Still In My Heart
Kathryn Smith
This book is dedicated to
the memory of my grandmother,
Mildred Berry.
Unswerving in her devotion and
in love with my grandfather till the last,
Nanny B. treated life like a dance
and dance she did.
It did not matter if she knew all the steps,
she would make up her own.
It did not matter if she had rhythm,
she got her groove on regardless.
It did not matter that she lost the only partner
she wanted 20+ years earlier.
She learned to waltz alone.
And most importantly, Nan danced
like no one was watching—
living life on her own terms.
I was blessed to have shared
her dance floor for 32 years
and, thanks to her instruction,
am unafraid to cut a few rugs myself.
Thank you, Nan.
Save one for me.
Contents
Chapter 1
He was drunk.
Chapter 2
The minute Brahm saw Muriel scamper away, he knew he…
Chapter 3
She hadn't kicked him out, yet.
Chapter 4
Brahm wasn't about to allow Eleanor to resume ignoring him— not…
Chapter 5
Giving Brahm a chance to prove himself took up more…
Chapter 6
"Are you looking for something, Lord Creed?"
Chapter 7
Underneath the shade of an ancient oak, Brahm leaned back…
Chapter 8
Brahm didn't just kiss Eleanor, he feasted on her. His…
Chapter 9
Tonight was the night Brahm planned to make his intentions…
Chapter 10
The morning after the ball Brahm rose and dressed for…
Chapter 11
Brahm blinked, his expression endearingly sleepy and boyish in the…
Chapter 12
Marry him? Had she truly heard correctly? Her heart was…
Chapter 13
Eleanor could not wait to be married.
Chapter 14
She couldn't marry him? "Why the hell not?"
Chapter 15
London held none of the pleasure it once did. The…
Chapter 16
Brahm was dying.
Chapter 17
"Pardon me, Lady Eleanor, but there is a Mrs. Carson awaiting…
Chapter 18
Was he completely senseless, or simply playing with her?
Chapter 19
So much for Brahm being at her mercy.
Chapter 20
Marry her?
About the Author
Other Romances
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Once upon a time…
H
e was drunk.
Not drunk in a silly manner, or even drunk in a vaguely belligerent fashion, but head-spinning, world-whirling, out-of-his-mind drunk. He hadn't meant to get so foxed; it had simply happened. One brandy had led to another and then another, until his feet became as heavy as lead and his entire body was engulfed in woozy numbness.
He liked being numb.
Still, his inebriation wasn't so consuming that it kept him from remembering the promise he had made earlier that day. He had asked the fair Eleanor to marry him, and she had agreed. All that was left was to tell her father, and as the earl was a friend of his own papa, there would be no obstacles to the union. The license would be procured, and Eleanor would be his. Soon he would kiss her sweet lips, feel her luxuriant body against his, and make her his in a way that would seal his claim to her. The very thought of it caused him to stiffen with desire. Perhaps he wasn't as drunk as he'd thought.
Tossing back one more glass, he decided it was time to leave the company of these amiable gentlemen, who seemed more than happy to pour brandy down his throat by the barrelful. He could stay there all night, drinking. It made him feel so very free. Eleanor made him feel free as well. And Eleanor didn't make his head ache the next morning.
The image of her face swimming in his mind put a spring in his step as he made his way through the darkened corridors of the manor house, up the stairs to his chamber. Country house parties were always such fun.
In his room he kicked off his boots and tossed his coat on the floor. Waistcoat and shirt followed. He tripped taking off his trews and fell onto the bed with a gleeful "Oops!" He kicked at the offending garment until his limbs were finally free and lay on the bed gloriously naked and gloriously warm, as a soft summer night breeze drifted through the windows.
The world wasn't spinning, but it swayed a bit as he closed his eyes, and he gave himself up to the sensation. It was like being in a boat on gently rippled lake. He liked boats. He liked this rocking feeling. It lulled him toward the uncompromising darkness of a spirits-induced slumber. No thoughts, no insecurities, no dreams. Nothing but sweet blackness.
He was on the verge of slipping under when something touched his thigh. His brow wrinkled with the effort of trying to will his eyes open. Reluctantly the lids parted slightly, revealing the blurred vision of a woman with long blond hair hovering above him.
He smiled. "Eleanor." Even her name was calming, an audible representation of serenity. What was she doing there? They hadn't made their understanding known yet. She could still be ruined if anyone found her there in his room. He didn't want their marriage to start off with rumors surrounding it. "You should not be here."
"Shh," she replied, her soft hand sliding up between his thighs. She stroked his growing erection until he arched his hips in languid arousal. And when she closed her mouth around him, a groan escaped his lips.
Where had an inexperienced virgin learned such technique? Had he been sober, he might have given the question more thought. Had he been sober, he might have given the woman kneeling between his legs with her lips wrapped around his pole a second glance, but he wasn't sober. And he didn't do either of those things.
Later, as he slipped between her eagerly spread thighs, he thought he heard someone gasp behind him, but the sound was drowned out by Eleanor's welcoming coos and sighs as he nudged her body open and slid into her warm, welcoming wetness. There was no barrier to his possession— a detail that should have given him pause, but didn't. Right now he didn't care if she was a virgin or not. All that mattered to him was that she belonged to him.
