Capturing Cora (2 page)

Biddy pushed her way into their midst. “Whatever argument you have will have to wait. The gentlemen are here.” Almost as she spoke, the doors to the adjoining room were thrown open. Their host, Lord Egremont, led the column of gentleman guests, with Bran by his side.

“I trust you are all well practiced, ladies?” Bran came straight over to their huddle. “Whatever are you all about? Do tell.” He took in all their expressions. “You all look deliciously guilty. What can you have been planning?” He cocked an eyebrow just as his sister had just done. “Do say, Cora. You know I can’t abide being kept in the dark.”

Why did her heart have to flutter so much just from looking at him? Somehow, she managed to keep her agitation out of her voice. “You’re mistaken in thinking there is anything afoot. We have merely been practicing.”

“They are embroiled in an audacious wager.” A smug grin turned up the corners of Biddy’s mouth.

Treacherous imp! Cora stiffened. Bran didn’t need to know their business any more than any of the other gentlemen. Secrets were not something he was overly good at keeping. More importantly, while the wager was meant light-heartedly, the matter of finding themselves husbands was absolutely serious, and Bran would only make fun of them. She really didn’t think she could bear to have him laugh at her when it came out that the plan had been hers.

“They—” Biddy began.

“It’s nothing.”

“If it were nothing, Cora dearest, you wouldn’t look so alarmed.” Bran ticked her lightly upon the forearm. “I don’t suppose this wager has anything to do with skittles, perhaps?”

“More to do with you,” Biddy piped up, refusing to be quelled.

Bran closed his eyes a moment, transforming his expression into one of quiet appraisal. “Is that so? You do realize we’re to be a team for the event, so it may not be to our advantage to be too competitive with one another.”

“Oh, this has nothing to do with the skittles.”

“Be quiet, Biddy!” Charlotte stamped on the little imp’s foot. “For heaven’s sake hold your tongue for once.”

“Am I to conclude that you are in on this too, sister dearest?” Bran adjusted his stance so that he stood closer to his sister. Standing side by side the family resemblance between Bran and Charlotte became completely apparent. Same narrow elfin nose set above plump, sensual lips. Although Charlotte’s features were sharper, both siblings possessed the same oval shaped faces, each with a dimple in their left cheek that appeared when they smiled. Naturally, Bran stood a good head and shoulders taller. His hair was a softer blond too, lightened by time spent out-of-doors in the sun. The latter had also left him with dark freckles across his brow and the bridge of his nose. Charlotte, of course, never directly exposed herself to the sun for fear of the same affliction.

“It’s only a little fun between us women, brother.”

Bran folded his arms across his chest and waited for her to elaborate. Charlotte defiantly raised her chin, only for Harriet to capitulate instead.

“Um,” Harriet gave a delicate cough. “We all agreed that whoever receives the first offer of marriage shall win a selection of gifts from each of us. See, there’s no harm in it. We haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Oh, Harriet!” Cora murmured. She loved her friend dearly but did wish that Harriet wasn’t so easily compelled. Now all the men would know about their venture and it would turn into a posturing competition. If any of the beaux were considering making offers, they’d now be competing in order to win their prospective bride a prize. That or they’d be fleeing in the opposite direction.

“My dear, Miss Cholmondeley, I never thought such a thing in the first place.” Bran turned to spy the room over his shoulder. “Swansbrooke,” he called. “You ought to hear this given your reputation with the ladies. If you make a proposal, you could win your chosen belle a prize.”

“But only if she accepts,” Cora insisted.

Lord Swansbrooke rubbed his gargantuan nose thoughtfully. “One hopes that one’s prospective wife loves one for oneself and not the bounty he might provide. I shan’t be bending onto one knee until I’m certain my advances will be wholeheartedly welcomed. Now, I wonder, Miss Cholmondeley, if you would partner me for the skittles game?”

Harriet left on Lord Swansbrooke’s arm. Charlotte followed a moment or two later, swept away by Persephone’s brother, Paris. Persephone and Amelia both excused themselves, announcing they would take a stroll around the gardens with Mr. Hulme instead.

