Anne Barbour (7 page)

One afternoon, the two sat before the massive piano in the music room. Though it reminded her forcibly of her days with the Murchisons, she was glad of an opportunity to reacquaint herself with an instrument that had lightened her meager existence with precious moments of joy.

Bran, she discovered, enjoyed playing the piano as well. He could not be called a virtuoso, but he obviously loved music.

“I must tell Lord Canby to provide a music master for you,” he said. “When you learn to read music a whole new world will open for you. In the meantime ...”

With his own hand, he produced a series of notes, then guided Martha to a repetition. Within a few minutes, she had learned to play several measures in a continuation of the portion she had taught herself.

“Oh, Bran!” she cried softly. “This is wonderful.”

Perhaps, she thought with sudden pain, in her fraudulent new life as Lady Felicity, she would find fulfillment in learning to play this magnificent instrument. She turned again to Bran. “I cannot find words—”

As
she gazed at him, Martha became immediately conscious, as she had before, that the seat she shared with Bran was very small, and that his closeness, as it had done on that other occasion, was producing an alarming effect on her.

She wrenched her gaze from him to concentrate on the hand he still held against the keys. At the same moment, Bran started and coughed self-consciously.

She rose abruptly. “I must go. Grandpapa will be—”  To her discomfiture, she discovered that Bran still held one of her hands in his, but when she tried to disengage it, he came to his feet as well, still retaining it in a warm grasp.

“We will continue your lessons at another time, I hope,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she replied somewhat breathlessly. “I should like that.”

And still, he did not release her hand, but gazed into her eyes for an endless moment.

“Felicity,” he whispered at last, “why do I feel that you have returned, not to your grandfather, but to me? I did not realize how I have missed you. But now—

He drew in a sharp breath and, with a single, almost angry movement, pulled her into his arms.

His kiss this time did not begin as a brotherly salute. He took her mouth with an urgency that snatched her breath and destroyed her reason. She leaned into his embrace, pressing herself against him as though she might absorb him into her very soul. She wondered for a distracted instant how a single kiss could be so satisfying while plunging her into a maelstrom of wanting. His hands, moving along her back, created a sensation of liquid fire, traversing the length of her body. She seemed to become a mindless puddle of sensation, all the while reveling in the knowledge that this man wanted her with a ferocity that matched her own.

He pulled away from her for an instant, and gazed at her with a hungry intensity that she knew was mirrored in her own eyes. “Felicity,” he groaned. “I have known you—as an adult—for less than a week—but I realize now that I have been waiting for you since the day they came with the news that you would not be back. And I never knew it. I’ve been searching all this time—without knowing tor what or for whom I was searching.”

Yes! she thought wildly as his lips met hers once more, hot and demanding, seeking and tender. She, too, had been searching—for love—for acceptance and belonging—for Branford. Dear God . . . ! She almost crumpled at the terrifying knowledge that swept over her so suddenly.

This time it was she who pulled back, feeling as she did so that she was tearing part of her away.

“I must go!” she gasped, hardly able to get the words out. She could not say more, but ran from the room, leaving Bran staring after her, white-faced.

For some moments, he stared blankly ahead of him. He could not believe what had just happened. He had resolved to treat Felicity with the courtesy and friendship that was due not only her position, but which had been a gift from his heart when they were children. He had not expected that his heart would rush to a recognition of a love he had not even known existed. All it seemed to take, however, to destroy his reasoned intentions were a few moments in close proximity to her.

For a moment, during, the searing kisses they had just exchanged, he had thought that Felicity was experiencing the same revelation. She had clung to him with a passion that had almost destroyed what little control remained to him. The sweetness of her lips, the soft, slender curves that moved against him with an innocent, age-old wisdom, had created a maelstrom of wanting within him—not just to possess that lovely, slim body, but to become one with her in spirit, as well.

