"Port then," Faulkner continued. "You must have something."
It sounded as if Faulkner was fishing for a drinking partner— someone to get foxed with so he wouldn't be the only one drinking to excess. What a sad situation the dandy had gotten himself into. It would be so easy for Brahm to despise Faulkner for having placed him in this uncomfortable position, but he could not find anything but pity in his heart. He knew all too well the hold liquor could have on a man. The cravings ran deep, like the roots of an ancient oak, twisting around heart, soul, and mind until the sweet bliss of drunken oblivion blotted out all else. He would not risk becoming his former self just to save face with a fop too young and foolish to realize how deep a hole he was digging.
"Perhaps sherry if nothing else."
Faulkner would not give up. Just when Brahm thought he was going to have to take a firmer stance with the younger man, rescue came from the most unlikely of sources. The footman was gone, replaced by an angelic vision in a soft cream evening gown shot with shimmery golden threads. She offered him a delicate china cup on a saucer.
"Have some coffee, Lord Creed," Eleanor urged in a soft but determined tone. "I remember that you always did have a preference for it. You take it black with sugar, correct?"
Stunned, Brahm could manage little but a nod as he accepted the offered drink. What was she doing? Not only had she come to his rescue, but she had alluded to their past connection as well. Why would she come to his aid when he had betrayed her in such a deplorable manner? If nothing else, she should have been standing back enjoying his discomfort, not trying to assuage it by drawing attention to herself.
Finally composure returned. "Thank you, Lady Eleanor. You flatter me with your keen memory for such trivial details." Black with sugar indeed. It had been his standard remedy for a night of debauchery. The debauching he had given up, but the way he took his coffee remained.
"You are quite welcome." Her smile wasn't kind but it was sympathetic, and it gnawed at Brahm's gut. "There is a pot on the sideboard, should you care for more."
And then she turned her back on him and walked away as though nothing had happened. Had he imagined her swooping down to rescue him? Had it been a rescue at all? Or had it been Eleanor's subtle way of getting in her own dig at him? Whatever it was, he was pathetically grateful for it. Faulkner was off collecting his glass of bourbon, and Brahm was certain the young lord would not request he join him in drink again.
Lifting the cup to his lips, he took a sip, almost sighing in pleasure as the rich blend hit his tongue. It wasn't whiskey but it would do.
Conversation dwindled as the evening's entertainment began. There was to be music first, followed by a light supper and bit of cards before retiring. He would stay for the music as it would be rude not to, and he might even stay for the supper, depending on the demands of his stomach, but he would escape to his chamber before cards. Card playing was one of those activities that lent itself to drinking, and he had to be thoroughly inebriated to enjoy piquet or whist.
It seemed as though the years dropped away and he was young again when Eleanor took her seat at the pianoforte. Her lovely face was as smooth and unblemished as a cameo— no more lined than it had been when he first decided he wanted her for his own. Only the cool, quiet maturity of her features betrayed that years had passed and that they had not been transported back in time. She had been a beautiful girl, but she had become an exquisite woman. He watched as her neck bowed— a slender ivory arch that allowed her to direct her attention to the sheets of music spread before her.
Her fingers were deft and sure as she began to play. It was an unkind thought, but obviously all these years as an unmarried lady had improved her talent.
Had she been lonely? he wondered as the haunting melody she created filled the room. She played for the benefit of others now as she had the last time he'd sat and listened in this room. Last time he had been the one to lay claim to her and had sentenced her to being titled a jilt because she wouldn't reveal him for the bastard he was. Had she ever cursed him when she sat at her pianoforte and played to an empty room while each of her younger sisters left the house as a married woman?
He'd had liquor to amuse him, to keep him company. What amused and comforted Eleanor?
At least she'd make a better match this time around. Even as the thought crossed his mind, it brought a scowl with it. He hadn't given much thought to the fact that the purpose of this house party was to find Eleanor a husband, but that's why there were several very eligible bachelors present.
He no longer had any claim to Eleanor or her affections, but she had been his once, and he didn't much like the idea of anyone else having her.
He thought about the delicious flush that had crept up her cheeks earlier that day when he told her he had imagined it was she in his bed instead of Lydia. He couldn't be certain that she believed him, and he wouldn't fault her if she didn't, but for a second he had seen a flash of heat in her eyes.
Whatever else she thought of him, "unattractive" was not on the list, which led him to an interesting dilemma.
He had come here looking for her forgiveness and understanding. It hadn't truly occurred to him that his obsession with her might stem from the fact that he still had feelings for her. Perhaps that was the real reason for his attending this party. He didn't simply want to make amends, he wanted Eleanor.
It was folly to entertain such a fancy, but once it took hold of his brain, it refused to let go. If he could prove to Eleanor that he had changed, would she give him a second chance to win her heart? Would she give him a chance to see inside her, to know the woman she had become?
For the first time in a long, long time, Brahm felt as though there was hope for the future in his life. He had always known that he was expected to marry and produce an heir, but lately since all his brothers had found wedded bliss, he simply assumed one of their children would inherit the title. Now the idea of spending the rest of his days alone, playing Uncle Brahm, seemed less inviting than it once had.
It was all Eleanor's fault. She had burrowed her way under his skin, imbedding herself within him until she became as familiar as his hands. Years apart hadn't changed that. Perhaps it was guilt over how he had forsaken her, perhaps it was twisted obsession that would dwindle once he'd seized the prize, but he didn't think so.
