But the highlight of the evening had to be Lydia's reaction to him— and he meant highlight as in the worst possible thing that could have happened. She didn't seem outraged to see him as her sisters had. In fact, she seemed rather pleased, which raised more than a few eyebrows. Her husband remained blissfully ignorant as he chatted up several other guests.
If Lydia had any hopes of renewing their "acquaintance," she was bound to be disappointed. She was a pretty enough woman, but Brahm didn't find her the least bit attractive. Perhaps it was the fact that he knew he could have her if he wished, or perhaps it was because she reminded him very much of a predator in search of her next meal.
It hadn't occurred to him at the time, but now that his mind was clear as he looked at her, Brahm was certain that she had wanted him only because he had wanted Eleanor. And if this party really was a flimsily veiled husband hunt for Eleanor— despite the presence of other unmarried ladies— then Lydia was bound to suspect that he had tossed his hat into the ring. That would no doubt make him— and any other man at the party— very attractive indeed.
The footman came along with the wine, and Brahm allowed him to fill his glass. The claret was no doubt fine, but it would go to waste regardless. But people were more apt to notice an empty glass than a full one, and he had no desire to explain to this bunch that he could not trust himself to ingest even a sip. Fortunately, wine didn't pose the same temptation that other libations did, and therefore presented less danger within his reach.
"Bring me a glass of water, would you?" he asked the footman. The servant nodded and turned to the sideboard to fulfill his request.
"Lord Creed," a soft voice from down the table spoke. "It seems an age since we last met."
He met Lydia's gaze directly. What game was she playing? "It has been several years, Lady Brend."
"You look well." Her tone was like a warning bell that echoed in his head. Brahm never claimed to be a rake, or any kind of expert when it came to women, but he knew blatant flattery— sexual sycophancy— when he heard it.
"He's unmarried," Lord Brend replied jovially. "Of course he looks well!"
The remark drew laughter from several guests. Lydia smiled coyly, but her attention never left Brahm. "Unmarried. We all know what a close call that was, do we not, Lord Creed?"
Was that Arabella or Muriel who gasped ever so softly at her sister's obvious reference to Eleanor jilting him? But perhaps he simply imagined it because the other Durbane sisters soon met the remark with musical laughter.
"Oh, Lydia," Phoebe tittered. "You really are too droll." There was a tightness to her smile that didn't quite manage to hide her true feelings. She did not approve of Lydia's remark. Brahm didn't either, even though Lydia had done him a great service by making the joke— as had Phoebe by joining in. They were presenting the illusion to the rest of the guests that whatever discord there had once been between him and Eleanor was gone now. In other words, there was no gossip to be found in his being there.
"Indeed," he added, joining the ruse even though it left a bad taste in his mouth. "Especially since I am certain that everyone here knows that Lady Eleanor was truly the lucky one."
He was only saying what no doubt everyone else was thinking, but Arabella flashed him a grateful glance anyway. Regardless of Eleanor's motives for crying off, for refusing to marry him only hours after giving her consent, society never looked pleasingly upon a jilt. If Brahm wanted, he could have made some very disparaging remarks against Eleanor— years ago as well as now— but to what end? He hadn't deserved her when she was his for the having, proving, if to no one other than himself, that Eleanor had been the one in the right after all.
Lydia continued to watch him with that rapacious gaze. Could no one else see it? Or did no one else care? She looked so much like Eleanor, but not even half as lovely. Eleanor might have had the look of an angry woman when she gazed at him, but Lydia looked bitter. While Eleanor had a cool elegance, Lydia was simply unfeeling and overdone. She was like a distorted version of Eleanor. How could he have ever mistaken her for the girl he had wanted to marry? And he must have been mistaken that night, because he never in a million years would have bedded this woman if his wits had been about him.
He remained quiet during the remainder of the meal, speaking only when a question was directed his way. Was it just his imagination, or were people going out of their way to include him in conversation? To be sure, there were those who ignored him altogether— he was bad
ton
, after all— but a few others seemed to pay him undue attention, as though they sought his approval. Odd. It had been many years since anyone treated him in such a manner.
Oh, there were those mamas who didn't care whom their daughters married, provided he had ample fortune; they had never stopped curtsying to him, but these guests weren't greedy mamas, though there were a few mothers and daughters present. They were socially acceptable lords and ladies who would lead others by their example.
Could it be that he had actually changed enough for society to take notice? Or perhaps he was becoming fashionable in his unfashionableness? Did it matter? His brothers and their wives and their families and friends had done so much to bring him back into the world, perhaps their efforts had not gone to waste after all.
After dinner he enjoyed a cigar with the other gentlemen, listening to their ribald stories with a relaxed smile. No one seemed to notice that he didn't drink his port.
He was just about to escape to his room for the remainder of the evening when the butler stopped him in the corridor.
"I beg your pardon, my lord, but Lord Burrough requests that you attend him in his chamber."
This was it. They'd fed him, lulled him into a false sense of security, and now they were going to toss him out on his arse like the offal they believed him to be.
Or perhaps Lord Burrough was going to tell him why he had invited him in the first place. He might even offer him Eleanor's hand.
What a joke that would be.
"Thank you. I shall go right up."
"Do you require my assistance in locating His Lordship's chambers, my lord?"
Brahm shook his head. "I know where it is." He had visited that same chamber on his last visit, sharing a brandy with the old man before retiring to bed.
