Anne Barbour (6 page)

“I can only say, my lord, that—”

The earl came to his feet as well. “Please, you must call me Branford now. My particular friends, of which I hope I may number you, call me Bran. And now,” he continued, “I shall leave you—although I hope you will spare me some time tomorrow after your morning with Lord Canby and your shopping expedition. I should like to show you about London a little.”

Lord, please let him go—now. She didn’t think she could stand another moment of his overtures of friendship. “That would be very nice, my—Bran.” She nearly choked on the word.

Martha accompanied him to the door, where he turned to face her once more.

“I look forward to becoming reacquainted with you, Felicity.”

He grasped her lightly by the shoulders and bent to kiss her cheek. His lips were cool against her skin and she stared slightly. She started to draw back, gratified despite herself at this brotherly gesture. But he did not release her. The next moment, his hands were on her back, gentle but insistent, pressing her against him. His mouth brushed her cheek once more, then traced the curve of her jaw in feathered points of flame until he covered her mouth with his. He cupped the back of her head, and it seemed to her that for a few instants he drew her very essence into him. Without volition, she opened beneath him, and her hands crept upward to move into the surprisingly soft, dusky hair that waved at the back of his neck.

The next instant, he pulled back from her so abruptly that her knees almost gave way beneath her. He said nothing, but stared for a moment into her eyes, his expression as wide and appalled as she knew her own to be. He released her swiftly and, still wordless, strode to the door. Then he was gone.

8

The next morning, Martha perused a copy of
La Belle Assemblée
as she waited for Lord Branford in her sitting room. She had just breakfasted with Mrs. Coppersmith, enduring her burblings of happy congratulations and plans for a shopping expedition. Now, she found herself in an oddly unsettled mood, and was having difficulty forcing her attention to the periodical. The events of last night still whirled in her mind like starlings flying before a storm. By this time next week, the return of Lady Felicity Marshall to the munificent bosom of her grandfather would have been thoroughly bruited about the ton. Properly gowned and shod and coiffed, she would be ensconced in Canby House, meeting family, receiving callers, and accepting invitations to balls and routs and afternoon tea.

And she was unable to take pleasure in any of it.

She had not known her conscience would prove so troublesome. She thought she’d reasoned out her scheme to her satisfaction. Was what she was doing so wrong? No, of course not. No one would be hurt, after all. On the contrary, one old man would be made extremely happy, and she, herself, could look forward to a life of ease and security. She had earned this, had she not, after the deprivation she had suffered for so long?

Then why could she not banish the guilt that tarnished her satisfaction? Why could she take no pleasure in the future that stretched so glowingly before her? The memory of Lord Canby’s embrace flooded through her. His eyes had shone with unshed tears of gratitude. Dear God, no matter how she tried to rationalize the fact, she had deceived a perfectly nice man for her own personal gain. She was preparing to assume a position to which she had no right.

Abruptly, she squared her shoulders. Well, by God, her conscience was just going to have to get used to it. She almost laughed aloud. Yes, she would just have to suffer through three full meals a day, and beautiful clothes, and an endless round of pleasure. Oh, indeed, she thought she could manage that.

But, what was she going to do about the Earl of Branford? She had lain awake most of the night thinking about the embrace they had shared. Dear Lord, she had known the man for less than a day! The kiss on the cheek had been, perhaps under the circumstances, acceptable. It was undeniably pleasant. The kiss that followed had been shattering. Perhaps she should not have been surprised at her unexpected response to the touch of his hands and to the feel of his mouth on hers, for she had been strongly attracted to the earl on their first meeting. What she found astonishing and more than somewhat dismaying was a renewal of that sense of belonging. It was as though she had been searching all her life for the haven she sensed in the strength of his arms and the hunger of his kiss. Something deep within her told her with a bewildering certainty that she and this man belonged with each other and that their coming together at this moment had been ordained.

Which was absolute balderdash. Bran had said that he and Felicity had known each other as children, but she was not Felicity Marshall.

She shook herself. She would not think about this anymore, particularly since—

A brisk knock sounded at the door and Martha leaped to her feet, her heart pounding absurdly. She swung the door open to face Bran, superbly attired, as always, in gentleman’s dress appropriate for escorting a young lady on an afternoon jaunt around the town.