The amazing, wonderful Eleanor was finally his.
London, September 1819
"You are not actually entertaining the idea of accepting Burrough's invitation, are you?" The question was asked in a tone both incredulous and vaguely insulting.
Over the edge of the invitation, Brahm Ryland flashed an annoyed glance at his brother. He and Wynthrope had been on speaking terms but six months now, and the slightly younger man still knew how to get under his skin like a festering splinter.
"Actually," he mimicked dryly, "I am doing just that, yes."
Wynthrope's tanned brow creased in a scowl that told Brahm in no uncertain terms what the younger Ryland thought of that answer. "Are you foxed?"
From anyone else, that question would have been the most insulting they could ask. However, Brahm knew his brother was capable of being much,
much
more obnoxious than that. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his freshly polished boots on the top of his desk. "I am as sober as Aunt Jane."
His brother blinked. "Aunt Jane is dead these past twenty years."
Brahm smiled condescendingly. "I imagine it has been a while since she had a drink, then."
"Prior to her death, she was sauced every day of her life— except for Sunday, of course."
"Of course." Closing his eyes, Brahm stifled a sigh. Was his brother deliberately provoking him, or was Wynthrope truly stupid? It had been so long since they'd had a brotherly relationship— not that they had one now— that there were times when he really didn't know what to think of his sibling. He loved him— sometimes he even liked him— but most of the time he thought of Wynthrope as the wind; the only thing constant about him was that he was never,
ever
constant. Not with Brahm, at least. Not with their brothers either. Brahm couldn't speak for Wynthrope's wife, Moira, but if the smile on the woman's face counted for anything, his brother was pleasing in marriage at least.
He didn't have the patience to verbally dance with Wynthrope this morning. The invitation from the Earl Burrough had come like an unexpected guest— not necessarily wanted, but not entirely unwelcome. And above all else, it had come as a surprise. Why would Burrough invite him, of all people, to his home? Surely the old man couldn't have forgotten what Brahm had done the last time he'd been in his house?
Of course, it wasn't as though Brahm's memory of that night was that clear either— it had happened more than a decade ago. All he knew was that he thought he had been bedding Eleanor, but he had awakened the next morning beside her sister. Of course, Eleanor had refused to marry him. Refused to even speak to him, and Lord Burrough, her father, had him unceremoniously ejected from his country estate. All Burrough seemed to know, however, was that Brahm had broken his daughter's heart, not that he had shagged his other daughter to do it.
The next few months that followed were a blur as well, as he had spent them in a stupor, trying to forget Eleanor's face. He thought it had worked, but there was that night a few years later when he'd seen her at a ball given by Lord and Lady Pennington. He'd watched her dance every dance with some young fop as he himself downed glass after glass of disgusting champagne. One minute he was horribly jealous of the fop, wanting Eleanor to show at least some indication that she was aware of his presence, and the next he was standing on the refreshment table, relieving himself in the cut crystal punch bowl for all to see.
Even through the fog of drink he could plainly remember Eleanor's horrified reaction. There could be no denying that she had been painfully aware of him at that moment.
"You are going to see her, aren't you?" His brother's tone was faintly accusatory. "You want to see Lady Eleanor."
The sound of her name was enough to send Brahm's heart into a shameful gallop.
Eleanor
. Over thirty years of age, she was considered an ape leader by many. An old maid to be pitied and whispered about behind fluttering fans. To Brahm she was a painful memory, so deeply imbedded in his mind that her image was burned into the backs of his eyes. Ever since he had given up the drink, she had started taking up more and more of his thoughts. He dreamed about her, thought of her at the strangest times. She was the one person to whom he hadn't apologized for the hurt he had sown. He owed her that. And maybe once he had apologized, once he had proven to her that he was a changed man, she would cease haunting him.
And yes, if he admitted the truth, perhaps she'd give him a second chance. God, how weak and pathetic that made him feel, but it was true. There had never been another woman who made him want to propose marriage— never another woman who made him smile the same way that Eleanor had. Their time together had been brief, their courtship practically nonexistent, but those weeks spent in her company had been among the best moments of his life.
And moments such as those had been few and very, very far between.
"Your silence is very telling," Wynthrope remarked, bringing him back to the here and now. "You do realize you are setting yourself up for a mighty fall?"
Brahm nodded as he tossed the invitation onto his desk. "I do."
"And yet you plan to follow it through?"
"I would rather fall than continue walking this precipice."
His brother arched a dark brow. "How positively poetic."
If his tone were any drier it would have been a desert. Brahm chuckled. "Do not be jealous simply because I have a more lyrical manner than you do."
Wynthrope's answering expression was dubious. "I am simply nauseous over it."
Again Brahm laughed. He should know better than to verbally spar with his younger brother. Wynthrope had a wit— and a tongue— like a rapier. He could slice someone wide open and the person would never even know he was bleeding. Brahm could have no doubt that his words made his brother ill, and yet he sounded so…sincere.
"You have, of course, thought of how badly this meeting could go?"
Ah, here was Wynthrope's genuine sincerity. He didn't know his younger brother that well, and God knew they needed patience and time if they were ever to become friends, but they cared about each other, loved each other. After many years of misunderstandings and resentment, that connection was pleasantly warming.
