Confessions of a Scoundrel (23 page)

“No, thank you. I don't need my own cup. I can taste it from your expression.” He pushed a strand of her hair from her face, his fingers gentle. “Finish that. It will help you sleep.”

She did as he suggested though she was aware of his gaze the entire time. He watched her hungrily, as if afraid she would disappear if he looked away too long. She took the last sip and then handed him the empty cup.

He set it aside. “It's time you went to sleep.”

The laudanum had taken hold now. Her nose and chin were numb and she thought perhaps the room was tilting ever so slightly to the left.

She sighed happily as she looked about her familiar room. She'd spent as much money on her bed and bed linens as she had for every stick of furniture in the sitting room. The bed represented her home. Her haven. But for the first time in four years, she didn't want to be here—not alone.

She leaned forward and put her head against Brandon's shoulder. “Stay with me?”

He stilled, a flicker of tension on his face. “That would not be wise.”

“It would be heavenly.” She found that somehow her fingers were now twined in Brandon's coat. She frowned. “You still have on your coat.”

“I didn't have time to remove it.”

There was something wrong about his coat. What was it? She squinted at it again, then smiled. Damn, but she was intelligent—far more intelligent than anyone had ever imagined. “I know what it is! You've no buttons.”

“Herberts.”

“Ah.” It took a little concentration, but she forced her fingers to loosen from his coat. But as soon as she let go of him, he rose. A faint sense of panic gripped her.

Brandon must have read her gaze. “I'm not going anywhere.” He pulled off his coat and tossed it over the chair.

Ah, her chair. Her lovely, lovely chair. She remembered the last time Brandon had been in her room, how he'd held her in his lap. The chair would always be special to her. One to be cherished. Especially once this ordeal was over and she had left England and Brandon forever.

The thought of leaving sent her mood spiraling to black. Oh God, she was going to leave. Leave her home, her beloved bed, and Brandon. Her chest ached from unshed tears.

“Here, now. Don't start that.”

She looked up at him, her lips quivering. “Can't help it.”

“It's the laudanum. You need to go to sleep, Verena.” Brand sat back on the edge of the bed and brushed her cheek with the back of his finger,
the movement hypnotic. “Close your eyes. I'll be here when you wake up.”

The sadness abated as a heavy lassitude weighed her down. Her head still hurt, but only from far, far away.

It was lovely lying here, all snuggled in her bed, Brandon gently smoothing her face, her hair. She imagined him whispering nonsensical words, words of comfort and joy and love. But not love—not from Brandon.

She smiled woozily and placed her hand on his, loving his gentle touch, as if he feared to hurt her. After a moment, she said into the silence, “My head feels better.”

He glinted a smile. “Good. Now sleep.”

“Don't want to sleep,” she said, though her eyes slid closed.

“Hm.” He continued to trail his fingers through her hair.

It was almost hypnotic and she smiled her contentment. “My mother used to do that, whenever I was ill.”

“Then she was a good mother. Mine did the same.”

“I miss my mother.” She opened her eyes to look at him. “Do you miss yours?”

“Every day. Tell me about your family, Verena. What are they like?”

Her family. How lovely that Brandon wanted to know about her family. He was such a kind man. She nestled her cheek against his palm. “I have a brother.”

“I know that. I've met him. He looks very much like you.”

Good old James. Always there when she needed him. She wondered where he was right now. He'd said he'd only be gone a short time, yet that had been hours ago. “I wonder where James has gone—”

“Do you have any other brothers or sisters?” Brandon asked.

“Two sisters. They are younger. I'm the oldest of us all, though by only two minutes.”

“You and James are twins?”

“Yup.” She sighed happily. Laudanum was a delightful drug, she decided. “I have a lovely family. My father thinks I am the best card turner he's ever come across. Except, of course, when I drink port.”

“Ah yes. Our little game. That seems years ago.” He cupped her face, his palm warm. “Why didn't you join your family once Westforth died?”

“Because I wanted to have my own bed.” She chuckled softly. “That sounds strange, doesn't it? I love my parents, but they are sadly addicted to excitement.”

“Unlike you.”

“I want peace. Home. My very own bed with plump pillows and crisp linen sheets.”

Brandon brushed his thumb over her cheek, enjoying the warm silk of her skin. “Was it very difficult, wandering so much?”

