Emerald Garden (19 page)

“You’re drunk, Desmond.”

“Without a doubt. And you’re lying—to yourself, and to Brandice. Tell me, Quentin, can you honestly claim you haven’t noticed that your little Sunbeam has changed? Physically, in case you’re wondering what I mean. That she’s no longer sixteen, but a very grown, very beautiful woman?”

Silence.

“I see you
have
noticed, reluctant though y’might be to admit it. I admire your taste, and your exalted principles. The very principles that, given your high regard for Brandice, will preclude you from acting upon your baser instincts, no matter how ardently they clamor. Right, Quentin?”

Again, silence—taut, charged with escalating ire.

“V’ry well then.” Recklessly, Desmond pressed onward, leaning against the sideboard for balance. “Address this, if you will. Chaste though your relationship might be, Brandice’s dependence upon you has obviously been rekindled. Have you considered how you’re going t’handle it when you leave her? What will you say—now that she’s come t’count on your presence—when you abruptly dash off to wherever the army next orders you to go?”

“Shut up, Desmond.” Quentin bolted to his feet, turning to stare out the window.

“Ah, a raw nerve. Well, good. Because you’d best recall one crucial reality before you fuel Brandice’s infatuation.” Desmond blasted his decree like gunfire, all attempts at discretion abandoned. “You are a fleeting visitor, dear brother. Whereas I am the foundation of Brandice’s future. And, even if you should unintentionally manage to break her fragile heart, ’tis I who will restore its pieces; just as it is I who will eventually share her bed, gladly and for many years to come. Bear that in mind. For, regardless of your impact on her life, I intend to make Brandice my duchess. And that’s one certainty that not even you, with your damned almighty control, can alter. So don’t even try.”

Quentin’s fist slammed against the wall, and he wrenched around, shaking with a rage as unfamiliar as it was powerful. “To hell with your insipid threats,
brother.
I’ve withstood all I intend to of your drunken blathering.” He advanced on Desmond, his eyes ablaze, every iota of his prior control cast aside. “Our discussion of Brandi is at an end. She’s not a piece of chattel to be bandied about, nor a horse to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. You’re her guardian, not her ruler. As to the idea of your becoming her husband—”

The sitting room door swung open, severing the remains of Quentin’s declaration.

Eyes wide with astonishment, Brandi hovered in the doorway. “I could hear your voices halfway up the stairs!” she exclaimed. “What on earth are you arguing about?”

“Nothing.” Desmond slapped down his goblet, moving unsteadily across the room, nearly colliding with Mrs. Collins as she arrived with their tray.

“I’m no longer hungry,” he informed the startled housekeeper. “M’reover, as my brother has so aptly noted, I’ve had too much to drink. So I’ll save you all from further disturbance by climbing into my carriage and heading back to Colverton.”

Swerving, he faced Quentin. “You and I
will
continue this conversation upon your return tonight—a return which should take place …” Desmond blinked at his timepiece. “In less than an hour. ’Tis nearly eight o’clock. Brandice needs her rest.” Purposefully, he seized Brandi’s hand, brought it to his lips. “Good night, little one,” he murmured, his seething gaze fixed on Quentin. “Soon the tragedy of the preceding fortnight will be behind us, and the past can be laid to rest.” His jaw clenched. “And then I’ll see to your future.”

Chapter 9

“W
HAT IN THE NAME
of heaven was that all about?” Brandi breathed, staring after Desmond’s retreating figure.

“My contemptible brothers drunken ravings,” Quentin snapped. He averted his head, rage still pumping hotly through his veins—rage aimed, not so much at Desmond as at himself.

What the hell had come over him just now? Had Brandi not appeared when she did, he would have trounced his brother—not only with words but, quite possibly, with his fists. As it was, he’d managed to provoke Desmond in the very manner he’d cautioned Brandi
not
to, all but denouncing the prospect of her becoming his duchess.

Quentin drew a deep steadying breath, then another. So much for the consummate diplomat and the unbreachable control for which he was renowned.

What had he been thinking of?

The answer was as obvious as the question. He hadn’t been thinking at all. He’d simply been feeling.

“Damn it,” he swore softly, veering toward the open sideboard. The idea of drowning himself in strong spirits seemed suddenly appealing.

“Forgive me, my lord.” Mrs. Collins cleared her throat, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. “Shall I take away your refreshment?”

