Emerald Garden (15 page)

“I understand.” Brandi silenced him, pressing her fingers to his lips.

“Do you?” He caught her fingers in his. “Do you understand that regardless of what happens between us, despite any feelings I might have, my primary commitment is to England? Do you understand that I can’t stay here with you? That I can’t be here for you?”

A spasm of pain crossed Brandi’s face. “I know,” she managed in a small, choked voice. “But at least I know you want to be.”

Reflexively, Quentin drew her to him, pressing her head to his chest. “Yes. I want to be.”

Brandi swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Do you know,” she said, forcing a light note into her tone, “you’ve been home for nearly a week and you haven’t taken me fishing?” Extricating herself from Quentin’s arms, she inclined her head, gazing up at him with a bright smile. “Have you forgotten how, Captain Steel?”

Something profound flashed on Quentin’s face, then vanished, as he, too, retreated to the safety of their longstanding companionability. “No, my lady, I assure you I have not forgotten how to fish. I just assumed that, after four years, you’d have either depleted or estranged the Cotswolds’ entire supply of respectable bait.”

“Or perchance you were concerned that, as was generally the case in the past, I would catch more fish than you, besting you in yet another sporting match?”

His hazel eyes twinkled. “Is that a challenge, little hoyden?”

“It is, my lord. Unless, of course, you have other plans for the morning?”

“Not a one.” Quentin shook his head, gesturing toward the gazebo steps. “Shall we?”

Welcome laughter bubbled up inside Brandi, and gathering her skirts, she raced down to the garden. “I shall try to be a gracious winner, my lord,” she called over her shoulder. “But I cannot make any promises.”

Two hours later, disheveled and sodden, Brandi sat on the far bank of the stream—the only place where the water was deep enough to fish—engrossed in the task of assessing their contest results.

“You’ve caught two fewer fish than I,” she announced, depositing the last trout on her pile. “Therefore, I win.” Triumphantly, she faced him, tucking wet strands of hair behind her ears.

Propped up on his elbows, legs stretched out before him, Quentin turned his head, cocking a sardonic brow in Brandi’s direction. “Yes, you win. You also cheat.”

Her chin came up. “I didn’t cheat. I merely sought a more comfortable position in which to fish.”

“Three times?”

She stifled a grin. “I was getting cramped.”

“I see. What a coincidence that each of the three times you resettled yourself you freed whatever bites I had on my line.”

“Your concentration was not at its peak, my lord. Lack of practice, I presume.”

“Evidently.” From beneath hooded lids, Quentin watched her scramble to her feet and lean over the stream to purposefully wring out her soaked stockings. “And I suppose you’ve already selected your prize?”

“Of course.” Brandi gave him a dazzling smile, raising the skirts of her waterlogged gown above her knees so that she might squeeze out the water. “I want you to buy me a pair of breeches.”

“Breeches?” he repeated with a chuckle.

“Yes. Several pairs in fact.” She eyed her gathered skirts mournfully, giving them another futile twist. “I’m tired of soggy gowns trailing at my ankles and bulky layers of muslin crammed between my body and my saddle.”

Quentin’s amusement vanished in a heartbeat, his mesmerized stare fixed on the exquisite limbs bared before him. His chest constricted anew, and with a mammoth effort, he dragged his gaze away, desperately trying not to imagine the feel of those silken legs wrapped around him. “I see your point,” he managed. “Very well, Sunbeam. Breeches it shall be.”

“Excellent.” Brandi sank down beside him, her finger pressed conspiratorially to her lips. “But don’t tell Desmond. He’ll surely succumb to apoplexy.”

Desmond.

“Brandi, what exactly is your relationship with my brother?” The question that had been plaguing Quentin for days burst out with a will of its own.

“My relationship with Desmond?” Brandi started at Quentin’s unexpectedly harsh tone, her brows drawn together in puzzlement. “You know the answer to that as well as I do. As per Papa’s instructions, Desmond is my guardian.”

“What about prior to that?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Is he—special to you?”

Stunned realization dilated Brandi’s pupils. “The other day in the stables, when you asked if any gentleman I’d met made me feel differently than the others—oh, Quentin, surely you weren’t alluding to Desmond?”

“Wasn’t I?”

