Brentwood's Ward (22 page)

Skerritt shifted his weight. Weaver lifted a brow. Neither said a word.

Ambrose continued. “I will not return to Sombra without the money. One way or another, I will have it. For the moment, Brentwood or no, I think a ransom is still our best option. Men?”

Skerritt and Weaver nodded.

Nash scowled. “You’re crazy. Brentwood will kill you.”

Laughter tasted sweet, and for one long, intense minute, Ambrose savored the humor of Nash’s words. Unfolding his arms, he fisted his hands on his hips. “You think I care about dying?”

“Like I said…” Breath by ragged breath, Nash pushed up to stand. The blood drained from his face—what little he had left. “I want out. I’m done.”

“Oui, mon ami.”
The smile slipped from Ambrose’s lips. His eyes shot to Skerritt’s.

And his next words were as sharp as the knife sticking out from Nash’s back. “You are done…and so is Brentwood.”

Chapter 19

A
hh, miss, you’re an absolute vision! You’ll turn every head at the Garveys’ ball.”

Mary straightened in front of her, and Emily glanced down at the yards of silk settling in a golden shimmer around her legs, landing a whisper’s length above the carpet in her chamber. Hand-sewn pearls embellished the gilt embroidery at the hem, catching the lamplight like tiny beacons afloat a sea of richness. The skirting rose to just below the bust, where it drew in tight. Appliquéd embellishments wove an intricate pattern around her ribs. More pearls, more gold, crisscrossed at the center of the bodice and cinched together at the top then fanned into a lacy ruffle that feathered across a low neckline. A modest amount of flesh peeked out to entice the eyes of any man.

As Emily crossed the length of her room and sat in front of the vanity, she frowned. Why wasn’t she sure anymore of which man she wanted to attract?

Mary’s skirt swished behind her, a soothing rustle though slightly offset by the lingering limp in her gait. “I beg your pardon, miss, if I were too forward.”

Emily waved her off. “No, Mary. Nothing of the sort.”

Closing her eyes, she gave in to her maid’s tugs with the hairbrush. How to explain that for the past week, ever since the attack on their carriage, she couldn’t shake the feel of Nicholas’s strong arms holding her? Or the way he’d taken down every last man to get to her in spite of the threat to his own life? Would Mr. Henley have done the same? A sigh slipped past her lips. Henley couldn’t even take on one man in a coffee house.

“Are you well, miss?”

Her eyes popped open, and she blinked at herself in the mirror. Her skin was a shade paler, her cheeks a little sharper. Or mayhap the lamplight simply painted odd shadows and leeched her rosy color. “I am well. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been a mite quiet, as of late. Not that I think you’re a great talebearer to begin with. Still…” Mary’s hands twisted lengths of hair as she spoke. “You’ve hardly been out of the house.”

“Mr. Brentwood’s been too preoccupied to escort me.”

“He has been in and out a lot, hmm?” Two hairpins stuck out at the corner of Mary’s lips, adding a lispy quality to her voice. “But you’ve not taken any callers, either.”

“Mr. Brentwood thinks it’s wise if I don’t receive anyone unless he’s in attendance.” She tilted her head to the right, allowing Mary to gather up some stray wisps.

“Yes, well, it’s certainly not the preball flurry I expected.” Mary removed the last of the pins from her mouth and secured the bulk of Emily’s hair on top of her head. “No packages, appointments, or fittings. If I may be so bold, is something else amiss?”

Emily grimaced, though if she was honest, it wasn’t only caused by Mary’s use of the curling iron too near her ear. Something was amiss. If she could verbalize it, she’d likely feel better, but slippery emotions she could barely hang on to—let alone name—dangled just beyond her reach. “I suppose that attack left a mark on me. A shadow, so to speak.”

“It were dreadful, miss, that’s what.” Lowering the curling iron, Mary bent closer. “You don’t think that tonight, I mean…surely nothing more will happen….”

Mary’s voice died out, yet the words floated in the air like unmoored phantoms. Emily shivered.

In the looking glass, Mary’s gaze bored into hers. “Are you sure you’re up to this ball, miss?”