The smile faltered, then disappeared. Her eyes slowly came open, the violet drowning as if in a rain. “At times,” she whispered. “At times it was very difficult. Every time I found a friend, we would have to leave.” Her voice quavered. “Like now.”

Leave. Never had Brandon disliked a word so much. He realized with a shock that he didn't want Verena to leave. What he really wanted was—he closed his eyes. What
did
he want?

Verena must have noted his pained expression for she placed her hand along his cheek. “It wasn't all bad. Some parts of living with my parents were marvelous.”

“Marvelous?”

“They were not monsters. Just…opportunists.”

“You mean scoundrels?”

“That and other things. But they loved us. And they cherished us.”

Not enough, Brand thought. He wondered if anyone had cared for Verena the way she deserved. “What did Westforth think of your parents?”

“Andrew?” She smiled, a slow lazy smile. Her voice was growing more indistinct and he knew she was about to fall asleep. But after a pause, she managed to murmur, “Andrew was amused. I think he cared more for my parents than his own.” Her voice faded with each word.

Brandon pulled the covers up and tucked them about her. “Go to sleep, Verena. I'll be here when you wake up.” And he would, he decided. That day and the next, and possibly the one after that. However long it took to make certain she was safe and cared for.

She snuggled deeper into the mound of pillows, her hand curled to her cheek, and was soon fast asleep. Brandon watched her for a long time
afterwards. Then, moving quietly, he pulled the covers more neatly about her and then settled into the chair by the fireplace and waited for dawn.

B
randon slowly came awake the next morning, aware first of the chill of the room and then of the ache in his neck. He was far too large to sleep in a chair, he decided glumly. And far too old.

He pushed himself upright and glanced at the bed. Verena was gone.

Brandon stumbled to his feet. Bloody hell, where was she? He ran to the door and threw it open, almost falling over Herberts.

“There ye be, guv'nor! Oiye came to see if ye wanted to join the missus fer some breakfast.”

Brandon pressed a hand to his heart. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Oiye'll tell her ye're on yer way.” Herberts eyed Brandon's hair. “There's a comb on the missus's dresser. Ye moight want to give it a swipe.”

With that sage piece of advice, he turned and left.
Brandon returned to the room and straightened his clothing and hair. He was just getting ready to leave when his gaze fell on a small writing desk, fresh paper tucked into the front pocket. Brandon stood, looking down at the paper for some time. Then he opened the ink and began to write.

A short time later, he went downstairs. Verena was sitting at the table, a plate of toast before her. She looked calm and composed though her eyes were shadowed, the bruise on her forehead stark against her white skin.

She met his gaze when he entered, a faint blush touching her cheeks. “How are you this morning?”

Every bone in his body ached, probably because of his fall when he'd tried to save James. “I'm fine. Verena, I meant to tell you last night. James—”

“Is in the guest chamber. I just left him.”

“How is he?”

“In pain. More from the fact that he knows he cannot help us.”

“Help us?”

A strained smile touched her lips. “We received another letter.” She reached over her plate to where a single piece of paper rested.

Brandon opened it.

Brandon looked up. “When did this arrive?”

“The physician found it on the stoop when he came to see James this morning.”

Brandon folded the note and placed it on the table. “It's addressed to you.”

“Yes. The others were addressed to James. They must know he is injured, which is no surprise considering they probably arranged it.” She stood and he saw that she wore a plain traveling gown. “I'm leaving in an hour.”

“Verena, you cannot—”

“I have to. This must end. Brandon, my brother is lying in a bed, his leg broken. Next time it will be much, much worse.”

“How do you know these men won't kill you the second you show yourself?”

“Because I have the list. They don't dare lose it.”

Brand rubbed his forehead. “Damn, damn, damn. I don't like this.”

“Neither do I.” She placed her hands flat on the table. “Are you coming with me?”

The door opened and Herberts entered with a plate of steaming ham. “Here ye go!”

Brand ignored him, his gaze still on Verena. “The letter said they wanted you to come alone.”

Her lips curved into a smile. “I will be alone. Just me and my coachman.”

Brandon stilled. As coachman, he'd be up high, overlooking it all, which would give him a unique vantage point from which to protect her. It was possible…he caught Verena's calm gaze, read her intentions in that second.

He nodded. “Very well. I'll be the coachman. What's your plan?”