“That’s absurd!” she countered, shaking her head. “You, of all people, know how utterly different Desmond and I are.”

“Yes, I do. But I also know how committed he is to you.”

“And my gratitude for that commitment, as well as for his comfort and support, is boundless. I’ve made no secret of the fact that he’s sustained me these past few weeks—I’ll always be indebted to him for showing me such patience and compassion when I needed it most. But I have no romantic interest in him. Whatever made you think otherwise?”

“Desmond did.”

Brandi’s eyes widened. “What are you saying?”

Quentin sucked in his breath, determinedly squelching his momentary twinge of guilt. Maybe he was being unfair to his brother, severing any chance Desmond might have of swaying Brandi’s feelings. But to hell with fate. All that mattered was Brandi—and her happiness.

“I’m saying that Desmond intends to wed you—soon.”

“What?” All the color drained from Brandi’s face. “Where on earth did you get an idea like that?”

“From Desmond. According to his pronouncement, he’d been on the verge of approaching Ardsley and offering for your hand when your father’s death annihilated all his plans. Now, given the circumstances, he’s allowing you time before he recommences his plan to escort you down the aisle.”

“Quentin, this is madness. Father respected Desmond.
I
respect Desmond. I even care for him—as a long-standing family friend. But I could never, would never …”

“It appears he believes otherwise.” Relief flooded through Quentin in great waves, accompanied by a very powerful, very personal elation he wished weren’t quite so pronounced.

“What shall I do?”

“I have no answer.” Recalling Desmond’s appraisal of Brandi’s needs, Quentin forced himself to be frank, to give voice to what Desmond truly could offer her. “He does care for you, Sunbeam. And, despite all your differences, you know you can count on him to remain at Colverton, beside you, with no conflicting obligations to tear him away.”

“So that’s what this is about.” Pain and hurt flickered in Brandi’s dark eyes before her lashes descended, veiling her feelings from view. “The two of you are sitting about at Colverton, discussing poor, pathetic Brandi and how someone must remain in the Cotswolds to take care of her lest she fall to pieces. And, since your position in the army precludes you from assuming the bothersome responsibility, Desmond is the next best choice, right?”

“No, Sunbeam, not right.” Leaning forward, Quentin grasped Brandi’s chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “My God,” he breathed, seeing the humiliated anguish on her face. “How could you presume such a thing? Do you honestly, for one minute, believe I wish for you to be Desmond’s bride? Why do you think I brought the subject up: because I applaud the thought of you and my shallow, self-centered, and—to quote your words of four years past—relic of a brother having a life together? Hardly. To be blunt, I believe you’re all wrong for each other. I believe Desmond would crush your spirit and leave you empty. I believe he’d be oblivious to your beauty and resentful of your uniqueness. I believe you deserve far more from a husband than Desmond could ever offer, despite his ability to remain constant in your life.”

Brandi blinked, temporarily distracted by Quentin’s unprecedented verbal assault. “I’ve never before heard you speak so harshly of Desmond. All these years—and the countless times—I ranted and raved about Desmond’s archaic views, you never spoke thus. Oh, to be sure, I always knew where you stood, that you sympathized, even—to a certain extent—shared my exasperation. But you never expressed such a vehement condemnation of your brother, at least not to me.”

“Nor to anyone else,” Quentin clarified.

“Not even Bentley?” Brandi’s eyes grew wide as saucers, her genuine wonder causing Quentin’s surge of protective anger to dissipate.

“Why are you so surprised?” A corner of his mouth lifted at the indisputable reality. “You always have had a baffling ability to elicit the raw truth from me.”

“I believe, my lord, that some call that particular quality honesty.”

A rich chuckle. “So they do. But for a man who’s been trained to supplant candor with diplomacy, I find it a continual source of amazement that only you can reach behind the mask of discretion I show the world.”

Desperately, Brandi tried to conceal the elation his admission invoked in her heart. “I’m glad,” she stated simply. Another thought distracted her. “Quentin, if you feel so strongly about Desmond’s and my incompatibility, why didn’t you say so sooner?”

“Because, Sunbeam, as much as I take exception to your sharing a future with my brother, ’tis your opinion—and ultimately your wishes—that count, not mine. Thus, I vowed not to give voice to my sentiments until I was certain you had no interest in spending your life with Desmond.”