Was she? What
was
wrong with her?

Lifting her chin, she forced a smile. “I am confident Mr. Brentwood will have everything under control. He usually does.”

Mary lifted a brow. “You speak of Mr. Brentwood as freely as you mention Mr. Henley.”

“Which is none of your concern.” The harsh words slipped out before she could snatch them back.

Mary straightened, lips pinched, and silently resumed curling loose tendrils of hair.

Emily sighed. Truly, she’d not meant to be so severe. Mary’s observation simply rankled her in a way that rippled unease clear to her fingertips. Since the moment she’d met the man, her world had flipped topsy-turvy. Nicholas Brentwood vexed her to no end. He invaded her home, her time, her thoughts. No wonder she spoke of him as much as Mr. Henley.

Mary’s fingers tugged a little harder than normal, prickling her scalp—and conscience. Just because she was unsettled didn’t mean she must snap at her maid.

“Nice work, Mary.” She offered the girl a half smile as a peace offering. “Lovely work, truly. You are a magician when it comes to hair.”

The tight lines around Mary’s mouth softened. She pulled on a spiral of hair, and a single stylish curl draped from the crown of Emily’s head, past her bare neck, and onto her shoulder. “There, miss. I shouldn’t be surprised if by tomorrow morning you don’t have several offers.”

Emily reached for her perfume bottle. Mary’s expectation was a very real possibility—one she’d hoped for, planned for, anticipated as reality.

So why did her stomach suddenly twist as tightly as the bun on her head?

Dabbing on some lily-of-the-valley-scented oil, she tilted her head and listened. Doggie claws scratched at her chamber door. Poor pug. She’d neglected him as much as her callers. Once again, she met Mary’s eyes in the mirror. “Will you let in Alf?”

As Mary disappeared from the glass, Emily leaned closer. Her hair gleamed golden, done up in a simple pearl coronet. Nothing like the tiara, but…She turned her face slightly. Yes, some pink glowed on her cheeks, and the chocolate brown of her eyes, if not as stunning a color as Bella’s blues, were at least shiny and bright. Perhaps an offer or two would roll in tomorrow morning. What would Nicholas say to that?

What would she?

After a few yips and scurry of paws, Alf jumped up on her lap. She scooped him aloft, rescuing herself from questions she couldn’t answer and saving her skirt from his toenails. “Little scamp!”

Tongue lolling, Alf cocked his wrinkly face at her, and she smiled. “But I can never stay cross with you.”

“I’m waiting, Miss Payne.” Nicholas’s voice bellowed up from downstairs and through the open door.

“You’re as ready as you’ll ever be, miss.” Mary held out her hands for the pup.

After transferring Alf, Emily stood and tugged up her gloves as high as the fabric would stretch then lifted her arms. “Nothing’s showing?”

Mary pitched her head right then left. “Not that I can see, miss. No one but Mr. Brentwood will know of your scratches.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “They’re hardly scratches, Mary. More like ugly gouges.”

“Yet they are completely hidden.”

“Miss Payne!” Nicholas sounded as if he ordered a squad of soldiers to battle.

Emily lowered her arms and gave one last pat to the wrinkles on her skirt Alf’s paws had inflicted. “I suppose I’d better hurry along. I’m sure Mr. Brentwood’s mood is foul enough from having to wear new evening clothes.”

Mary smiled. “That were a fine battle, I hear tell.”

Emily returned a grin. “I suppose it wasn’t fair to force the issue with Mrs. Hunt in the room to back me up, hmm?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Emily nodded. Though Mary wasn’t a thing like Wren, she’d earned a place in her heart all the same.

“Miss Payne!”

“Oh, bother.” Emily scooted to the door then paused and looked over her shoulder. “Don’t wait up on my account, Mary. I’ll wake you when I return.”

“As you wish. Enjoy the evening, miss.”

Emily rushed down the hallway and, as she neared the landing, heard the distinct sound of footsteps pacing a route at the bottom of the stairs. From the sitting room, the last chimes of the hour vibrated through the air. La, was it already nine o’clock? Had it really taken her that long to get ready?

