"I did not know what I was doing."
"Did you not?"
He didn't even flinch, as though he was accustomed to the rebuttal. Yes, he must have heard it often enough. "You have witnessed my behavior when I have been drinking, Eleanor. I am told it is as though another has taken possession of my body."
That was true. That night at Pennington's soiree when he had relieved himself in their punch bowl had been a nightmare. Eleanor had never seen anything so shocking, and the fact that he had smirked at her while doing it was something she would never forget. It had been like looking at another man. There had been nothing of
her
Brahm in that flat, malicious gaze.
"Ah, so then it was another man who took my sister to his bed. All is forgiven, obviously." Where was this sarcasm coming from? She'd never spoken to anyone like this in all her life, but he brought it out in her. As much as she wanted to forgive him, she wanted to strike out at him as well.
His smile was rueful. "If your forgiveness was that easily given, it would not be worth pursuing."
Now what the devil did that mean? Did he want her to be hard on him?
"I did not know what I was doing that night," he informed her. "If I had been in my right mind, it never would have happened. I would have known who it was coming to my bed."
There was that insinuation that he had mistaken Lydia for her again. Thank goodness for the darkness so he couldn't see the flush that was surely spreading up her cheeks— it made it so much easier to ignore his words.
"You said you were foxed. You do not need to explain to me how that weakened your resolve. I have heard spirits can have that effect on a man." Could he tell that she didn't believe it? She could not bring herself to accept that drunkenness could make someone act in a way he didn't at least contemplate when sober.
He shifted his weight. Was his leg bothering him? She fought the urge to lead him to a bench where he might sit. Let him be uncomfortable— Lord knew she was.
"Foxed is putting it mildly. Eleanor, I do not remember anything about that night except— except someone entering my room, and waking up with Lydia beside me."
Eleanor's eyes narrowed. Was it possible he was speaking the truth? And if so, why had he faltered? What wasn't he telling her?
"I am not quite certain I believe you, Lord Creed. Your hesitation tells me you have yet to confess all about that night, but do not mistake my words for curiosity. I do not care to take this discussion any further."
Even in the murky moonlight she could see his cheeks darken. He glanced away from her, suddenly uncertain, like a young boy. "I do." Then he turned to face her, his gaze boring into hers. "You see, Eleanor, the only other memory I have of that night is the thought that it was you who came to my bed."
Fire swept across Eleanor's flesh. He had admitted it. Of all the brazen, shameless things to say to her, he had taken his insinuations and forced her to consider them as fact.
"What a sterling opinion you must have had of me to believe I would play the seductress." It was impossible to keep the acrimony from her tone.
He didn't miss a beat. "Better than your own opinion if you thought I would so easily forsake you for another."
Damn him for throwing her own insecurities back at her and using them in his own defense. He didn't stop there. "You accepted my proposal. I thought you wanted me as I wanted you. That was my opinion of you. Was I wrong in thinking you returned my feelings?"
What could she say in response to such an accusation? If she told him she had wanted him— that she had been on her way to falling in love with him— then she gave him power over her. If she told him he was wrong, then it would make her look as though she only sought to marry him for his title and his fortune.
She
was not the villain in this sordid tale.
"You were not wrong." God, how awful pride tasted— bitter and sharp in the back of her throat.
He raised his hand again, hesitating for a split second before brushing the knuckles so quickly across her cheek that she thought she might have imagined his touch.
"So can you understand how I might have allowed my cloudy mind to turn someone else into you?"
He wasn't asking outright for her forgiveness, only her understanding. Somehow Eleanor expected that to Brahm they were one and the same. If she understood him, then it would be easier for her to eventually forgive him. But how could she understand what it was like to completely lose oneself? The only time she had ever come close to that in the past was when he kissed her. Those feelings— lust, passion, desire, whatever one wanted to call them— had taken such a hold on her, she would have done anything for him, would have followed him anywhere.
"What do you want from me, Brahm?"
It was a simple enough question, but it gave him pause all the same. "It is not so much a want as it is a need. Does that make sense to you?"
"No. What is the difference?" There didn't seem to be much of one on the surface.
His brow wrinkled, then smoothed again. "'Want' implies desire— that in itself suggests that the urge can be sated."
Was he deliberately using words like "desire" and "urge" to unsettle her?
"But a need is different. A person only needs things intrinsic to his survival." He met and held her gaze as the gravity of his words began to sink in. "I need you to understand what happens to me when I drink, Eleanor. I need you to know that it had nothing to do with you. I
need
you to know that I would do anything to take it back, to make it right. I need you to trust me again."
Eleanor's mouth was suddenly very dry. She licked her lips, unable to tear her gaze away from his. "I do not think you should say such things." God, what responsibility he was heaping on her! She didn't know if she could give him what he needed.
"Have you truly given up drinking spirits?" She had heard his words earlier when he announced them to the entire party, but she wanted— no,
needed
— him to say them to her now, while they were alone.
He nodded. "Yes."
"Has it been difficult?" If she was going to understand what happened to him when he drank, then she was going to require more information.
"Yes."
"Do you crave it?"
He chuckled; it was bitter and self-mocking. "God, yes."
That was a difficult thing for her to wrap her mind around. Certain times of the month she craved apple pie, and sometimes she believed she'd go mad if she didn't have it. Sometimes she ate a whole pie by herself. Was that how Brahm felt about spirits? She expected so, only on a much more dangerous scale.
