Edith Layton (23 page)

“I don’t know if it’s true,” Rafe finally said out of the blue into the quiet of the night. Brenna held her breath. He didn’t have to explain what he was talking about. It was obviously what everyone had been thinking about since her mama mentioned it. Rafe hadn’t said a word on the subject since it had been brought up. No one had. His family had left hours before, bemused and uncharacteristically quiet. Her family was tucked into their own beds under this roof.

She and Rafe were in bed together. He lay staring up at the ceiling, his arms behind his head. For the first time since they were married, except for when she’d got her courses, he hadn’t made a move to make love to her. But now, at last he was ready to speak to her.

He chuckled. “But I don’t know if it’s not. Which is the point, isn’t it? God! What nerve your mama has! I thought your father was the fighter. It all may be humbug, but did you see their faces? Mama, looking like she’d swallowed a canary. Father, baf
fled for the first time I can remember. Poor Grant—his birth was the one thing he felt he had over me, apart from being the elder. Your mama threw the cat among the pigeons. No one’s any the wiser than they were yesterday. But the worm of doubt will eat away at them now.”

“But surely Mama proved it?” Brenna asked.

He snaked an arm around her and pulled her close. “No,” he said. “What’s in a name, after all? But now at least there’s doubt. I don’t think my mama knows the answer herself. If she did, she’d have proven something one way or the other by now. I think she wondered what the baby would look like and hoped that would tell her who fathered it. When I appeared, red as that rogue she’d dallied with, she thought she had her answer. She’s resourceful. She used her problem to her advantage. She teased my father with possibilities, making him desire her more for the desirability she’d had then, instead of casting her off as he might have done. I suppose that kind of cleverness is commendable. Though it almost killed me and surely killed what little sense of family they had.”

“And so you’ll never know?”

“No, but now at least I have a doubt. That’s something.” He laughed. “Was ever a man so delighted not to be sure who his father was? The Griffin and I may be related after all! I doubt it. But I have the luxury of doubt now. What a gift. Thank you, Bren. Your mama gave me more than she knew.”

He kissed her.

“Is that for my mama?” she asked breathlessly.

“No,” he said, dragging her closer, “that’s for me. And you, I hope.”

“Oh yes,” she said, because that was all she could say when he kissed her again.

But she wished he’d answered,
Yes, that’s for your mama—for giving me you too.

B
renna stared at her reflection.

The gown was certainly
red
. Her figure was certainly lush looking in it. A tiny golden locket glowed at her breast, her only ornament. Her hair was brushed to a glossy sheen, pulled back from her face. There was a red ribbon woven through the knot of her hair at the back of her head. She tilted her head from side to side. The effect was severe and utterly exotic. She looked nothing like an English lady. Or remotely virtuous. She hesitated. There still was that blameless pink gown…

She saw her little fawn of a maid staring at her.
There is a gentle soul, and a virtuous one,
Brenna thought. She caught the girl’s gaze in the mirror.

“Well, I’m dressed,” she said to their reflections. “Do I look well? Honestly, now.”

“Well?” Rebecca asked, amazed. “Oh, so much more than that, my lady!”

“No. How do I look,
really?
Don’t worry about what I think. I must know.”

Rebecca paused. She thought deeply. “I don’t know the exact words, and I know they’re important to you now, my lady,” she said softly. “But as for how you look tonight?” She ducked her head, her cheeks showing a rosy blush. “You look—the way your husband’s eyes do sometimes when he looks at you, when you don’t notice. It’s very…exciting, my lady. I don’t think you could do better.”

“Well, then. Then neither do I. I can only hope it’s enough,” Brenna murmured as she picked up her shawl and went out the door to meet her fate.

But she met her mama first. She saw her eyes grow round.

“I can change,” Brenna said quickly. “I knew this gown was wrong, no matter what Rafe’s friends said.”

“Wrong?” her mama asked. “Oh no, my darling, it’s exactly right. How shocking. How lovely. How clever.”

