What if the invitation hadn't come from her father, but from Lydia? What then? What if her sister had orchestrated his appearance? What if Brahm and Lydia planned to continue their affair? Eleanor would not stand for it— never mind that what they did was none of her concern.
But if she confronted her father and he hadn't sent the invitation, he would want to know who had and why…
And that would be Lydia's problem, not hers. Eleanor's jaw tightened with conviction even as her insides warred against it. She'd been like a mother to her sisters and just as sheltering, resolutely doing all she could to keep them from harm.
But Lydia was a grown woman now, not a young girl. Eleanor had protected her younger sister once where Brahm Ryland was concerned. She would not do it again. For once, she was going to ignore her maternal instincts.
Just as she had ignored them when she noticed that Brahm was still using a cane to walk. Many men used canes as fashionable accessories, and when she first saw him in public she thought perhaps he was just another affected fop, but then she remembered that his leg had been shattered in the accident that had claimed his father's life. Brahm was very fortunate that he had managed to survive. She tried not to remember her own relief when she heard that he had recovered from the ordeal. For a while it had been unclear whether his wounds would kill him, and as much as she resented him, she had secretly prayed for God to spare him.
Her prayers had been answered. Why couldn't God have been so obliging when she begged him to make Brahm's betrayal nothing more than a bad dream?
And why had her heart given such a traitorous leap when their gazes met? She'd wished she'd worn a better dress— to make him see what he'd lost, of course. She'd wished that the years had been as kind to her as they had to him. He was such an unfairly handsome man. He had the kindest face, marked by the humor and bitterness of life. There were lines of laughter around his whiskey brown eyes and lines of sorrow around his always-poised-on-the-brink-of-a-smirk mouth.
His eyes. His mouth. His hair. His hands. She had forgotten none of it. Sheltered and closeted away from society as unmarried women were, she had suffered twice as long as she should have under the weight of his memory. Cloistered as she had been, he had been the first man to truly turn her head, the first man to make her see her appeal and worth as a woman. Whether he had meant the words he'd said, she didn't know. She thought he had. He seemed to genuinely like her, and she had been genuinely infatuated with him. In fact, she'd been on the verge of falling in love with him, so much so that when she caught him with Lydia, she tried to make up a thousand excuses for him. She had wanted to
forgive
him for betraying her with her own sister. What did that say about her own character? She had to be defective to be sure.
His hair was longer now. It made him look a bit like a pirate— or the hero of one of Byron's poems. Oh, it would be so much easier to hate him if he were ugly! But she was so tired of despising him. She was so tired of carrying this secret, and it had felt so good to reveal the truth to him— as if that huge weight had finally been lifted from her shoulders.
It wasn't hate that drove her to her father's room now. It was fear. She was so very, very afraid that if Brahm remained in their house, she would start wanting to forgive him again, that she would want to believe that he was sorry and that he might have become a different man. She was afraid that she might like him. Worse yet, she was still a cloistered, sheltered woman. Older, yes she was, but she was terrified that she might yet be that naive girl at heart.
She was afraid that if she gave up her hate, if she let it all go, it might turn toward her sister, and she could not hate the child she'd practically raised, not for
that
man— not for any man.
If she gave up her hate, if she believed in him, then he would have the power to hurt her again, to make a fool of her trust once again. That would not happen. Could not happen.
She wanted Brahm Ryland gone.
Now
.
Her sisters gathered around her as she knocked on her father's door. God bless them, they looked so outraged on her behalf. There had been many times in the past when they acted as though they resented Eleanor and her dual role as oldest sister and surrogate mother, but on the odd occasion when she needed them— or they thought she needed them— they flocked to her, doing whatever was necessary to protect and support her.
From behind the heavy oak door, Eleanor heard her father call for her to enter. She turned the doorknob before her courage could desert her.
Jeramiah Durbane reclined on his bed, a great mountain of pillows supporting his impressive frame. At almost seventy years of age, he had pale hair that was more white than blond, but his blue eyes were still bright with life and his physique impressive with youthful vitality.
That was, he had been vital until this illness struck. It was only because of this illness that Eleanor had agreed to this foolish house party. If her father wanted to dress in a frock and walk into town, she'd agree to it if it might keep him with her just a little longer.
He hardly looked like a man with one foot in the grave today, however. He eyed his daughters with a suspicious wariness that only the father of five girls could conjure.
"Good God," he muttered gruffly. "There is only one thing that could bring the lot of you bursting in here like that. I must be dead— or I shall soon wish I was."
Eleanor might have chuckled at her father's wit were she not so prepared to be angry with him.
"A guest has just arrived that I thought you might be interested in, Papa," she informed him, choosing her words carefully.
That her father didn't look surprised sent a tremor of welcome unease down her spine. It had been he, not Lydia.
Which meant that Brahm's arrival would be a surprise to her younger sister as well.
Good
.
"And who might that be?" her father finally asked after a few seconds' silence.
Eleanor frowned at his feigned innocence. He wasn't fooling anyone, especially not her. "Viscount Creed."
Her father's attempt at astonishment failed miserably. "Really?"
"Stop it, Papa. I know you invited him. You fairly reek of guilt."
Her father sniffed the air. "That's liniment, Ellie, not guilt. Trust me, I know what guilt smells like."
Someone snickered behind her— Arabella, no doubt, Eleanor didn't bother to look. "Why?"
Her father knew what she was asking. "I was good friends with the boy's father, and one must hold loyal to such connections."
What hogwash. What about family loyalty?
Her father smiled. "Do not fret so, Ellie. I still hold you above all others."