This was too much for her to consider when he was standing so close, looking so hopeful.
"Why me?" The question burst forth before she could halt it. "Why do you need my trust?" Surely there were others he had disappointed. Had he gone to them with such requests as well?
She didn't have to think about it; she knew the answer was no. She was the only one to whom he had or would ever make this same request.
"I do not know," he replied, his tone starkly honest. "Perhaps because of all the awful things I have done, I regret injuring you the most."
Eleanor's heart leaped into her throat and began to pound there like a frantic knock on a locked door. "Even more than Lady Pennington's punch bowl?" Good Lord, how could she even ask such a thing? Hadn't she taught her sisters the importance of always giving the appearance of being a lady, even if one's thoughts were otherwise?
Brahm's answering chuckle was a soft brush of pure pleasure. Oh yes, she would do well not to give her trust over too quickly. This man was so very dangerous to her and her heart.
"Even more than that, yes."
She offered him her hand and he took it, holding her gloved fingers with the same elegance and certainty with which he held his cane, as though she were as much an extension of himself as it was.
"Everyone deserves a chance to atone for his past, Brahm. It is the Christian way. I have regrets of my own as well. You have my word that I will endeavor to acquiesce to your request."
He smiled. "I would like that."
Eleanor smiled in return, but inside she trembled with trepidation. What was she doing? What was she entering into? It was all well and good that he wanted her forgiveness, and decent of her to give him the chance to earn it, but this bargain of theirs felt like so much more than that.
It was as though she was giving him another chance at her heart, and she didn't know if she could trust him with that again. She would do well to honestly forgive him for hurting her so.
Even more disconcerting than the fact that he wanted her forgiveness after all these years was the undeniable awareness that she
wanted
to forgive him.
In fact, for both their sakes, she hoped that she could.
Chapter 5
G
iving Brahm a chance to prove himself took up more of her time than Eleanor expected. Oddly enough, she didn't mind spending time with him. In fact, if she didn't think about his betrayal, she enjoyed his company.
Of course, she did not allow herself to forget what he had done for long.
One of the changes she noted in him was the sense of age he seemed to have acquired over the years. Little shocked him, and he was slow to pass judgment. He seemed content to watch others in silent contemplation, joining conversations when asked, or if he had something of import to add. He rarely initiated topics on his own, although he had plenty to say the few times they were alone over the next day and a half. The realization finally dawned that he cared nothing about the other people at the party— not even her family, save her father. His attention was focused on her alone, and Eleanor was certain she wasn't the only one who noticed.
In fact, she was fairly certain that Brahm's attention to her was the reason her sisters were acting so strangely. Every one of them had been out of the house and out of Eleanor's charge for a number of years. They had families, and they arrived at the house with all the servants and baggage a family brought with them when traveling. Each sister had brought her own maid, but one would never know it from the amount of times they called at Eleanor's bedroom door since Brahm's arrival, wanting help with their hair or a gown. Eleanor knew their making these requests of her had nothing to do with vanity or a wish to look appealing and everything to do with nosiness. They wanted to know if Brahm had renewed his addresses to her, and more importantly, they wanted to know if Eleanor allowed it. It was a lovely compliment to her pride that they thought a man would want to marry her after but a few days' reunion.
She told them nothing, of course, save that he deserved the chance to prove if he had indeed changed. Arabella thought it a fair and honorable statement. Muriel, Phoebe, and Lydia weren't so convinced. Lydia seemed especially adamant in her insistence that Eleanor not believe in Brahm.
"Men never change," Lydia informed her with a bored expression. "They simply become more adept at lying."
Eleanor felt sorry for her sister then, because she knew Lydia honestly believed it.
Her sisters and their watchful eyes were the reason she was so grateful that today was her day to take food and supplies to the unfortunate in their little village. As the lady in one of the wealthiest houses in the area, it was not only her right but her duty to provide for those in need. She took her duties very seriously.
This morning she had listened patiently while Mrs. Rudd told her of her rheumatism and Miss Jones talked of Mr. Smith, a prosperous young farmer who had started calling on her as of late. These women had real concerns in their lives, real worries and obstacles to overcome. Wondering whether to trust in a former blackguard viscount was not something that would occur to either of them. Mrs. Rudd had no one to look after her and was often too sore and stiff to move. Miss Jones was from a family that had fallen on hard times. A good marriage would go a long way to ensuring her family's health and comfort.
The concerns of the villagers certainly put Eleanor's petty worries in perspective. She needn't worry about money or comfort. She would be well provided for whether she married or not. Her father had been her main concern, and she was beginning to suspect that there was little more wrong with his health than simply growing older. Her betrothal— if she found a suitable gentleman— would no doubt bring about a swift recovery.
She returned from her visiting with a clear mind and the resolution that no matter what happened between Brahm and her, her life would continue to be something she should be thankful for. Yes, she owed Brahm the chance to prove himself, but she also had to keep in mind that he was only human, and that she shouldn't let her expectations of him get out of hand.
And there was the fact that she had promised only to give him a chance to prove himself. That did not mean that she was duty-bound to forgive him when it was over. It really didn't matter. She would do whatever was necessary to rid herself of this preoccupation with him.
