No, the person she was angry at most of all was Lydia. She had never truly admitted it, not even to herself until this moment, but she harbored such ill will toward her sister. Oh, it wasn't that she believed Lydia any more to blame than Brahm— it took two to do what they did. It was something deeper, something so much darker than simple hurt pride.
Lydia knew Brahm in a way that Eleanor didn't— a way that Eleanor should have. So did Fanny Carson. No doubt there were other women who held that distinction as well. No doubt Eleanor would feel this same anger toward them also.
She was jealous. There could be no denying it. She didn't like that other women had known Brahm in the biblical sense while she, who was supposed to have married him, whom he claimed to want most urgently, did not. Why had he never tried to bed her? That was where the anger stemmed. Why these other women and not her?
It didn't matter, she knew that rationally. It was all in the past. Even if Fanny Carson's memoirs damaged Brahm's claim that he was not a libertine, Eleanor could not allow the knowledge to affect her treatment of him now. He deserved the chance she had promised. If he hadn't changed, she would know it before the party was over, of that she was certain. If Lady Dumont didn't creep into his bed, then someone else would, and Eleanor would hear about it.
She could only hope that if she did hear about it, she wouldn't feel this same empty gnawing in her gut. Brahm Ryland did not belong to her, and she had no right to feel so possessive. But possessive she was. Despite his betrayal, despite everything, Eleanor had to face the fact that she retained feelings for Brahm. She reacted to him in a way she had never reacted to anyone else, and unless they set things right between them, there was a very good chance she never would react that way with another.
A man without equal, indeed.
* * *
Brahm returned from the afternoon's riding somewhat stiff and sore, but not as bad off as he had feared. It wasn't as though he hadn't been on horseback since the accident— he had been, just not for so long a time. It was difficult for him to mount a horse now as he never knew if his leg was going to support him or not. Having it stay in one position for so long was usually an invitation for pain.
Still, he had enjoyed the exercise and the chance to be social with some of his peers. It also gave him a chance to judge the other bachelors who had been invited. None of them was what he would consider serious competition. Perhaps old Burrough had planned it that way. Brahm wouldn't be the least bit surprised if inviting the other bachelors was part of an elaborate ruse, a ruse to reunite him and Eleanor.
That he was even thinking in terms of competition should have worried him but it didn't. His obsession with Eleanor was based on real feelings. Many years ago he'd taken quite a fancy to her. He still fancied her. He wanted her with an urgency he'd never felt before. She looked so cool, so remote, but he knew that she was passionate inside. It was that very passion that had him struggling to keep control when they'd first become involved. Time had not diminished her passion or his reaction to it. It had taken but a few days for him to resign himself to the truth.
He wanted to marry Eleanor, and he'd do just about anything to make that happen. First he had to make things right between them. Then, if luck was with him, she would consent to be his. It didn't make sense, but that was the way of things.
He didn't deserve her, but he didn't care. She deserved better than a man with more scars and wounds inside than out. She deserved someone who didn't have to live with the knowledge that he had humiliated himself and his family more times than he could count. And she deserved better than a man who was convinced he could have saved his father's life if only he had been a better person. If only he hadn't been a helpless drunkard.
But there could be no changing the past, and he would do better not to dwell on what might have been. He could control only the now. He could try only to atone for the past and work toward making the future better. He had accepted so much already. He had accomplished so much already. Perhaps someday, after he had earned the forgiveness of those he'd wronged, after enough healing time had passed, then he'd forgive himself. He was closer to that goal now than he had been even six months ago.
Having his family around him had done more good than he ever would have thought possible. His brothers were everything to him, but they had their own lives now, and it was time for Brahm to take control of his own.
He was the last one to enter the house, as his leg prevented him from keeping up with the others. He didn't mind. Lord Brend— Lydia's husband— had fallen back and offered to keep him company, but Brahm sent him on his way. It wouldn't be right to make polite conversation with a man whose wife he had shagged.
Needless to say, Lord Brend had a little company on that account.
The peace of being alone was nice after the boisterous afternoon. Plus it made it easier for him to conceal how hard the day's exercise had been on him. Male pride, it was an awful thing.
Tension vibrated through his cane as he slowly dragged himself upstairs. It was a warm day, but the sweat on his brow had little to do with the temperature and everything to do with the exertion of the climb. There had to be rain coming for his leg to ache like this.
Of course there was rain coming. This was England.
By the time he entered his bedchamber, he was winded, damp, and in a hellish mood. Charles, his valet, was waiting. God love him, he had a hot bath and fresh clothes ready.
"Do you require my assistance, my lord?"
"Just with my boots, Charles. I believe I can manage the rest, thank you."
After the accident Brahm had depended on Charles for many things, and pride was not an issue where the valet was concerned, so it was not conceit that kept him from asking for help now. He just wanted to be alone. He wanted it badly enough that he'd wrestle himself in and out of the bath.
Charles didn't argue. He simply pulled off Brahm's dirty boots and took them with him to clean and polish. "I will check back in an hour," he promised.
Brahm smiled as the older man left the room. Sometimes Charles was very maternal toward him, clucking over him like a hen over her chick. It was nice. Normally Brahm was the one taking care of everything— it was his duty as viscount.
That responsibility was one of the reasons he found such solace in drink. Most of his life had been spent trying to be what was expected of him. When he drank, everything he kept bottled up inside came rushing out. After a while, it became a sort of obsession— letting the demons out. Now he was forced to recognize that there was no longer anything expected of him, by anyone, and the only thing left to do was to reconcile with those demons. He was beginning to think he had almost succeeded.