Belatedly, Quentin recalled the housekeeper’s presence. “No.” He turned, goblet in hand. “Or rather, not unless Brandi is tired and wishes to retire for the night?” He cast a questioning look at Brandi, who stood rooted in the doorway, her astute gaze shifting from the now-deserted hall to Quentin.

“I’m not at all fatigued,” she responded, appraising Quentin in an obvious attempt to discern his state of mind. “Besides”—her tentative smile burned away much of the residual tension permeating the room—“I’ve only just changed into an acceptable gown and washed away the dusty aftermath of our day’s adventures. ’Tis a pity for my labors to be wasted.”

“ ’Twould indeed be a pity,” Quentin acknowledged, his jaw relaxing as he inspected her from the top of her burnished head to the hem of her sky-blue day dress, approval shining in his eyes. “Especially given that your labors yielded such lovely results.”

“So, shall I leave the tray, my lord?” Mrs. Collins interjected.

“Hmm? Oh, Mrs. Collins.” Quentin smiled ruefully, aware this was the second time in less than a minute that he’d forgotten the housekeeper’s presence. “Yes. Leave it on the table so we can enjoy your incomparable cooking. Also, please accept my apologies on Desmond’s behalf. He hasn’t been himself since Father’s death.”

“Of course, sir.” With a compassionate nod, Mrs. Collins placed the tray on a side table. “As to my incomparable cooking, I think you should know I brought only tea and scones. Normally, at this hour I would have provided you with a far more substantial meal. However,” she said smiling, “after examining your empty picnic basket, it occurred to me you might not have recovered from your late afternoon repast.”

“A wise judgment, Mrs. Collins,” Brandi agreed, wincing as she contemplated the notion of eating. “My sides still ache from that delicious, bounteous feast. ’Tis no wonder Poseidon and Goddess were so jubilant after ridding themselves of our cumbersome weight. Why, we must have been as ponderous as twin boulders.” She wrinkled her nose. “Food? I doubt I’ll be able to look at anything edible for days.”

Mrs. Collins’s face fell.

“Other than your sumptuous scones, of course,” Brandi amended hastily. “No matter how I’ve gorged myself, I always have room for those. Accompanied by several cups of your splendid tea.”

The housekeeper beamed. “Excellent. I’ve brought you a dozen scones—newly baked—and a large pot of tea. Should you require more, just ring and I’ll fetch them.”

“Wonderful.” Brandi felt her insides lurch. “Thank you so much.”

“Not at all, Miss Brandi. Now, will there be anything else?”

“Not for the moment, Mrs. Collins.” It was Quentin who answered, coming to Brandi’s rescue as he noted the greenish cast to her skin. “But, thank you—we promise to ring the instant we’ve depleted our supply of scones.”

“Very good, sir.” The housekeeper dropped a curtsy. “Then I’ll return to my duties.”

The door closed behind her.

Brandi inched far away from the side table, along with its wafting aroma of food.

Despite his lingering fragments of anger, Quentin couldn’t resist teasing her. “I’ll pour your tea,” he offered gallantly, “and prepare a plate for you, as well. Would you like to begin with one mouth-watering scone or two?”

“That depends,” she quipped back. “Would you like me to empty the contents of my stomach on one Hessian boot or two?”

A chuckle rumbled from Quentin’s chest. “Not an attractive choice. Very well, Sunbeam, you needn’t eat.”

“And you needn’t try to distract me.” Gathering her skirts, Brandi marched across the room. “It won’t work, Quentin—not this time. The situation is too disconcerting to ignore.”

“What situation?” Again, that taut, uncharacteristic severity.

Brandi pushed past it. “In all my twenty years, I’ve never seen you like this—a veritable explosion straining to erupt. Further, I’ve never heard you berate anyone so vehemently as you just did Desmond. Why, Quentin? What instigated it?” She paused, steeling herself to address the worry that plagued her. “Was I the cause of your battle?”

Silence.

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Sighing, she tilted her head farther back until she could meet and hold Quentin’s gaze. “ ’Tis not merely a guess. I heard my name spouted—several times. So I’ll ask you bluntly, am I driving a wedge between you and Desmond?”

Brandi’s ironic question elicited a harsh laugh from Quentin. “Hardly, Sunbeam. The particular wedge you’re referring to was driven three decades ago.”