His return to this house wasn't mere coincidence. This wasn't simply a means to soothe his guilty conscience by earning Eleanor's forgiveness. This was fate's way of handing him a second chance to have the happiness he had tossed away in a drunken rut more years ago than he cared to remember.
The whys didn't matter. He could question his good fortune all he wanted, but the one fact remained.
He had been given a chance to discover whether Eleanor was the woman for him and he the man who deserved her.
What kind of idiot would say no to a chance like that?
* * *
What had she been thinking, coming to Brahm's defense like that?
Alone in the darkness, Eleanor tipped her face upward and allowed the warm night breeze to caress her cheeks. She stood in the moonlit shadow of a statue of Diana the huntress, one hand resting on the goddess's cool marble foot, the other hanging loosely at her side as grass swayed against the hem of her skirts.
The relative quiet of the garden soothed her strangely irritated nerves. Water bubbled in the fountain; leaves rustled a balmy refrain. In the distance she could hear the gentle voices of night creatures and smell the delicate hint of jasmine in the air. It might be the perfect night if only she could forget the looks her family and even some of her acquaintances had shot her when she leaped to Brahm's aid. He had looked so very uncomfortable, and so very much in need of rescuing.
And she had always been the kind of woman who had an instinctive urge to look after the well-being of others.
The obvious surprise of her guests was easy enough to shoulder, but the concerned and— dare she think it?— censorious gazes of her sisters were more difficult to brush aside. Even Arabella had seemed concerned. What did they believe she was going to do? Run away with Brahm Ryland simply because he claimed to have given up spirits? She was hardly ninny enough to do such a thing.
Did they believe her reputation, her very virtue, to be in danger now that Brahm had walked back into her life? How little they knew her if that were indeed the case. And who were they to cast judgment upon her? Only Arabella had succeeded in making a happy life for herself. Her other sisters were no strangers to secrecy and affairs. They should consider their own reputations and allow her to worry about her own. Perhaps they feared that so many years as a spinster was about to push her over the edge of reason and that she'd chase after Brahm like a hound, running him to ground and having her way with him.
The absurdity of the thought brought a smile with it.
"I hope I am not interrupting."
Eleanor's heart lurched at the sound of his voice. She had been so deep in her thoughts, she hadn't heard his approach. How long had he been standing there watching her?
He drew closer, grass bowing beneath his shoes. He was in evening dress, and the white of his cravat shone with a ghostly hue in the moonlight. How utterly lovely he was, especially when he smiled in that crooked manner.
"I am alone, Lord Creed. There is nothing for you to interrupt." As the words left her mouth, Eleanor cringed inwardly. How cold she sounded. Did she always sound so remote?
He stopped no more than a foot away from her, leaning on his cane for support. He wasn't fooling Eleanor. He could pounce in an instant if necessary.
"You do yourself a disservice, Eleanor. You were obviously deep within your own thoughts."
She shrugged. "My thoughts were nothing of consequence." She would never confess that he had been the subject of her wandering mind. "And I have not given you leave to call me by my Christian name." Pettiness, yes, but she needed all the defenses she had against this man. He had been under the same roof but a few days, and already she felt herself warming toward him once more.
He moved closer, mere inches between them now. Was that the humidity of the evening she felt pressing against her through the fabric of her gown, or was it the heat from his imposing frame?
"My dear girl, you gave me permission more than a decade ago. You cannot take it back."
When was the last time someone had called her "girl"? She raised her gaze to his. Impulse took over, and she allowed it to have its way. "I took back my consent to marry you. I can take back whatever I want."
He laughed then, a soft chuckle that sent a shiver down her spine. What did it take to wound this man? Something out of her power, obviously.
"Not if I refuse to give it," he replied with a rakish wink.
She frowned. No doubt he expected her to swoon. "What you are saying, then, is that it does not matter what I want, you will call me whatever pleases you."
He nodded. "When we are alone, yes."
"Then I shall have to endeavor to make certain we are not alone again." How very adept he was at flustering her. "Good evening."
He caught her arm as she moved to brush past him. Eleanor glanced down at the strong brown fingers gripping the soft flesh above her elbow where her glove ended. He was warm, his grip firm but not intimidating.
"We need to talk, Ellie."
Eleanor closed her eyes. If only she could blot out the mesmerizing sound of his voice murmuring her name. If only the sight of him wasn't branded in her memory for all time. She wanted to believe the best of this man. She always had. If he told her now that she had imagined finding him and Lydia together, she would try to make it so, just because she didn't want to believe him capable of such deception. The fact that he was drunk when it happened only made her want to excuse him more.
"What could we possibly have to discuss, Brahm?" Saying his name felt so awkward but natural. Only in her mind had she referred to him by his Christian name since his betrayal. It was a mistake to do so now, she knew it.
"We can begin with you explaining to me why you did not tell why you rejected my proposal."
Her eyebrows arched, but he still did not release her arm. "I thought you knew."
Whiskey brown eyes were black in the darkness, but there was no hiding the hurt in them. "Was your opinion of me so low that you believed I would do something so awful if in my right senses?"
"Not of you," she confessed. "Of myself."
His fingers dropped away from her arm. Strange, but her skin missed his touch the second it was gone.
"You had to know I held you in the
highest
regard."
It was hardly a declaration of love, but what did she expect after all this time. She wasn't certain if she had loved him either.
"So high you bedded my sister mere hours after telling me you wanted me to be your bride." She choked on the words, all the old anger and betrayal rushing back. The scars on her heart protested as the old wound opened once more.