Alone in the cool, summer-fresh silence of his room, Brahm removed his clothes and tossed them on the bed for Charles to collect later to have laundered. Naked, he limped around the bed, using the mattress for support.
The copper tub had been placed close enough to the bed that he could hold one of the posters for support as he climbed in. It would be more helpful when he tried to climb out. He lifted one foot and eased it into the bath. The instant the hot water touched his lame leg, the ache in it began to subside. Slowly he slid down into the tub, wincing as his leg put up a last-minute fuss.
The water was hot— too hot for a summer's day. Sweat beaded behind his ears, but he leaned back and allowed the heat to work its magic. Soon the ache in his leg eased and tension leached from his body. He lay limp in the tub, dozing lightly until the bath began to lose its heat and his fingers were wrinkled.
He scrubbed with sandalwood soap and a soft cloth, covering himself in lather as he washed the dirt and sweat of the day from his skin. Then he rinsed, submersing himself fully in the tub before breaking the surface with a gusty gasp for breath.
He hauled himself from the cooling water with the help of the bed. The posters were sturdy and solid, easily taking his weight as he favored his leg as much as possible. The water lapped around his knees as he reached for the towel Charles had left for him. He was wrapped in it, surveying the clothing laid out for him, when his valet knocked.
"Perfect timing," Brahm told him as the older man entered the room. "I am in need of your magic."
Finally, a few hours after his return from riding, Brahm was fit to join the others downstairs for a drink before dinner— minus the drink, of course.
Cane in hand, he made his way down the wide stairs with lazy caution. There was no need to hurry, and he wasn't about to risk injuring himself just to watch other people imbibe when he couldn't.
It would be so easy to feel sorry for himself, not just for his inability to join others in something so commonplace as a before-dinner drink, but for the state of his leg as well. Some days he allowed himself to be sullen, but for the most part he put those feelings aside. What was the point to such thoughts? There was nothing he could do about his cravings except fight them. He could not have just one drink; it only made the need worse and more difficult to fight. There was nothing he could do about his leg except be glad the surgeon hadn't removed it. He had wanted to, but Devlin had stopped him. Thank God for his brother.
Thank God for the second chance he had been given. He could have been killed along with his father, but obviously fate still had plans for him. He was eager to discover what those were. If they were anything like the gifts he had already been given— his family, his friends— then he was one very lucky man indeed.
Almost immediately after entering the drawing room where Lord Burrough— Burr— and his family and their guests sat chatting and drinking, Brahm knew that something was different. That something had to do with him. Gazes turned toward him as he entered. People smiled, some even chuckled. There were whispers, and the air suddenly seemed charged.
Good Lord, what had he done? His gaze immediately shot to Eleanor. She looked away, her cheeks flushing a becoming but worrisome pink. Just the other night she had agreed to give him a second chance, and now she couldn't even look him in the eye? This wasn't good. Had something happened with Lydia? Had Eleanor's sister said something about that night?
His gaze sought the younger blond woman and found her. She stood with a group of other ladies, including Wynthrope's former mistress, Lady Dumont. They were all watching him with expressions of barely veiled amusement— coy, sexual amusement that made him very nervous. Woman was the most effective of predators, and he didn't stand a chance against an entire pack. They looked as though they would dearly love to eat him— not in a cannibalistic manner but a very base sexual one.
Surely they wouldn't look at him that way if Lydia had revealed how he had betrayed Eleanor's trust? They would shun him, turn away from his gaze instead of meeting it with hungering glances of their own.
Was Lady Merrott looking at his crotch?
Shifting his weight, Brahm pivoted on his heel and turned away from their scrutiny. Lord Burrough gestured for Brahm to join him, and he did so. If Lydia had said something, he'd rather face her father than her.
But Burrough said nothing of any scandal. He wanted only to discuss the afternoon's ride.
The tension continued through dinner, with several guests making remarks that put a frown on Brahm's face. It wasn't until the ladies excused themselves and the port and cigars came out that he finally learned what the devil was going on.
"So, Creed," Merrott began, puffing on a fragrant cigar. "How is your 'massive maleness,' old man?"
Brahm's eyes widened as his companions' laughter filled the dining room. "I beg your pardon?"
"You are a virtuoso," Lord Birch, a bachelor of plain looks and large fortune, informed him. "And your instrument is a woman's body."
"Form," Merrott corrected.
Brahm glanced between the two of them. "What the hell are you two talking about?"
"Bunch of damn foolishness," Lord Burrough muttered. "Someone tell the boy. It is obvious he has no idea what is going on."
Birch took a small leather-bound book from his jacket and slid it across the table to Brahm. "Apparently you are a man without equal, Creed. You've made us all look like bumbling idiots."
Merrott snorted. "The whore was no more truthful in her details concerning Creed than she was with me. She was just angry I wouldn't pay her. No doubt Creed paid her to say what she did."
A book, a whore, and payments made? This did not bode well. A sense of unease filled him as Brahm lifted the book.
Memoirs of a Well-Loved Lady
by Fanny Carson.
Sweet Jesus. He had gotten a note from Fanny revealing that she was writing her memoirs and asking if he would care to make a donation to keep his name out of them, but Brahm had ignored it and her request. It had seemed like a half-arsed blackmail attempt. Everyone who knew Fanny knew her skills did not lie with reading and writing.
He opened the book to the marked pages, his face heating as he read what was written there about him. Someone must have helped Fanny write this— someone with more vocabulary than sense.