She lifted her skirts and hastened down the stairs.

At the last step, she paused, her jaw agape. Who was this man in her foyer? In her life? Suddenly she wasn’t so sure she had the courage to take the arm of such an imposing gentleman and head out into the night.

For a gentleman he was. Nicholas Brentwood’s severe appearance had been subdued into that of an aristocrat. Not that he was foppish. In fact, he could hardly be accused of frill or fanciness at all. Rather, an aura of elegant power cloaked him as neatly as the plain black tailcoat stretching across his shoulders. Beneath, he wore a dark waistcoat, highlighted with fine silver embroidery—his one concession to extravagance. A white shirt contrasted in stark defiance, made all the more stunning by the silk neck cloth he’d secured around his neck with a single pearl pin. His fitted trousers—black, of course—ran the length of his long legs down to plain but shined leather shoes. Though he’d shunned the traditional light-colored pantaloons and stockings preferred by most men, the way his clothing rode the lines of his body, convention be hanged.

His gaze traveled over her, softer than a summer breeze skimming past leaves, and when his green eyes finally settled on hers, she caught her breath. Stillness spread out from him. Time slowed. Space and air and life—everything stopped for the briefest of moments. Silence breathed with him, as did she, for he commanded it without a word.

Then just as suddenly, all shifted back into a normal cadence.

Her mouth curved into a smile. Whatever had passed between them was intoxicating. Forbidden. Impossible, really…yet wholly and completely heady.

As she descended the last step, she mulled over Mary’s parting admonition and decided to take her advice. No matter the outcome of what the morrow may bring, she would enjoy this evening.

Very much.

Nicholas snapped shut his watch and tucked it back into his pocket. He needn’t have looked. The chiming of the sitting-room clock verified what he already knew. They were late. Not that he cared a fig about some silly ball, but regardless of the occasion, tardiness grated on him like skidding bare-fleshed on gravel.

And he had the scars to prove it.

Finally, silk swished behind him. The pad of slippers on tread turned him around. High time she quit her dilly-dallying and—

He froze. A jolt of heat hit him square in the chest. The only words that came to mind were
fear not
.

For an angel stood in front of him.

Emily paused on the last step, wide-eyed, lips parted. Lamplight brushed a soft glow over her shape. Warmth radiated from her, golden and brilliant—as if all the stars in the universe met and mingled in one focused point, igniting the space between them with risky possibility.

His gaze traveled the length of her, memorizing every line and curve, each delicate fold and shimmer of her gown. Then slowly, like a man gazing at a lover as he’s led to a noose, he lifted his eyes to her face, for indeed, she held his heart in her hands. She could snuff the life from him if she knew.

Her cheeks wore the first blush of a spring rose. Her eyes gleamed with amber fire. His fingers longed to reach out and discover if her skin was as soft as it promised.

She descended the last step, her sweet lily scent pulling him toward her. The sweeping arc of her lips mesmerized…so full, so red. His heart beat a primal rhythm, wild and deep. Three paces, that’s all, just three and he could wrap his arms around her slim waist, lower his mouth to hers, and—

A shudder ran through him, settling low in his belly. If he didn’t contain this here, now, the evening would end with regret.

He scowled and wheeled around. “About time you deigned to make an appearance, Miss Payne. I’ve been waiting the better part of an hour. Does it really take that long to make yourself presentable?”

“Well!” She huffed behind him. “Good evening to you, too, Mr. Brentwood.”

He grabbed her pelisse from the coat tree near the door and held it out. “We’re late, thanks to you. Don’t expect me to be pleasant about it.” He suppressed a cringe as his own harsh tone boxed his ears, but better to anger her. Better she keep her distance.

Better he keep his.
Oh God, help me, please
.

She frowned up at him. “A real gentleman would have first remarked on my gown or my hair before laying blame, if indeed he blamed at all.”

Turning, she allowed him to guide in one arm after the other into the sleeves of her wrap. Her movement enticed. Her nearness stole his breath more effectively than the ridiculous neck cloth choking his throat. He stepped back and wrenched open the door with more force than necessary, welcoming the slap of cool night air against his face.