Cora remained beside Bran, her head held high, unwilling to make an excuse to leave, despite her fear that he’d further pursue her part in the wager. Her stomach laboured like a butter-churn each time he seemed ready to say something, but for some indeterminable reason, Bran seemed to change his mind and remained quiet after all.

In the past they’d never had such trouble communicating with one another. Why was it so difficult now? What’s more, they seemed to have lost their knack for wordless communication too. As children they’d always known the other’s thoughts. Now, she struggled to properly judge his mood.

It was not until the game was underway that Bran finally enquired, “I trust that you would actually like to win.”

“Of course.”

He stood so that his face lay half in shadow. One pale gold lock fell in an unruly spiral over his brow. “You don’t wish to let Miss Cholmondeley triumph, or perhaps Miss Townley?”

“Heavens, no.” Well, she wouldn’t mind if Harriet won, but she had no intention of aiding Biddy with anything.

“Good. Very good.” Bran fell silent again, which only emphasized the gulf that had grown between them. “Cora…” He took hold of her hand. “Ah, it appears to be our turn.”

Confused, Cora took her throw. She felt Bran’s gaze upon her back and could make no sense of it. Had he been trying to tell her something? Had he—heaven forbid—found someone he wished to wed?

Her ball struck the wooden men so hard it was a wonder they didn’t splinter. As it was, they leapt out of their places and scattered.

Behind her, applause broke out. Over the top of which she heard Bran cry, “Yes!” in triumph. Cora turned in time to see him snatch a floral display off the windowsill. Then as she stared at him perplexed, he launched himself towards her, falling onto his knees so that he slid across the polished floor. Bran came to rest with a bump at her feet.

“Cora,” he began, as he had done at the start of her turn. Then he cleared his throat. “My dear thing, my darling, Miss Reeve—Cora.” He stretched the stolen posy towards her, clearly meaning for her to accept it. This was all a little theatrical. He’d seen her make a strike on countless occasions.

“Will you be mine? Will you marry me, my most majestic lovely? It’s obvious to me from that strike that we’re meant for one another.”

What? What was he saying?

A broad grin stretched across Bran’s face, thinning his plump upper lip, but making his merry green eyes twinkle.

Heat seared her cheeks. “Don’t,” she murmured, realizing his posturing had drawn everyone’s attention. “Don’t say things that you don’t mean.” Couldn’t he see the hurt he caused?

“You did say you wanted to win.” He pushed the posy a fraction higher. When she didn’t accept it, he bounced up onto his feet. “Shall we jump the broomstick together, Cora, and make merry in the hay?” He linked his arm with hers and turned a full circle.

“Why are you doing this?”

“You did say you wanted to win.”

“The skittles, aye.”

Bran stopped jigging and thumbed his jaw as he ruminated on her reply. “Ah—” He sobered, but only a little. “So, you didn’t intend me to propose?”

“I didn’t intend for you to do anything.” She spoke loud enough to make sure everyone heard. Charlotte would not have grounds on which to accuse her later. She’d had no hand in his gesture.

“Then your answer?” He picked apart the bouquet until only a few flowers remained, which he tucked into the ribbons that criss-crossed the front of her dress.

“No.”

What else could she say? He didn’t mean it.

“You don’t genuinely mean for me to become your wife. Please don’t speak to me like this again.” She wasn’t at all sure she ever wanted him to speak to her again.

Blinking back tears, Cora fled the room.

Chapter Two

Of Mint & Pea-pod Wine

“Damn the goddamned woman to hell!” Bran slumped onto the marble bench at the front of the mock Corinthian folly and swore vehemently at the sky, the fountain, and whomever goddamn else happened to overhear him, which, as it happened, turned out to be the blasted woman’s mother. He scowled, causing the mouse-like Mrs. Reeve to pale down to her furbelows and shuffle backwards into the towering fronds of foliage.

“It’s nothing to get your rump in a toss over,” he mumbled at her retreating silhouette.