She searched his face, but found nothing there that spoke of an embrace snared in a candlelit chamber. He stepped inside the sitting room and removed his hat.

“Good morning. Felicity. I see you are ready,” he said courteously. “Shall we go?”

“Of course,” murmured Martha, feeling as though she had just put her foot on a step that wasn’t there. She hadn’t expected him to fall at her feet after the scene last night, but she’d expected a little more than “I see you are ready.”

Good Lord, what was the matter with him? thought Bran, watching Felicity take up her darned gloves and her reticule. He’d felt as though he’d given up a piece of his soul to this woman last night. And all he could come up with now was a wretched commonplace. He observed that she moved with her usual queenly composure, displaying no trace of the passion she had shown last night.

He hadn’t had a farthing’s worth of sleep, thinking about that passion. God knew he hadn’t intended to kiss her at all. At least, no more than that friendly little peck on the cheek. But he had no sooner felt the smooth warmth of her skin under his lips—no sooner than breathed in the scent of her—than he had—well, he had completely lost his senses. He’d kissed a lot of women, but he’d never felt this sense of union, as though he and this woman had been created for each other.

And she had responded! She had opened herself to him as though she were experiencing that same connection. Lord, it had been all he could do to draw away from her, for had the embrace continued, he, the vaunted champion of Lord Canby’s interests, might have tumbled the old man’s granddaughter on the floor. There must not be a repetition of the episode, Bran told himself.

In silence, he ushered Martha from the room, but once in the carriage, he drew a deep breath.

“It appears I owe you an apology. Lady Felicity.”

He watched in bemusement the delicate lift of her eyebrows.

“Apology, my lord?”

“About last night. I took advantage of you. I—I behaved abominably.”

A becoming flush spread over her cheeks. “I would dispute your use of the phrase ‘took advantage of,’ Bran. What happened was—unexpected, but I would be telling an untruth if I were to say I didn’t enjoy it.”

“You did?” Bran’s pulse leaped like that of a four-year-old on Christmas morning. “That is extremely flattering, of course, but you are a lady, and—and my behavior was—

“Please.” She smiled enchantingly. “You are forgetting my plebeian background. Where I come from, a kiss between a man and a woman who find themselves attracted to each other is a wholly natural progression of events.”

“Yes, but—

“However, you have no doubt concluded that perhaps you were a little precipitate and that it must not happen again. In this, I heartily concur.”

“You do?” replied Bran, feeling like a flustered schoolboy.

“Yes. I think we may chalk up the whole episode to an excess of sensibility due to the momentous events that occurred last night, and a certain intimacy in the scene. Do you not agree?”

“Er.”

“Thus, I think it would be best simply to forget the whole thing,” finished Felicity briskly. Since this was the sentiment Bran had hoped to produce during the course of his aborted apology, he should have experienced a measurable degree of satisfaction. What he felt, oddly, was a certain flatness of spirit.

Once at Canby House, Bran deposited Martha with a respectful Hobbs, leaving her with a promise to return to the Grand Hotel later in the afternoon for their excursion. Lord Canby received her with childlike enthusiasm and the morning was spent in reminiscences and the further revelation of details from Martha’s expurgated past.

Mrs. Coppersmith arrived at the town house in time for a lavish luncheon served in an elegantly appointed dining room that overlooked the square. After the meal, when the marquess would have hustled her back to his study for more conversation, Mrs. Coppersmith insisted that the shopping trip must now take precedence over any other activity. Shortly thereafter, Martha found herself seated in the showroom of Madame Fourgette, London’s premier modiste. Madame herself, upon hearing the identity of the very plain young woman awaiting service, condescended to wait upon mademoiselle in person, displaying a gratifying eagerness to be of service. A bewildering whirl of garments was produced, and for some hours, Martha floated in a sea of silks, satins, muslins, and cambrics. Ball gowns, morning gowns, and walking dresses were produced for her approval, as well as ensembles suitable for every occasion from the opera to a stroll in the park.