He walked slowly from the room and, in the morning room, he found Martha, seated in conversation with the marquess and Carolyn Coppersmith. Her gaze lifted to him as he entered the room, but he could find nothing there beyond a shuttered blankness that enshrouded him in a bottomless depression.

Martha’s breath caught. Lord, Bran looked as though someone had struck him a blow. It had been painful beyond words to leave him without telling him of her feelings—but she had no right. Dear God, she had no right to love this man. What did he feel for her? Was she reading too much into the passion they had shared? She looked away from the earl as he chose a chair next to the marquess. As the afternoon died, he cast sporadic glances toward her, but she was careful to allow nothing of the chaos churning within her to show outwardly.

Lord Canby had arranged for a small dinner party that evening. Martha had already been introduced to some of the family members, and tonight she was scheduled to meet several more. She was unable to look forward to the festive little occasion with anything but unmitigated dismay, but at least, when the guests arrived, she was kept busy. She smiled and smiled until she thought her face would crack, but she was able to keep away from Bran.

She was conscious of his presence throughout the evening, however. He always seemed to be at the periphery of her vision, and she was aware that his glance strayed to her often through the endless round of introductions and her brittle acknowledgments of cousins, aunts, and uncles.

When the dinner party finally ended, Martha relaxed momentarily on the ride to the hotel from Canby House, grateful for Mrs. Coppersmith’s presence in the carriage. When at last they entered the little sitting room, she moved immediately toward her bedchamber, pleading exhaustion from the day’s events.

Bran bowed over Martha’s hand with a cool farewell.

“I would like to see you tomorrow morning, if that is acceptable,” he said before releasing her hand.

She nodded wordlessly.

“Privately,” he added in a very odd tone of voice.

Martha’s gaze, which she had directed assiduously downward, now flew to meet his. She dared not read what was written in his eyes. She nodded again, and with a word to Mrs. Coppersmith, he turned. The next moment, he was gone.

Outside the corridor, Bran leaned against the door. Good God, he was trembling like a girl. He had made his assignation with Martha unthinkingly. He did not know what he was going to say to her, he had only known that he must see her. He wanted to conclude the scene that had begun in the music room. He grinned to himself. Not that kind of a conclusion, though had she remained in his arms another moment, such might have been the case. No, he reflected, as he moved down the corridor and out of the hotel. He wanted . . . Dammit, he didn’t know what he wanted. On his deepest level of consciousness he yearned to gain a commitment from her—a promise that now that she had returned she would never leave again. Never leave him again. He listened to himself in some amazement. This sounded very much like a marriage proposal, and surely he could not be contemplating such a step on such a brief acquaintance.

But that was the most astonishing part of this strange reunion, wasn’t it? The sense that he had known this woman for a very long time. He had scarcely acknowledged the existence of Felicity when she had been his friend’s tiresome little sister. Now, it appeared that she had held a place in his heart for all the years of her absence.

Bran had by now traversed the short distance between the Grand Hotel and Canby House. As he alighted from the carriage, another vehicle drew up just behind him. From it stepped a cloaked figure who called softly to him.

“My lord? Lord Branford? It is I, Jonathan Bed-does.”

Beddoes! The man leading the investigation into the reappearance of Felicity Marshall.

“Ah, yes, Beddoes. I sent a message to you regarding the matter of Martha Finch. It
must have missed you. I am happy to inform you your services are no longer required, sir. Mrs. Finch—that is Lady Felicity—was able to offer irrefutable proof of her identity. Thus—

“Proof?” The other man stood very still for a moment. “I am certainly pleased to hear that, my lord, but I think perhaps you would still like to hear my findings.”

Bran stood irresolute for a moment before nodding. “Very well. Come into the house. Lord Canby will have retired by now, and we can talk privately.”

Once in the library, over a gratefully accepted brandy, Mr. Beddoes began to speak.

“Once I arrived in Tenaby, my lord, I found some difficulty in finding anyone who so much as remembered Josiah and Margaret Sounder. However, eventually I was able to turn up one or two remarkable facts. It seems that . . .”