How the woman had come to produce such a romp of a daughter quite confounded him, then again, he’d heard more than one rumour to the effect that Miss Cora Reeve was in actuality the issue of her father’s mistress, Tessa de Lacy rather than that of his timid, bespectacled, wife. Considering the colouring and demeanour of the three women, and after the outrageous handling he’d been subjected to, he could well believe it. Tessa de Lacy notoriously reduced grown men to tears, something Cora had brought him near to.

Genuine! If he’d sewn his heart onto his sleeve and then ripped the whole out at the seams he couldn’t have been more sincere in his affections. He thought she of all people would realize that.

As for Mrs. Reeve, well, she ought not to be so nosy if she didn’t care for his cursing. Nor should she follow him into the shrubbery after dark. Didn’t she realise there were sufficient rakehells about tonight to form an army? He stared at the dark hollow amongst the overgrown lavender into which the woman had retreated, and only when he was quite sure she had gone did he allow his head to sag forward into his hands.

Cora, Cora… What was he to do? This moment ought to have been one of rambunctious declarations and all round celebratory hell-raising. Instead, it was about as exciting as watching a donkey race the day after the Derby.

He and the delectable Miss Reeve were a perfect match. Admittedly, he’d been slow in realization of that fact, but familiarity did tend to make one a little blind. He trusted Cora was suffering from a similar affliction.

The woman was an absolute hoyden for turning him down. She hadn’t even given it a moment’s thought, and all because of that dreadful wager she’d made with the giggling bunch of ninnies he was supposed to be wooing.

As if he’d make a mockery of something so important to her, to his, to their future happiness. He’d half a mind to go and find her again and shout out the damn proposal while swinging from that ridiculous oversized chandelier Egremont had recently installed in the family drawing room. Except, if one flamboyant gesture had already failed, what chance had a second?

If she turned him down again, laughed, he might find himself contemplating a deep dive into the river rather than a simple trip to the far end of the blasted garden.

“Cora, I want you. Not any of your preposterous friends!” he bellowed at the night sky. Why did she have to be so blinkered?

Bran shuffled on the stone plinth, the cold already beginning to seep into his bottom, so that the skin had become numb. He settled his back against the privet and looked for inspiration among the stars. The search didn’t do him any good, just resulted in leaves in his hair and an uncomfortable recollection of having his knuckles rapped by his tutor for failure to identify Pegasus. Damned Greek horse looked more like an oversized kite than a foal bearing thunderbolts. He still wasn’t sure that he had the constellation. Was it that big square, or the off-centred diamond?

The crunch of approaching footsteps set Bran onto his feet. While he hoped it would be Cora, his ears told him well enough that the tread was too deep. Cora moved like a spring breeze over water. When she danced, her body rippled next to his, and he floated with her whenever her skirts brushed his thigh. The approaching figure moved like he was wading through horse manure with his best Persian slippers on, which at least narrowed things down a bit as to who it might be.

“Tink, are you here? Where are you, I can’t see a thing in this blasted dark.” The cry reached him over the hedgerow.

“Here, Hugh.”

His robust friend ambled into the sparse clearing before the folly a moment later, with his arms stretched ahead of him. “Ah, good, I did strike out right. Thought I heard you muttering a minute ago. I’ve brought you a tipple to quell your humours. Figured you might need one, after all the to-do with Miss Reeve.” He winked at Bran, before slumping down onto the stone plinth. “It’s a dreadful sticky mess you’ve waded into. Your sister seems to believe you were being genuine.” The incredulity in his voice suggested Hugh, like Cora, believed otherwise. At least Charlotte knew him well enough to recognise his plight. Charlotte had seen enough of his home life to know he hadn’t always been the court jester. Nope, by twelve he’d had nearly all his humour beaten out of him.

“I was sincere.”

“Ah! You do realize that you didn’t exactly sound it? Not coming on the tail of that wager.” Hugh raised the glass in his hand to his lips, only to pause before drinking. He offered up the liquor to Bran instead. “You’d best be having this. I find it’s the best cure for when they don’t take you. A nice jig with the faeries soon sets you straight again, and you realise she just wasn’t the one.”