Emerald Garden (16 page)

Grudgingly, Brandi resettled herself. “I see England’s most accomplished diplomat has returned,” she muttered under her breath. “So much for my free-spirited fishing rival.”

Quentin couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Fear not, Sunbeam. One trait does not preclude the other. I assure you, both aspects of me remain.”

Brandi tossed him a skeptical look and tucked her legs beneath her. “If you say so.”

Her dejected look and mournful tone were too much to withstand. “Did I say forthright and direct?” Quentin laughed. “I meant transparent.” Impulsively, he tugged her to him. “I won’t abandon my more spontaneous side. I promise.” His hand slid beneath her damp burnished mane to stroke her nape.

An innocent caress, manifested countless times. But never before yielding such soul-shattering results.

Gasping softly, Brandi stared up at him, wide-eyed, stunned by the bone-melting sensations that surged instantly to life. It was just as it had been when they kissed: the tightness in her chest, the swooping feeling in her belly, and the liquid heat that coursed through her, sliding down to her feet in a scalding waterfall.

The universe vanished with the advent of his touch.

How can you not feel it, Quentin?
she thought wonderingly, unconsciously moving her head from side to side, seeking more of the exquisite contact.
And, if you do feel it, how can you relegate it to nothingness?

“Brandi.” Quentin said her name—a harsh wisp of sound, a clash between longing and denial.

Refuting the denial, Brandi reached for the longing.

“Kiss me, Quentin.” Her arms went around his neck even as she spoke, her lips softly brushing his. “Please.”

“Sweetheart, we can’t.”

“Please.” She knew she’d won, felt his fingers clench in her hair, and she reveled in the victory. “Please,” she whispered again.

He groaned deep in his throat, taking her mouth with the same tender violence of a few hours past—an urgency Brandi found wildly exciting. She encouraged him, pressing closer, wishing she could show him, tell him, what his kisses did to her.

Maybe he knew.

His tongue stroked deep, withdrew, plunged again, his arms shaking as they crushed her to his chest. His mouth possessed hers, again and again, then moved recklessly to her neck, her throat, finding pleasure points she never knew existed and lavishing them with attention until wild jolts of excitement began to rush through her. Brandi shifted restlessly, drowning in a whirlpool of sensation, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

Quentin’s palm left her nape, caressed her back, paused at the first hook—and relented. She held her breath as he unfastened it, slipping his fingers inside to caress the warm skin of her back. A shivering moan escaped her, and she clutched him tighter, wanting nothing but to soar higher, higher, to experience more of the exquisite sensations she knew she could only taste in Quentin’s arms.

“Sunbeam,” he rasped against her parted lips, “I’m going to …”

“I don’t care.”

“Brandi, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

She could feel the cool ground beneath her back as he eased her down. “Yes,” she breathed, pushing his coat from his shoulders. “I do.”

“Christ.” He covered her with himself, devouring her mouth with a passion that stunned him more than it did her. The feel of her beneath him was the most intoxicatingly erotic sensation he’d every known. Damp, soft, undisguisedly impatient—God, how he wanted her. He wanted to take her here, now, to make her his in a way that would bind them forever. He wanted her just like this—beside the stream, amid the scented gardens of Emerald Manor, with nothing but the sky above them and the earth below.

He could never allow it.

Even as that warning reminder hammered in his head, Quentin was freeing his arms, casting his coat aside. “Brandi.” He framed her face, kissed her again, losing himself in her beauty, her passion, the melting hunger in her fathomless dark eyes.

She whispered his name, arched closer to the promise offered by his powerful body. “Show me more,” she managed. “Please.”

“I want to show you the stars,” he murmured, burying his face in the soft cloud of her hair. “But, Sunbeam …”

Vehemently, she shook her head, gripping him more tightly. “No. There are no
‘but’s.”

He smiled against her fragrant tresses. “Yes. There are.”

“Damn that rigid control of yours, Captain Steel.”

Her censure exploded like a bolt from the blue, as fervent as it was unexpected.

Laughter rumbled from Quentin’s chest. He raised up, gazing into her flushed, furious face. “Sweetheart, you are the only person in the world who could make me laugh at a time like this.”

“I don’t find that to be a compliment.”