Eleanor's cheeks warmed. How did he know what she was thinking like that? "I want you to ask him to leave."
"I cannot."
Whyever not? Surely her father wasn't going to hold to propriety in such a situation? "You invited him. You can uninvite him," she insisted. "It is very simple."
He admonished her with a gentle look. "Not that simple. Besides, I see no reason to toss the boy out on his ear."
His ear wasn't the body part Eleanor imagined Brahm Ryland landing on.
"Papa," Arabella began in a reasonable tone before Eleanor could begin a litany of reasons. "Viscount Creed and Eleanor's…understanding ended badly. That should be cause enough to not welcome him into the house."
Eleanor gave a satisfied nod. She couldn't have put it better herself.
Their father dismissed the statement with a wave of his hand. "That was a long time ago."
"Papa!" Eleanor couldn't believe her ears. Could he shrug off her disappointment just like that? Of course he could. He didn't know the extent of Brahm's villainous behavior. Her father believed her to be bound by her embarrassment and silly feminine pride, no doubt. He had no idea what a slap to the face it was to have Brahm Ryland under the same roof.
Although maybe she should be thankful to her father. This conversation was a reminder that she had every right to despise Brahm, that her earlier fears were totally misgiven. She had nothing to fear from him. Nothing at all.
Her father's gaze was shrewd as it shot to hers. "What is it, girl? Are you worried he might try to renew his addresses? Mayhap you are afraid he won't?"
Heat coursed through Eleanor's cheeks, burning her face with shame she didn't want to dissect. Had her father hit on something with his glib remark? Was she worried that Brahm might try to woo her once again? Or was she frightened that he wouldn't try to woo her? If he paid her no attention, would she finally give in to the realization that she would probably end her life alone, unwed, a dried-up old maid?
No, that wasn't it at all. She was in charge of her own destiny. There was no reason she couldn't marry someday if she wished it. She was simply angry that her father, like so many others of his sex— and her own as well, to be truthful— weighed so much of a woman's self against what men thought of her.
"Neither," she replied coolly. "Papa, I am merely concerned about Lord Creed's past behavior." That was so very, very true— if her father only knew.
Her father shifted against the pillows. "I take it you are referring to behavior that had nothing to do with you?"
If it was at all possible, Eleanor's flush deepened. There had been a few scandalous times when Brahm stole a kiss from her, but no, that wasn't what she meant.
"I refer to his penchant for copious consumption of spirits. You have witnessed his atrocious antics just as I have. What if he wreaks such havoc here?" It was all she could do not to flash a smug smile. Let her father argue with that logic. After all, Brahm's past actions more than spoke for themselves.
Her father pulled a face. "Rubbish. Haven't heard a story about him since his father died— God rest his soul. Rumor has it Creed's turning over a new leaf."
Eleanor could not believe her ears. "But— "
He cut her off. "Did you not tell me just the other day, when I was determined to never call on Dr. Kerry again, that everyone deserved a second chance?"
Oh-oh. "Yes." It was a squeak of a whisper.
Her father smoothed the expanse of sheet next to him with the flat of one broad hand. "Then surely Viscount Creed deserves the same consideration? Unless, of course, you can offer a reason why he does not?"
Oh, she could, make no mistake! Eleanor opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her father was watching her— far more closely than she was comfortable with. Her sisters too had closed around her like a cape, their gazes burning into her so she didn't dare spare a glance at any of them.
"Eleanor?" Muriel prodded softly. "Is there a reason Viscount Creed does not deserve a second chance?"
The tone of her sister's voice was hopeful, indicating that if there was such a reason, she wished Eleanor would present it, but Eleanor could not. Brahm might have betrayed her trust long ago, and he might have included Lydia in his betrayal, but Eleanor could not reply in kind. Without admitting the awful truth, she had nothing.
"No," she whispered, an invisible weight pressing down on her shoulders. "I suppose not."
"Good." Her father's pleased grin was painful to look at. "Then the matter is settled." His humor faded as he met Eleanor's gaze. She could only imagine what her expression must be to warrant such a change in him.
"All will be well, Ellie. You will see. Viscount Creed will be no trouble at all. Try to give him the benefit of the doubt. You may even find it within yourself to forgive him."
Eleanor didn't speak; she couldn't. Her own father had sided against her, and she could not reveal to them the one thing that would bring him back.
Perhaps Brahm had changed; it was possible, but she doubted it. Even if by some miracle he had given up drinking to excess, he was still the same person. It wouldn't change what he had done. It wouldn't change the fact that he had made a fool out of her.
A second chance. To do what? Make a fool of her again? No. There was no way she would allow that. As for forgiving him, what a joke that was. She would never forgive Brahm for what he did— for toying with both her and Lydia as he did. Never.
Never.
Chapter 3
S
he hadn't kicked him out, yet.
By that evening, when his dinner clothes had been laid out by his valet and all other belongings unpacked, Brahm began to suspect that perhaps Eleanor had been unsuccessful in her attempt to have him ousted from the house. It was either that or she hadn't had the chance to talk to her father. It was unlikely that she would fail, as the old man doted on her, but if it was true that Burrough was as ill as the gossips indicated, then he might not have been well enough to have such a discussion with his eldest daughter.
And when Arabella asked the guests to excuse Eleanor from dinner that night because of a headache, Brahm knew it was his presence that caused her pain. The others knew as well. Society might not know why Eleanor had jilted him, but the fact that she had was common knowledge. More than one guest cast an accusatory gaze in his direction after glancing at Eleanor's empty chair. Her father didn't join them either. The old earl must be ill indeed.
