Emerald Garden (22 page)

Brandi needed something—but a guardian was the farthest thing from her mind.

Tossing onto her back, she stared up at the ceiling, wishing she’d paid more attention to Pamela’s lyrical descriptions of love, her absolute knowledge of all the proper things to do.

Oh, Pamela, how I wish you were here to advise me,
she thought, that all-too-familiar sense of loss constricting her chest.

Where did one go to find the answers? Where did poets gain their knowledge, courtesans their skill, mistresses their allure? They all had to begin as green as she—didn’t they? Sometime in their lives, they had to have been ignorant and inexperienced—didn’t they? Yet somewhere, somehow, they’d acquired all they needed to know of this mysterious emotion called love.

How could she?

Tossing aside the bedcovers, Brandi sat up, wrapping her arms about her knees and relinquishing all attempts at sleep.

From what she recalled of Pamela’s talks and poets’ sonnets, she was supposed to be feeling either breathtaking joy or heart-wrenching pain.

Instead, what she was feeling was total frustration and irrepressible fury.

Never had she dreamed Quentin could be such a dolt.

For twenty years she’d worshipped him, looked up to him as the most brilliant of men.

He’d been anything but brilliant tonight.

How could he explain away what was happening between them, refuse to acknowledge it as love? And how could he imagine that by ignoring it, it would vanish?

It
was
love. And damn him, Quentin knew it.

Brandi snatched her pillow, punching it soundly before depositing it on her lap and sinking her elbows into it.

She recognized Quentin’s responses to women better than he imagined. She’d seen him with enough of them over the years: poised, beautiful women, their fingers twined about his arm like vines of manicured ivy. She’d never told him, of course. Like her father—and everyone else at Emerald Manor’s quiet country house parties—Quentin had thought her asleep in this very room: the lovely green floral room Pamela reserved solely for her visits. But she wasn’t. She’d wait until the strings had begun playing, then slip out her window, scooting down to the darkened ground. There, she’d hasten along until she reached and scaled the thick evergreen just outside the guest quarters—overlooking the cottage’s most private section of woods. From her vantage point, she could easily conceal herself amid the tree’s profuse branches, and survey the entire grounds of Emerald Manor, undetected.

It had been quite a learning experience.

A half-dozen couples per night, gliding cautiously among the trees, evidently attempting to lose themselves in the darkness.

By the age of six, Brandi had been tall enough to reach the first branch of the fir and make the climb. By eight, she’d acquired a reasonable understanding of the significance behind what she was viewing: covert trysts of varying degrees, ranging from innocent moonlight strolls to passionate disrobing sessions. Although why two people would want to adhere to each other like two soggy peppermint sticks, she hadn’t a clue.

But apparently these rendezvous were pleasurable because, more times than not, Quentin had taken part in them—he and any one of a host of different ladies, some of whom Brandi recognized, some of whom she did not.

She could vividly recall Lady Penelope Mailer, her pale hair always arranged in the exact number of elegant curls, laughing softly and gazing up at Quentin as if he were a god sent to earth. Then there’d been that surly viscount’s daughter—what was her name?—Edwina. Lady Edwina something-or-other. She’d been a tad older than eighteen-year-old Penelope—perhaps two and twenty. And her hair had been as black as the night. But the trail of laughter, the adoring looks—that had been the same.

And there’d been scads more.

Vaguely, Brandi could recall a breathtaking countess from Yorkshire, a Canadian official’s daughter … and then there was that widow—the Marchioness of Elmswood. Brandi had been astounded that a once-wed matron at the advanced age of one and thirty would be interested in joining mouths with a young man of eighteen. Nevertheless, she’d seemed to revel in it, if those throaty sounds and teasing words were any indication.

Married women had pursued Quentin, too. That had shocked Brandi more than anything. But, as she’d expected, Quentin, with his customary moral decency, had spurned their advances, keeping to the unattached women who were free to promenade the woods without irate husbands appearing to challenge him to a duel.