An odd emotion darkened Quentin’s hazel eyes. “I disagree. Too strongly, I’m afraid.” Gently, he eased off her, brushing fresh clumps of dirt from her gown. “In fact, ’tis a compliment whose impact has the power to undo me.” Quentin broke off, not even trying to pretend the last few moments had never occurred. Brandi’s ability to make him laugh had always been a miracle, one as rare and precious as her ability to permeate his veneer. But now, when melded with this newly discovered, bottomless passion that blazed between them, those qualities were acutely dangerous.

Rigid control, she’d said.

Hardly.

If she only knew how very little it would take to shatter that notoriously rigid control.

“How does a picnic lunch sound?” he proposed, an undisguised attempt to diffuse the sparks still shimmering between them. “I don’t know about you, but our zealous fishing competition has left me ravenous. Why don’t I ask Mrs. Collins to prepare a basket for us and we can eat in the garden?”

Brandi didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she scrutinized Quentin’s face, her insightful gaze probing beneath the facade they both knew was feigned. She’d always been able to see into his soul. Now was no exception. And her heart leaped at what she beheld.

He was as affected as she. But he was fighting it—for all the reasons he’d provided her earlier.

Prudent reasons.

Protective reasons.

Meaningless reasons.

So be it. Patience, Bentley had advised her. Very well then, she would try, after twenty years, to acquire some of that elusive quality.

It wasn’t going to be easy.

But it was going to be worth it.

Smiling, she came gracefully to her feet. “A picnic sounds heavenly.”

Chapter 8

“I
’LL NEVER EAT ANOTHER
morsel.” With a sated moan, Brandi lay back on the blanket, arms overhead, eyes closed.

“Ah, but will you drink?” Quentin teased, capturing the empty glass from her hand.

One eye opened. “I’ll consider it.”

Quentin chuckled, refilling her goblet and waving it beneath her nose.

“Very well.” The eye closed once more. “Maybe I will drink. But I
won’t
eat. And I’ll definitely never move.”

Her final assertion made Quentin throw back his head in laughter. “Now why don’t I believe that?” he asked wryly, nudging her until she opened her eyes and accepted the proffered goblet. “The idea of your remaining still is like envisioning the tide forever motionless on shore.”

Brandi propped herself up on her elbows and gulped her wine with great enthusiasm. “That is, of course, unless the tide has eaten as much as I,” she countered, her tongue capturing a few stray drops of the sweet inebriant from her lower lip. “In which case, I fear it is doomed to spend all its days on the sand.” With a sigh, she resumed her reclining position. “I feel so content,” she murmured, staring dreamily up at the sky. “Almost as if the horrors of the past fortnight were all some monstrous, fictional nightmare.”

Sobering, Quentin nodded, gazing about the lush, euphoric gardens of Emerald Manor. He understood—and shared—Brandi’s need to lose herself in this paradise of a sanctuary. The pain beyond it was too acute to bear. “We agreed to give Hendrick a day or two before we dashed off to Townsbourne to examine your father’s papers,” he commented aloud, as much a reminder to himself as it was to her. “In the interim, I think it would do us good to keep reality at bay—if only for today.”

Brandi turned her head, giving Quentin a lost, heart-wrenching look. “The entire world has tilted askew,” she whispered.

“Only temporarily, sweetheart.” Quentin’s knuckles grazed her cheek. “We’ll soon set it right—I promise. But for now, let’s just enjoy the beauty of Emerald Manor. Our parents would want no less.”

A myriad emotions darkened Brandi’s eyes: tenderness, loss, hope, gratitude, faith … and something far deeper, something that triggered an answering response in Quentin’s chest.

His knuckles paused, lingered, then withdrew. “Suppose we talk about Desmond now,” he suggested lightly.

“That’s
keeping reality at bay?” Brandi grimaced, sounding as enthused as if he’d proposed discussing next Season’s ball gowns.

“I suppose not.” With a surge of relief, Quentin welcomed her Brandi-like reply—a much-needed balm for his unsettled senses. “Nonetheless, we have yet to determine your best course of action with regard to my brother’s intentions.”