“We will take the carriage to the King's Deer Inn. Once there, I will make a great scene, weep
ing and crying and acting frightened. If they think me frozen with fear, they will not expect much in the way of resistance.”

“That is a good plan.” At her surprised glance, he added, “It will also explain why you won't be getting out of the coach.”

Herberts clucked his tongue knowingly. “Thet makes good sense, missus. Ye should listen to the guv'nor.”

Verena looked down at where her hands were clasped in her lap. “Brand, we don't have the list. My only hope is to get my hands on James's letters and get out of there before they realize they have been tricked.”

Brandon nodded. “I suppose it's the only way.”

Herberts straightened his thin shoulders. “Oiye, fer one, am ready and willin' to help ye, missus.”

Verena shook her head. “No, no! I don't think that's necessary. But thank you for offering.”

“Oh, 'tis no problem. Peters can stay here and watch the door fer me and oiye'll just—”

“Herberts!” Brandon lifted a brow. “We need you here to watch over Mr. Lansdowne.”

“But oiye—”

“It's important.”

Herberts's shoulders slumped. “Oh, very well. Oiye suppose oiye'll be here a-polishin' the silver.”

“Correct,” Verena said.

The butler cocked a brow. “Oiye'm a good shot, oiye am.”

“So is Mr. St. John.”

“An' oiye've a way wid horses.”

Verena patted Herberts's hand. “I'm sure you
do, but we need you here to watch over Mr. Lansdowne.”

Herberts sighed. “Very well, but oiye think ye're makin' a big mistake not takin' me wif ye.”

Brandon glanced at Verena. “He certainly knows a lot about what is going on.”

“He reads my mail.”

“Here now,” Herberts protested. “Not all of it.”

She sent him a quelling glance. “You aren't supposed to read any of it. Well, St. John, what do you think of our little plan?”

“It will have to do.” He eyed her for a long moment, noting how the blue lump that marred her brow made her eyes appear even more violet than before. “Whatever you do, do not leave the carriage. Just get them to hand the letters through the window. The second you've handed them the list, I'll get us out of there.”

He spoke with such confidence that Verena's heart lifted. It was a simple plan. It involved only two people. And it had the advantage of surprise. Father would be so proud. “We're settled then. We can leave within the half hour.”

“Herberts.” Brandon reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a letter. He handed it to the butler. “See to it that this is delivered this morning. It's to my sister, the Countess of Bridgeton.”

Verena wondered what on earth had prompted Brandon to send a letter at a time like this. Unless, of course…“You aren't divulging anything, are you?”

“Of course not. It's a personal message for my sister, asking for a favor.”

Herberts sighed. “Deliverin' a note is an espe
cially important duty. Do ye think ye can trust me? Oiye moight ferget to deliver it and—”

Brandon slipped a coin into Herberts's palm.

The butler brightened considerably. “Weel, then! Oiye moight jus' 'member it after all.”

Verena lifted her chin in an effort to see the address on the letter, but found Brandon conveniently in the way. “As I said before, it's for Sara, my sister.”

“Oh.” Verena wondered if she could bribe Herberts into accidentally opening the missive. Perhaps she could—

“Oiye'll be off to see to Mr. Lansdowne,” Herberts said. He shambled out the door.

The door closed and she was alone with Brandon. This was it. After today, she'd never see him again. In the interim, she had to hope and pray that he wasn't injured while helping her. God how she hated this. She hated waiting, hated wondering what horrible thing would next occur, hated everything about this. “I—I hope everything goes well.”

“It will. If you will be careful, that is. No theatrics, if you please.”

Verena nodded mutely. She wanted to run to him, to be enfolded in his arms, to feel his crisp linen shirt beneath her fingers, to smell his wonderful cologne. But something held her back. She felt as shy and awkward as a fifteen-year-old.

“Verena.”

He was beside her, so close she could feel the edge of his coat brushing against her back.

“There is one more thing we must say.” He'd regained most of his voice, but a husky edge lingered.

“What?”

“Look at me.”

She turned, then wished she hadn't. He was so large, so powerful, so Brandon. She wanted to slip her hands beneath his coat and burrow to safety. She wanted to hold him and taste him and never, ever let him go.

But that was not to be. “Brandon, I—”

He engulfed her in a hug, holding her so tightly she had to fight to breathe. God, but she was going to miss him. Her heart stumbled at the thought and she pressed her cheek against his shirt.