Although there had been an irate father or two, Brandi recalled with a grin. Especially when Quentin’s stroll with their daughters appeared to be transcending flirtatious chatter and chaste kisses. But Quentin was cautious with his choices, restricting his more intimate and heated embraces to older, more worldly women. Brandi always knew when he had something more scandalous in mind than kisses, for he’d lead the lady in question deeper into the woods where even Brandi, from her superb viewing station, could not discern their actions.

By the time she turned twelve, Brandi had lost count of Quentin’s women. And that was only those he cavorted with at Emerald Manor. Lord alone knew how many there had been in total. After all, she’d no idea what forbidden encounters transpired at Almack’s during the London Season, or throughout the long months Quentin was away at Oxford. Or most especially at the elaborate Colverton house parties—which Pamela and Kenton continually hosted and which Brandi continually begged off from attending, weeping until her father relented and spared her the ordeal of accompanying him. As a tot, Colverton had seemed aloof and endless.

An ironic smile tugged at Brandi’s lips. As a woman, it still did.

In any case, she might have been young and somewhat uninformed, but her snooping had taught her to recognize the overt signs of Quentin’s attraction to a woman—even from a distance of twenty feet: the husky note that crept into his voice; the subtle ways he’d touch his companion’s face, her hair, even her shoulders; the purposeful way he’d seize her chin, lifting it to receive his kiss; and—ever so seldom—the slightest faltering in his ever-present control when he held the lady in his arms.

Back then, it had been merely girlish curiosity that compelled Brandi to watch and understand Quentin’s actions.

Now it was more.

Sighing, she rubbed the fine muslin of her nightrail between her fingers, comparing what she’d witnessed over the years to what she’d experienced these first few exquisite times in Quentin’s arms. Oh, he’d retained that damnable control of his, though just barely. But the tremor in his voice when he spoke her name, the harsh rasps of his breath, the unsteady urgency of his motions when he dragged her against him—all those were indicators of the emotional battle raging inside him. And they were also unprecedented, at least so far as Brandi’s vivid memories could recall. Her intuition agreed, whispering that whatever magic eclipsed the world from view each time he and she came together was as new to Quentin as it was to her.

And perhaps twice as terrifying, given his older-brother role in their lifelong friendship and the resulting compulsion he had to protect her.

If he would only allow his feelings to supplant his reason—just this once. If he would only cast nobility and protectiveness aside, and listen to the dictates of his heart. Maybe then he would see the truth.

Lightly, Brandi’s fingertips brushed her lips, savoring her recollection of the involuntary way Quentin had all but torn himself from her arms.

He thought her naive.

It was he who was the fool.

He believed her inexperience rendered her unable to discern love from passion.

He had never been more wrong.

He believed her a child—fragile, needing his shelter from pain.

Why couldn’t he see that by denying her—by denying them both—he was causing more pain than his transience ever could? For, while Brandi realized he belonged first and foremost to England, she could bear savoring whatever fleeting moments life had to offer them, bear the anguish each time they parted, even bear the sleepless nights as she prayed for his safety, longed for his return.

What she couldn’t bear was the thought of not having him at all.

Oh, Quentin,
she lamented, gazing across the darkened room.
How can I open your foolish eyes? I’m not the rebellious sixteen-year-old you left weeping when you said goodbye. Oh, perhaps part of me is, perhaps part of me always will be. But I’ve evolved into so much more
—
more than even I realized until you came home. How do I convince you that I’ve changed? That we’ve changed? That what’s between us now is beautiful and right? We can’t go back anymore. And even if we could, I wouldn’t want to. What’s more, neither would you.

She rose, gliding open her nightstand drawer and removing the pistol she’d kept close by since Quentin had gifted it to her four years past. Lovingly, she stroked its carved handle, remembering the instant Quentin had proclaimed it hers. He’d been going away then. ’Twas a reality she’d been too young, too childish to accept. And now? Now, if the War Department had its way, he’d be going away again.

It was the perfect opportunity to show him just how strong she’d become.

And show him she would—
after
she toppled that blasted control of his.