Joy and gratitude illuminated Brandi’s face. “Thank you for that.” She covered Quentin’s hand with her own. “Not only for understanding what is best for me, but—even more important—for allowing me a say in my own future.” She stared at their joined hands, her mind consumed with the information Quentin had just imparted. “How could Desmond come to such a groundless conclusion?” she murmured, half to herself. “Dear Lord, I scarcely even speak to the man for fear of revealing how wrong is his belief that I’ve somehow radically changed. ’Tis easier to let him perceive me as the mature woman he envisions than to risk arousing his wrath by confessing that I’m the same hoyden I was in my teens, only older. In fact, to be perfectly candid—with the exception of the past fortnight—I avoided him as best I could. Not a difficult task since I was customarily with Pamela at Emerald Manor, while he was immersed in the task of becoming the fine businessman Kenton always wished him to be.” Brandi shook her head incredulously. “Marriage …”

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Sunbeam.”

“To upset me?” Dawning awareness made Brandi’s chin come up. “Is that why you didn’t tell me of Desmond’s intentions immediately—to avoid upsetting me?”

“I told you why I remained silent.”

“To allow me the privilege of determining my own future.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Quentin’s dark brows arched. “No?”

“No. That is only a reason to stifle your opinion, not to conceal the facts.” Her small jaw set, Brandi rushed on before Quentin could reply. “This is my life, my future, we’re discussing—not some tidbit of gossip you chose to squelch. And while I understand—and appreciate—your resolution to let me plot my own course, how could I do so when Desmond had already completed the task?”

“Touché, little hoyden.” Quentin nodded, pride shining in his eyes. “You’re quite right. I should have told you sooner.”

“Exactly when did you intend to tell me, directly after Desmond’s proposal—as you caught me in a dead swoon?”

Quentin grinned at her dramatic description. “I think I would have intruded a bit before that.”

Brandi was on the verge of blurting out a defensive comeback when a sudden—and distinctly unpleasant—possibility struck her. “Quentin …” She frowned. “I’ve leaned heavily—perhaps
too
heavily—on Desmond since Papa died. Gould my actions have misled him? Could he have interpreted my behavior as romantically suggestive?”

“You are never suggestive, Brandi,” Quentin countered. “You’re forthright and direct. If you had any amorous feelings for Desmond, you’d never disguise them as dependency or friendship. So put that nonsensical notion from your head.” He paused. “As for Desmond’s perceptions, however—now that is another situation entirely. I’ve never understood the way my brother’s mind works. He has a tendency to interpret things as he chooses to: my mother’s fictitious dislike of him, my own supposed vying for Father’s affection, even Father’s alleged approval of his business practices.”

For a fleeting instant, Quentin wondered if Brandi would take exception to the last, given her erroneous belief that Desmond excelled in business matters. But her preoccupation indicated that she was too absorbed in the issue at hand to grasp his pointed comment.

“Evidently, Sunbeam,” he concluded, “Desmond’s misconceptions extend to you—and the future he believes you wish to share with him.”

Brandi snapped to action, gathering up her sodden skirts. “I must set him right. Immediately.”

“Don’t, sweetheart.” Quentin stayed her progress with his hand. “According to Bentley, Desmond wasn’t feeling well and took to his chambers early last night. He could, quite possibly, still be abed.”

She paused. “Then I’ll ride to Colverton and await his emergence,” she determined, starting to come to her feet.

“Brandi.” Quentin tugged her back to the bank. “I don’t think that’s the best solution.”

Her expression was an enchanting combination of annoyance and amazement. “You don’t think I should inform Desmond that I have no intentions—now or ever—of wedding him?”

“Oh, no. I definitely think you should tell him.”

“Then why oughtn’t I ride to Colverton?”

“First, because you’re drenched and covered with mud—a sure indication you’ve been frolicking in the stream. I don’t think Desmond would find that notion appealing.”

Brandi’s face fell. “I’d be lectured for a week.”

“Um-hum.” Quentin fought his grin. “Possibly two weeks, if Desmond is especially testy, given the fact that he’s not feeling up to snuff. Second, as his indisposed state grants us time, why not use it to plan the best, most prudent approach? One that will achieve the desired results and yield the minimal bitterness? He is, after all, your guardian. Infuriating him would only serve to make your life hell.”