“Perhaps.” Brandi regarded him soberly. “But you’ve always allayed it to the best of your ability. Until now. Something’s changed since your return to the Cotswolds.”

“Many things have changed.” An odd expression drifted across Quentin’s handsome features. “I’ve been away four years. That’s a long time, Brandi—as we’re both finding out.”

Her heart lurched at the poignant look in his eyes—a clear revelation of his underlying meaning. “Yes,” she returned softly. “Four years
is
a long time—in many ways—for all of us.” Staunchly, she squelched the emotion that surged to life inside her, determined to stick to the matter at hand. She
had
to get to the heart of Quentin’s clash with his brother.

“Quentin,” She snatched the drink from him, placing it on the sideboard so she could grip his forearms. “Talk to me—about Desmond. As far back as I can remember, you’ve always made allowances for him—his weaknesses, his jealousy, his detachment. You worked so hard to forge whatever minimal bond of brotherhood he’d allow. ’Twas I, not you, who constantly complained about his rigid narrow-mindedness. You tried to understand, even defend, him. And now suddenly, for the first time, you’re displaying a hostility that’s totally foreign to your nature.”

“Desmond and I were arguing, Sunbeam. People lose their composure during arguments.”

A vehement shake of her head. “Not you—you never lose your composure. Certainly not with Desmond. Besides, I’m referring to more than just the argument I interrupted-even more than your unprecedented rage. I’m referring to the disparaging way you’ve spoken about Desmond these past days, the bitterness I hear in your tone when I mention his name, the coiled resentment you emanate in his presence—none of which existed before you left for Europe. So, please, answer my question: What has transpired since your return to Colverton and how do I factor into it?”

“My differences with Desmond are very complex,” Quentin hedged, frowning. “As for the argument you just overheard—yes, you were its subject. But that does not make you its cause.”

“I’ll decide that for myself—
after
you tell me what specific aspect of my behavior incited your altercation. Was it my riding? My fishing? My twilight gallivanting?”

“No, no, and no. The truth? It wasn’t your behavior at all—’twas mine.”

Brandi’s brow furrowed. “Yours? I don’t understand.”

Quentin held her gaze. “Desmond claims I’m trying to seduce you.”

“He claims you’re … oh my God.” All the color drained from Brandi’s face. “He actually accused you of that?”

“Indeed he did. In no uncertain terms.”

“How did you react?”

“Much as you overheard. I was furious.”

“I could make out only your tone, not your words. You denied his accusation—at least I assume you did, didn’t you?”

“Of course.” Quentin’s mouth narrowed into a grim line. “But that didn’t deter my brother, who believes what he chooses to believe. He’s convinced that your future as his duchess was a certainty—until my arrival thwarted its realization. The violent way I reacted only made things worse. Hell, I not only lost my temper, I very nearly struck him. ’Twas an ugly scene.” Unconsciously, Quentin’s fingers entwined with Brandi’s.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be.” He relinquished her hands, seizing his drink and swallowing fervently. “The truth?” A pained smile. “Of course, the truth. When it comes to you, I’ve never been able to offer less. I’m not nearly as furious at Desmond as I am at myself. What he implied struck too damned close to home, gave voice to a reality I’ve been refusing to face since my return.” Quentin stared broodingly into his goblet’s half-filled contents. “You and I—there are strong feelings between us, Brandi. ’Tis insane to deny them. And just as insane to act upon them.” A contemplative pause. “Ironic, isn’t it? Desmond is finally correct in his perception—and ’tis the one time I most wish he were wrong.” Quentin tossed off the rest of his drink.

“Why?” Brandi asked softly. “Why do you wish he were wrong?”

“You know why. Because, feelings or not, I can’t promise you forever. And I won’t let you settle for less.”

“And if our feelings cannot be ignored or repressed?”

“They must be.”

Brandi’s dark lashes swept her cheeks, shadowing her aching frustration.

“In any case, Sunbeam, you—and our relationship—are but a portion of Desmond’s antipathy. As you heard earlier, he’s also livid about my decision to search for our parents’ killer.”

A small nod. “He turned three shades of red when he heard that you’d apprised me of your meeting with Hendrick. And he very nearly erupted when I pronounced that I wished to take part in determining what your next step should be.”

“He was only a tad less annoyed about my intentions to
take
a next step. He’s convinced that only the authorities can uncover the truth.”