In less than an hour, they'd be on their way. His crisp linen shirt rubbed her cheek, the scent of his cologne lulling her senses. “You'll have to change your clothing if you're going to look like a groom.”

“I know. Perhaps Peters will lend me something.”

“Won't you look fashionable,” she murmured. This was what happened to people in her life. Brandon St. John, society's darling, would then truly be a Lansdowne.

The thought did more to harden her heart than anything else could have. “We must go. James will be waiting.”

Brandon's smile faded, his blue gaze narrowed. “Verena, what's wrong?”

“Nothing. But you'd better do something about those hands, too. My father said you can always tell a man by his hands.”

He looked at his perfectly clean hands. “You're right. I'll get some soot from the fireplace. Give me a moment.”

Smiling, he walked to the door and held it open, bowing in the most servile manner. “After ye, missus!” he said in a tolerable imitation of Herberts.

Verena managed a faint smile. As she walked past him, he stopped her, placing an arm between her and the door.

She blinked up at him, her throat so tight it ached. “This is not the way a servant would act.”

“It is if I were an impertinent servant.” His blue eyes shimmered with humor and…something else. Something that sent a tremor down Verena's spine.

No.
She would not allow this to happen. It hurt enough to know that she was leaving. “We should go.”

“Not until you've kissed me.” He bent forward, his lips within a breath of touching hers. “Verena, there is something between us. When we return, I intend on settling it.”

When we return
…There would be no returning. Ever. The second she and James had those letters, they would ride like the wind to Dover where a packet awaited them. She wet her dry lips. “We'll talk about this later, after everything is resolved.”

“Then kiss me and we'll be on our way.”

“We don't have time to—”

He gripped the other doorframe, moving so that she was trapped between his arms. “Verena, one kiss.”

It was the last time she would ever be able to touch him in this way. Within hours, she would be on her way to Italy, and behind her, still in England, would be her heart, resting in the palm of London's most dashing rake.

He bent his head, his lips brushing softly over hers. That one touch, so gentle, so hesitant, ignited an instant response. She threw her arms about his neck and pressed herself to him, deepening the kiss and opening her mouth to him. Ripples of awareness tingled through her, but she was caught in a whorl of emotion, unable to do more than cling to him, yearning for him even as she possessed him.

It wasn't enough, this one kiss, no matter how hot, how passionate. It would never be enough.

Verena pressed against him, her breasts flattening against his broad chest. She was being shameless, unprincipled, but she no longer cared. This was the memory she'd always hold dearest.

Brandon felt her desperation and it ignited his senses like a wildfire. He craved this woman, his entire body ached for her, his first thought in the morning and his last thought as he slipped into slumber, was of Verena. Of her violet eyes, of the hint of a dimple that teased her cheek when she smiled, of just…her.

He wanted, no, he
needed
Verena. Needed her because he—

She broke the kiss and pressed back against the door facing him, her cheeks flushed. “W—we must go.”

“Not yet,” he said, his voice deep.

There was something about the way he said it that made her gasp as if she'd suddenly lost her breath. The air between them was always fraught with tension, but now it grew so thick, she wondered that he couldn't see it.

He turned to the door, closed it, and to her astonishment, he turned the lock.

“Brandon?”

He faced her and there was no mistaking the look on his face. She swallowed, backing away. Something touched the back of her legs, and suddenly she was no longer standing, but sitting on the edge of the settee, her knees unable to hold her upright.

Brandon stood before her. He stopped down and put his arms about her, gently turning her face to his. “For one moment, don't think about what happened last night. Or what might happen this afternoon. We are here, this second. Just us.” His voice ran along her senses like a fire, melting everything in its path. “Kiss me, Verena.”

She shook her head.

“Then let me kiss you.” He brushed the tips of his fingers along her cheek, leaving a trail of delicate sensation.

She swallowed, aware that he was deliberately seducing her.
And what would be wrong with that?
she asked herself. Why not give in to passion? This was the last time she might ever have this chance.

Damn it, she deserved some happiness. She deserved to spend her last day in England in the arms of the man she—Verena caught herself a moment before she committed the worst sin of all, believing herself in love with Brandon St. John.

“Verena,” he murmured. He took her hand and placed a delicate kiss in her palm, feathering her skin with his hot breath. Jolts of shocked desire
went up her arm and traveled across her breasts and lower.