With renewed resolve, Brandi gripped the pistol more tightly, recalling the shooting match that had preceded Quentin’s farewell—and yielded her victorious.

She’d never lost to Quentin yet.

Now was no time to begin.

Chapter 11

Q
UENTIN STALKED THE FLOORS
of his room at the London inn, feeling like a caged tiger who’d been prodded by a stick.

Something was amiss. He knew it.

His meeting with the War Department had been a bizarre series of unanswered questions and unaccounted-for demands.

After three hours of waiting in that bloody anteroom on Downing Street and four hours of moving from one petty official to the next, Quentin still had no idea what urgency required his immediate attention in the colonies or whose decision it had been to recall him.

But he sure as hell intended to find out—from Lord Bathurst himself, England’s Minister of War.

Dropping to the bed, Quentin folded his arms beneath his head, livid at the incompetent and careless way he’d been treated. He’d finally lost his temper—something he rarely did—and stormed out, demanding a meeting with Bathurst first thing tomorrow.

His request had been granted posthaste by a red-faced, stammering subordinate, who’d assured him that the minister would receive his lordship at nine A.M. sharp tomorrow morning.

Which meant Quentin had to spend the night in London.

He’d dispatched a missive to Bentley straightaway, relaying the situation and asking Bentley to visit Emerald Manor—and Brandi—again tomorrow. He harbored no doubts that his request would be honored, simply by virtue of Bentley’s loyalty to him and to Brandi. Not to mention that Desmond’s addled state would provide the butler with ample opportunity to disappear for several hours. No, Quentin was certain Brandi would be cared for.

But damn it, he wanted to go home.

Home.

The thought made him smile, for it immediately conjured up an image, not of Colverton, or even the army, but of Emerald Manor—its gardens ablaze with summer’s hues, its trees plush with greenery, and in the midst of it, her nose smudged with dirt, Brandi.

Quentin’s smile faded.

What in God’s name was he going to do with these interminable feelings of his?

Logic provided the answer.

The first thing he needed to do was face them.

He was falling in love with Brandi Townsend.

Brandi—his one and only Sunbeam: that irreverent little hoyden he’d pampered since birth, indulged beyond reason, teased and tutored and treasured.

And with whom he’d shared honesty, trust, and laughter—together with an openness and contentment he’d never shared with another.

Falling in love with her?

Hell, he was already in love with her.

The realization opened the flood gates of his awareness. Bolting upright, he stared—unseeing—across the barren room as the undisputed truth crashed through him in harsh waves of acceptance.

What a blind fool he’d been to deny the undeniable.

He’d cherished Brandi all her life: savoring the joys of her childhood, the wonders of her girlhood, even the aching transitions of her adolescence.

He’d left England with the tender memories of a rare and unspoiled young lady.

And returned to find her a woman.

Quentin’s chest tightened as he recalled that odd, gripping feeling that had accompanied him to Europe—the sense that all he loved would be somehow changed.

It had.

His parents were gone.

So was his little hoyden.

Only in Brandi’s case, she’d been replaced by a beautiful, desirable woman—a woman with whom he’d fallen in love the instant he spied her, kneeling at his parents’ graves, the misty drizzle mingling with her tears of loss. She’d reached out to share his pain, giving him her warmth—representing all that was good and precious in his life.

What in the name of heaven was he going to do?

She loved him.

He knew that, just as surely as he knew she’d give him her soul, willingly and without question.

And just as surely as he knew he could never accept it.

Nor walk away from it.

With a muttered oath, Quentin squeezed his eyes shut. All that succeeded in doing was conjuring up an image of Brandi, her wet gown clinging to her like a second skin, her eyes soft as brown velvet, her smile illuminating the world with a glow all its own. And the way she felt in his arms. Like she belonged there, like he was incomplete when he released her, like he was going to explode if he didn’t make her his.

Passion—stark, inescapable—pounded through his loins, and Quentin groaned aloud, wanting to scream his frustration to the skies. Damn, he wanted her. Wanted her with an intensity that nearly annihilated his reason.