The butler bowed and left him. Brahm continued down the corridor to the hall, where a wide flight of stairs awaited. He paused at the bottom, staring up the large staircase that split into two separate curving paths halfway up. What rubbish this was. He was afraid to go up, afraid to face the man who had been a friend to his father, and a friend to him. He was afraid to face him because he had acted so very badly the last time he was in this house, and he was ashamed of it. He was ashamed of so very much. Every time he was confronted by another person he had wronged or slighted, it was like a knife twisting in his gut. It whittled the shame away, but it hurt like hell all the same.
He placed the tip of his cane on the first stair and pushed himself up. No one had mentioned his cane. Everyone pretended not to notice that he limped, that he was no longer physically perfect. It wasn't vanity speaking— or perhaps it was— but he had once had a reputation as being a fine specimen of manhood. He had been a Corinthian of the highest order, and now once he finally managed to mount a horse, he could stay in the saddle only a fraction of the time he once could before his leg started throbbing. And he had given up fencing altogether due to his lack of grace.
At the top of the stairs he paused to give his leg a rest. These kinds of exertions didn't take the toll on him that they once had, but he had long ago accepted that he would never be as he was before the accident. He had made his peace with that knowledge. It was a small price to pay for being given a second chance to make something of himself. It was more than his father had been given.
Eleanor's jilting him hadn't been enough to wake him up. It should have been. It never should have taken his father's death and almost his own to make him realize what a mess he had become. How different things might be right now if only Eleanor's refusal had been enough.
But it hadn't. All it had done was drive him into a bottle for a fortnight. For two blissful weeks he hadn't thought of her, and then he talked himself into believing he was better off without her. He believed it too— except for those odd occasions when soberness brought her memory with it, or he spotted her at a social function, such as that fateful night at Pennington's.
He managed to fool himself quite well until after the accident, when he started taking stock of the ruins of his life. The realization that he needed to change had brought with it an obsession with Eleanor Durbane, and the more people he confronted with his quest for forgiveness, the more he thought of her. She was second only to Wynthrope, and now that he and his brother had made amends, Eleanor was all there was left.
That's all it was. It wasn't as though he wanted a second chance at wooing her. God help him, that wasn't what he wanted at all.
"You are very thoughtful," a voice whispered near his ear.
Brahm jumped. How had she managed to sneak up on him like that? He took a quick step away, ignoring the twinge in his leg. "Forgive me. I did not mean to block the way."
Lydia watched him with amusement in her pale eyes. "There's no need of you being so polite and stiff with me, Brahm." She chuckled. "Well, perhaps 'stiff' was the wrong word."
His brows pulled together. "I am afraid I do not know what you mean." That was a lie, of course. He might be dim at times when it came to women, but he wasn't a complete idiot. She had obviously come looking for him.
She moved closer, the thin silk of her gown hugging her body in blatant invitation. Was the woman like this with every man, or was he one of the unfortunate few? Yes, he could take her, could plunge himself in her. It wouldn't take much effort to get hard and do just that, but if he was going to screw Lydia, he might as well go downstairs afterward and drink a whole bottle of brandy. Would she be so encouraging if she knew he thought sharing her bed would be a step down for him?
"Why are you here, Brahm?" Her expression was curious, her posture beckoning.
He shifted away from her, leaning on his cane when his injured leg refused to move fast enough. "I was invited."
She chuckled and pressed forward once more. "Obviously. But why did you accept?"
If she advanced any farther she was going to force him over the balustrade. Her question gave him pause. Answering her honestly might not be the best course of action, but lying might give the wrong impression. Did she know how much hurt their actions had dealt Eleanor? She couldn't, otherwise she wouldn't be there now, not if she loved Eleanor.
Obviously impatient with his silence, she tried again. "Are you here for me, or for Eleanor?"
"I am not here
for
anyone, madam." Politeness be damned, that was his last attempt at being gentlemanly with this woman. One more salacious remark from her and he was going to tell her to go straight to hell. He didn't have time for this. He didn't have
patience
for this.
Lydia ran a long, graceful hand along his lapel. "I have never forgotten our night together."
That was it. Staring at her and her pouty lips, Brahm was thoroughly disgusted with both of them. "And I have never
remembered
it. Excuse me."
He brushed past her and continued down the corridor to Lord Burrough's room. Her laughter followed him. She obviously was not a woman easily discouraged. Either that or she was simply having a laugh at his expense.
He was told to enter on the first knock, and he was all too glad to step inside. No matter what the old earl did to him, it was preferable to dealing with his lustful daughter.
The room was dark as he stepped inside, the light much dimmer than it had been in the corridor. A lamp burned on the table beside the bed where Lord Burrough reclined, a book beside his hip. He looked older than Brahm remembered, and tired, but other than that, he seemed surprisingly hale for a man reported to be in the twilight of his life.
Perhaps the gossips had exaggerated the earl's frailty.
"Well, if it isn't the Viscount Creed." His voice was strong as well. "Come in, boy, and let me have a look at you."
It never occurred to Brahm to disobey. He walked across the dark carpet until his shins were just inches from the earl's bed. The older man gazed up at him with pale eyes. "It's not polite to tower over me like that, young man. Sit."
There was a chair behind him, and Brahm pulled it up to the bed so he could sit, positioning himself so that his leg was stretched out at a comfortable angle. "It is good to see you again, my lord."
Burrough made a scoffing noise. "Don't 'my lord' me. I have known you all your life. Call me Burr, it's what your father used to call me."
Brahm nodded. "Very well." If a former friendship with Brahm's father was to thank for this warm welcome, Brahm wasn't going to fight it.