“I don’t see any choice but the obvious.” Sitting up, Brandi hugged her knees, a mutinous expression on her face. “I must tell Desmond the truth.” She paused, accosted by a pang of guilt as she realized the harshness of her words. “ ’Tis not that I mean to be ungrateful,” she explained. “Heaven only knows how I would have survived the past fortnight without Desmond’s kindness. He’s been by my side since Papa died, and I’ll never forget that.” Brandi’s chin lifted a notch, renewed conviction swelling to life. “But my gratitude does not extend beyond friendship, nor does it grant Desmond an implicit right to my hand. Further, I cannot permit him to delude himself about my feelings—’twould be crueler than telling him the truth.” She gave an emphatic shake of her head. “No, Quentin, I see no alternative. I must ride to Colverton and inform Desmond in a gentle but straightforward manner that a marriage between us is a veritable impossibility.”

A hint of amusement lurked in Quentin’s eyes. “A most direct approach.”

“One that, judging from your tone, you deem a mistake.”

“Not a mistake, Sunbeam, only an extreme. An extreme that would doubtless yield unpleasant consequences.”

“What consequences? Desmond’s anger? I’ve aroused it more times in twenty years than I’d care to count. Once more will hardly matter.” Brandi inclined her head, her brows drawn in puzzlement. “I won’t be tactless, if that’s what’s concerning you. I’d never hurt Desmond—not after everything he’s done for me. But, after all, it isn’t as if the man is in love with—” Abruptly, she broke off, her eyes widening with startled disbelief. “Quentin, you’re not implying that my rejection would devastate Desmond, are you? You don’t truly believe his feelings for me run that deep?”

Quentin stared contemplatively at the ground, strangely moved, though unsurprised, by Brandi’s concern for Desmond—a man totally incapable of recognizing or appreciating her radiance. “Frankly?” he answered, plucking a blade of grass from alongside their blanket. “No. I don’t believe Desmond’s feelings for
anyone
run that deep. But, I do believe he feels a tremendous sense of responsibility toward ensuring your future—the right future.”

“The right future,” Brandi repeated woodenly. “Pianoforte-playing and needlepoint.”

Quentin’s lips twitched. “I was thinking more of security and stability.” Taking in Brandi’s look of utter distaste, he couldn’t resist teasing her. “Am I to assume then that four years have yielded no improvement in your pianoforte-playing and needlepoint skills?”

“Not even a glimmer.” One slender brow arched. “Does that surprise you?”

“Not even a glimmer.”

They dissolved into simultaneous laughter.

“I can’t understand it, Quentin,” Brandi pondered aloud, her amusement fading. “Responsibility notwithstanding, Desmond doesn’t even
like
me. As a wife, I’d be more trouble to him than joy. Moreover, he’s handsome, wealthy—a duke nonetheless—who could have his pick of brides. Why would he wish to wed me?”

“You’re a beautiful woman, Sunbeam,” Quentin replied, a husky note in his voice. “You’re also vibrant, intelligent, and totally without artifice.”

“All qualities Desmond loathes, with the exception of the first. And, in this case, even that is questionable since, based on what Desmond deems beautiful, I am severely lacking. I have no interest in jewels, nor do I understand why ladies covet and don them so lavishly. My hair is never dressed, for I can’t sit still long enough to have it arranged. My gowns are
passé,
since I haven’t the patience for Pamela’s
modiste
to finish her fittings. Not to mention I loathe wearing rouge, retch at the sickeningly sweet scent of lotions, and feel a far greater revulsion at being confined indoors than I do at viewing the freckles I’ve acquired frolicking in the sun. Combine all that with my forthright manner, my dread for the London Season, and my unladylike pursuits, and I should think I’d send Desmond running in the opposite direction.”

“My brother is a fool.”

The proclamation was out before Quentin realized he’d spoken, its fervor slashing the air like a whip. He was livid—and he had no idea why. All he knew was that, rather than amusement, Branch’s enchantingly accurate self-assessment had aroused a fierce, almost irrational possessiveness inside him. “Desmond will never fathom your beauty. He’s incapable of it.”

Brandi blinked at the vehemence of Quentin’s tone. “You’re angry. Why?”

“Because I know Desmond. He would use your marriage as an opportunity to reform you, to convert you to the proper lady he believes you should be. And that would kill me.”

“As it would me.” Brandi’s heart lurched with joy at Quentin’s uncharacteristically emotional outburst. “Which is why I want to tell him the truth,” she added, wisely keeping her observation to herself.

“Desmond does not take rejection well, Brandi. I worry at his reaction.”

“ ’Tis impossible to reject a man you’ve never selected.”