”
Even Charles couldn’t miss the menace in his voice, but his brother always believed that his version of “right” was incontrovertible. “I can’t. Do you realize what it would look like? Everyone would think you jilted Miss Bonham, and she has trouble enough already.”
But Brandon wasn’t interested in Miss Bonham’s trouble. “I doubt it. People have seen my face—it would be more unusual that someone would agree to marry a wreck like me.”
“Women marry peers in their dotage quite happily. Miss Bonham needs your protection, not to be publicly humiliated.”
“Not my problem. Find some nice, pretty boy for her if you’re so inclined—with a fortune it should be simple. Trust me, she’ll be much happier.”
He should have known his brother wouldn’t give up that easily. “Who’s to say your. . . er. . . condition is permanent? In fact, a year or two without marital relations would probably be very good for Miss Bonham. She’s extremely timid around men, and this would give her time to get used to the idea.”
“Quite permanent,” Brandon said wickedly. “They shot off my. . .”
“Enough!” Charles was looking a deliciously uncomfortable cross between bilious and embarrassed. “I get the point.”
“Good,” Brandon said.
Charles took a deep breath. “Hear me out. I told you, Miss Bonham is in a difficult situation. You know as well as I do that presentable heiresses are always in short supply, and she should have been besieged all year, ever since she came out of mourning. Now the only one who’d take her is a fortune hunter or a. . .”
“A monster,” Brandon supplied, and Charles had the grace to look embarrassed.
“You know your situation is difficult. It’s highly unlikely that anyone else would be willing to marry you, given your. . . I’ll be blunt. . . given your appearance. You could go back to Scotland and Miss Bonham could stay here with her companion. She’s a quiet little thing with no interest in society, and she’d be perfectly happy to live her life in the country. Since the prospect of children is not an issue there would be no reason to stay around.”
“And you’d just as soon an inconvenient complication like your scarred brother disappear, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course not.” Charles’s denial was perfunctory. “I appeal to your Christian charity, Brandon.”
“I don’t have any. Miss Bonham’s difficult situation, whatever it is, has nothing to do with me.”
“Actually, old man,” Charles said, “It does.”
He’d known this, Brandon thought. Charles was doing his best to tighten the noose around him, and deep inside Brandon had known that he was somehow to blame. He still wasn’t done paying for his sins.
He sighed, weary beyond belief. He should have just kept going today, not turned around to come back. What was it about Emma Cadbury that had made him change his mind? Curiosity? Lust? That nagging bit of memory that kept eluding him? “So tell me about Miss Bonham,” he said finally. “And I’ll judge for myself just how culpable I am.”
There was no missing the gleam of triumph in Charles’s pale blue eyes, and it took all of Brandon’s strength of will not to clock him. “Miss Bonham’s half-brother was no other than Harry Merton, the late, unlamented mastermind of the Heavenly Host. You remember, the man who orchestrated rape and murder? The man you followed slavishly until you were so far gone in depravity that you tried to hang yourself rather than face the consequences of your own evil.”
Brandon turned slowly to look at him, his face a cold mask. “And how does that concern me? I’m hardly responsible for that deranged scum of a human being,” he said coldly. He could feel things slipping out of his control. He was drowning, and there was no lifeline to pull him to shore. Where was Emma?
The thought was errant and absurd. Why would he think Emma Cadbury could save him from his worst self? Why would he want her to?
“Your memory of that time is, of course, spotty,” Charles continued, “and doubtless you’ve forgotten your drunken appearance at Tattersall’s. You informed all and sundry that Harry Merton was the depraved head of the Heavenly Host. I believe your accusations were extremely colorful, and most of them were, unfortunately, true. However, degenerate though he was, he did not eat cats and dogs, he didn’t commit treason, and he most assuredly not have sexual congress with his sister.”
“Jesus Christ,” Brandon said, shutting his eyes for a pained moment.
“Don’t compound things with blasphemy,” Charles snapped. “Of course people professed that they didn’t believe a word, but then, when so many of the grotesque things you were ranting about were proven true, no one was ever certain about Miss Bonham. She was ruined.”
Brandon opened his eyes. He managed a shrug. “For all I know it could have been true. I remember very little of that time, but enough re
mains that I know Harry Merton was capable of anything.”
Charles had puffed out his chest a bit, clearly knowing victory within his grasp. “A woman accused of such an abomination would, of course, be considered unmarriageable, and that’s your fault. Society wouldn’t mind if it was the truth, wouldn’t even mind gossip, but having it put out there so publicly makes her position untenable. She’s been living in seclusion ever since.”
“Why can’t she stay in seclusion? She has as little enthusiasm for this marriage as I do.” It was a last attempt at escape, and he knew it would fail.
“You know English laws of inheritance as well as I do. The estate was relatively simple—when Harry Merton died the title went back to the crown, and the estate will follow if Miss Bonham doesn’t marry by age twenty-five. She’ll be destitute, disgraced, with no hope of a decent marriage.”
Brandon tried one last time, knowing Charles was about to open the trap door beneath him. “I’m surprised you consider me a “decent” marriage prospect, Charles. This is not my concern. If you want I can settle any sum of money on her—hell, she can have it all. I just won’t marry her. That, or I have little doubt that Benedick could do something about her legal situation. You know how insidiously clever he can be.”
“You think money her will solve the problem? You think everyone wouldn’t find out, further blackening her reputation? You’re to blame for this, Brandon. Be a man and face your responsibilities. Stop shaming our parents.”
He heard the trap door squeak, and he knew he was lost. He could keep arguing, or he could accept the inevitable. He had destroyed so many things with his willful self-pity and nihilism, his weakness. Be a man, Charles said. This was one small way he could atone.
“And she wants this?” he said in a dead voice. “Even after she’s seen my face?”
Charles had the sense not to show his triumph. “She wants this.”
The trapdoor opened, and Brandon dropped through. “Then make the arrangements. I want to be back in Scotland by Easter.”