“I finally had to cry quits,” said Martha with a laugh some hours later as she and Bran made their way once more from the hotel, this time in Bran’s phaeton, with a diminutive tiger perched precariously in the back. “Not content with getting me up like a circus pony, Mrs. Coppersmith—or no, I forgot, she wishes me to call her Carolyn—dragged me bodily to every milliner, shoemaker, and haberdasher in the West End.”

From the gratifying order placed by Mrs. Coppersmith, Madame Fourgette had been able to provide a few gowns to be taken from the shop immediately. In one of these, Martha had presented herself to the earl. Her walking dress, of jonquil sarcenet, was trimmed with a triple flounce, with a set-on of narrow ribbon in a dark green. An Oldenburg bonnet, embellished with a single, small green feather, was placed at a jaunty angle on an equally smart arrangement of glossy curls, courtesy of the ubiquitous Peters.

Martha savored the appreciation in Bran’s gaze as he surveyed her. “To paraphrase the poet, my dear, you walk in sunshine—and I find you quite dazzling, if you will forgive me for saying so.”

“I shall not only forgive you, but I encourage you to continue in the same vein—as I am vastly pleased with my new finery. Where are we going?” she asked.

“To one of my favorite places in the world. And yours, too, if I remember correctly.”

Martha raised a quizzical brow, but said nothing until the phaeton pulled up in Berkeley Square, into a crowd of vehicles parked under the trees lining the square.

“Gunter’s Pastry Shop,” Bran announced. “Would you rather order something to eat out here in the shade, or would you like to go inside?”

“Oh, inside, please.”

Bran handed the reins to the little tiger, with instructions to walk the horses, before guiding Martha through the crowd. Once inside, a serving maid led them to a table.

“Do you come here often?” asked Martha casually.

“Yes, although not as often as when I was a child. I used to come with Stewart and his grandfather—and you—if I happened to be in Town at the same time as the Benningtons, which was seldom. In fact, I must tell you that it was here that you informed me for the first time that you intended to marry me when we both grew up.”

Martha’s breath caught. “Marry you?”

“Indeed, you were most emphatic. Apparently you had acquired the notion that a young girl’s first duty in life is to seek an eligible parti. As Stewart’s friend, you felt my name headed the list, so why waste time searching further? I was given a direct order not to so much as think of marrying anyone else.”

Martha laughed unsteadily. “What a hoyden I must have been! Well, my lord, you may consider yourself relieved of that obligation.”

“Obligation? My dear, I considered I had won a prize of considerable value—and felt my future was now secure.”

Despite the absurdity of Bran’s words, Martha felt herself blushing. “Did you come to Town often?” she asked hastily.

“No, most of my youth was spent at my home. I was always rather at loose ends,” he added, “when your family left to come to Town.”

“Did you have no one else to play with?”

“Not in the immediate vicinity. And I had no brothers and sisters.”

“Your parents did not enjoy coming to Town?”

Bran was quiet for several moments before he answered. “Oh, yes. In fact, they were here most of the time. They thought it better if I stayed behind. You see,” he added somewhat painfully, “my father was very active in politics, and my mother relished her role as a political hostess. A small boy would have been very much in the way.”

In the silence that followed, Bran cursed himself. How in God’s name had he come to blurt out what he had never discussed with anyone? It was not the sort of thing he would have talked about even with Stewart. He looked at Felicity, who was staring at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words sticking in his throat like burrs. “I don’t know how I came to speak so.”

“Perhaps because you have discovered an old friend,” Martha said softly, before turning the conversation to more general matters. When they rose to leave, Martha reflected that she had never spent such a magical hour.

She knew she was being absurd, but she also knew that, come what may, she would always cherish the memory of this sunny, perfect afternoon.

9

Martha spent most of the next three days at Canby House in the marquess’s company. On these occasions, she was accompanied by Carolyn Coppersmith. Bran was usually present as well. In the afternoons, when both Carolyn and Lord Canby retired for a nap, Martha and Bran spent long, warm hours coming to know each other. It was, she mused dazedly, as though she had been only half alive through all her previous years, until she had found him. Though he said nothing, she sensed that he enjoyed her company, as well. Certainly, he shared his feelings and thoughts with her in a manner she felt was unusual for him. She knew she had no right to his affection, but she could not help but revel in it. In his presence, she managed to damp the feelings of guilt that were becoming harder and harder to ignore.