Beddoes continued with a narrative that soon captured Bran’s full attention.

* * * *

In her bedchamber at the Grand Hotel, Martha stared sightlessly at the canopy above her. Dear Lord, she must deal with the knowledge that she was in love with Bran. She had felt a strong, almost preordained attraction to him from their first meeting, but the realization that had struck her so stunningly while she sat with him at the piano must now be faced.

Did Bran love her? The thought was a trembling deep inside her. He had not told her in so many words, but she had been aware of a certain transference—as though he had given up part of his very essence to her—that must surely be an indication of something warmer than mere friendship.

If this was the case—if Bran had fallen as deeply into love as she had with him—and in a matter of a few days—this was a disaster in the making. When she had begun her charade, her plans had not included the Earl of Branford, let alone the spark that had ignited between them. Not that marriage with him was impossible. The Marquess of Canby would no doubt look with extreme benevolence on a union between his beloved granddaughter and a man who was as dear to him as a son. She imagined the earl’s family would feel the same. No, the problem was that try as she might to smother her conscience, she could not enter into a lifelong contract with a man she had shamelessly duped. She nearly gasped at the pain that shot through her at this thought.

Then there was the marquess. She thought she had won the struggle with her conscience in that matter, but she knew now with appalling clarity that it was no good. She could talk till her eyes bubbled about granting an old man his heartfelt wish, and soothing his declining years and all the rest, but the ugly fact remained. She was swindling him.

She simply could not go through with it.

Martha sat up in bed. She must abandon her shameful pretense. She could not, she decided further, face either Bran or the marquess. She knew she was being a coward, but she would leave the hotel at the earliest opportunity—this very night, in fact, so that when Bran came to speak to her she would be gone. She would leave a note—but she would be gone.

The words echoed in her mind like the tolling of a great bell announcing the death of a loved one. Tears, as hot and hurtful as live coals, lodged in her throat before welling forth to rain searingly down her cheeks. She dashed them away and, throwing back her covers, slid purposefully from her bed. It was too late in the evening to think of leaving by coach—even if she had enough money to buy a ticket to York, which she assuredly did not.

There might be another option, however. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was still early by London social standards—not even midnight. Mr. Simmons might still be at his desk. Hastily donning the better-most of her shabby muslins, she slipped from the suite and hurried downstairs.

10

An hour later, Martha had retired once more, this time in accommodations far less luxurious than those to which she had regrettably become accustomed. The bed was narrow and none too comfortable and it, with a small dressing table, comprised almost the entire furnishings of the little room tucked in a corridor near the hotel kitchen.

It had taken her some time to convince Mr. Simmons to accede to her wishes, but he was a perspicacious, kindly gentleman and he had already guessed a good deal of her story. After moving her meager belongings, she’d composed a note, which now reposed on a table in the sitting room of her erstwhile quarters. She had scribbled her painful message in stony despair, unable to fully comprehend the fact that she would never see Bran again. As she outlined the extent of her fraud, she knew full well he would certainly not seek her out. She would be fortunate, indeed, if he did not set the Bow Street Runners after her.

Sleep in her new situation did not come easily, but at last, she fell into an uneasy doze.

In Canby House, at least one of its occupants was experiencing an equally difficult time in gaining his night’s rest. Bran did not so much attempt to seek his bed until dawn had begun to lighten the window frames. The interview with Mr. Beddoes had nearly destroyed him. His first reaction to the agent’s revelations had been disbelief, then at last an agonized acceptance. Dear God, how could he have been so taken in? He was not sure how she had accomplished her trickery, but she had worked her will with admirable cleverness.

He had almost given his heart to the vixen—almost offered her a proposal of marriage! With her pansy brown eyes and her appealing air of vulnerability combined with what had seemed to him a compelling honesty, she had scooped him into her deception with the ease of a cat sinking its claws into a particularly succulent mouse.