“That’s what Rafe said,” Brenna sighed. “Eric and the earl of Drummond too. But they’re men. Still, Gilly Dalton said the same. But I don’t know…”

“Know,
” her mama said with determination. “Know you’re beautiful in it. Know you
are
a good person, and don’t care a jot about vile gossip. And let the world know it too.”

“And let them think I stole Rafe?” Brenna asked sadly.

“Lud, child!” her mama exclaimed. “In that gown, he’ll have to make sure no one steals you!”

“But it’s the lady Annabelle he’s going to see tonight,” Brenna explained.

Her mother smiled. “So he will. It’s time, I think. Don’t you?”

Brenna nodded. It was. Her mama and friends were right. Better to face her future boldly than to slink into Annabelle’s house as though she knew she was wrong. There was time enough for regrets. A lifetime, in fact.

It was a glittering party. It would be on everyone’s lips the next day. Because
everyone
was there, or so everyone there was saying. The Wyldes’ town house was large, but only a palace could comfortably hold the guests. They weren’t looking for comfort. They were happy however crowded it was. That was the whole point of being there. It was
the
place to hear gossip, and start it, or spike it. London lived for gossip and it clearly lived here tonight.

Brenna stood at the entrance to the ballroom with Rafe. Her hand was on his arm, his hand over hers. Her parents were with her. Her brother stood behind her, with Drum. Rafe’s other friends were in the crowd as well. Even his oldest friend, Ewen, the Viscount Sinclair, and his wife were here somewhere, up from the countryside just for the night. She stole a glance at Rafe and felt her heart swell. His parents and brother hadn’t come. Just as well. He’d called on his true friends; he’d rallied the troops for her.

She stifled a smile when she saw his other hand go to his hair to smooth it. It must feel strange to him. She’d told him she preferred his hair a little longer. One night as they’d made love she’d mentioned that she’d like it longer, so she could feel silk, not bristles, under her fingers. She hadn’t thought he’d paid attention. But he had. He’d stopped cropping it brutally short. It made a huge difference, and not just to its texture. It may have been pure fire when he was a child, as he claimed. But now it glinted like antique copper in the lamplight, actually enhancing his looks, bringing vivid life and color to his otherwise somewhat severely masculine face.

It wasn’t a formal ball, so he was dressed in his usual neat, close-fitted clothes, a dark blue jacket, white linen, and cream breeches. She thought he was the most attractive man there.

So did her hostess.

The moment their names were announced, Annabelle looked up and through her usual throng of admirers. Her beautiful bluebell eyes riveted on Rafe. Then she spared a glance for Brenna. She stared—looking up and down Brenna’s gown—and lingered pointedly on Brenna’s flat abdomen. One of her sable eyebrows went up when she saw Brenna’s eyes upon her. Her lips quirked in a tiny smile. Then she looked her fill at Rafe again.

Rafe looked back at her.
But what man would not?
Brenna thought. Annabelle’s black hair was all curls, framing her face. Her gown showed her figure with equal charm. It was petal pink with an overskirt of golden rose, the color of clouds on an early sum
mer’s dawn. The cut was extremely low, but the innocent color took away any thought of improper intent on Annabelle’s part. If a man thought her breasts very fine and her figure neat, he’d note it covertly, thinking it was something Annabelle never meant to show him. Then he’d look again.

Brenna’s heart sank. Annabelle could have posed for the illustration of “Virtue” she’d seen in a Bible school book. And in her scarlet gown, Brenna could have been “Vice.”

Annabelle kept her gaze on Rafe.

“A fine, handsome chap is our Rafe,” Brenna heard Drum remark to Eric, low, “but not, I fear, worth
such
a look. I venture to say it may be because our Bren looks even better than she knows tonight.”

Rafe didn’t seem to hear him. “At last we’re out of that hothouse of a hall,” he told Brenna as they stepped into the ballroom. “It’s not that much cooler here, but at least you can crook an elbow without stabbing someone. But here we are. So we might as well dance.”

“Such a pretty invitation,” Drum commented. “Well done, Rafe. Were I a female, I’d swoon with pleasure. How glad I am that I’m not. But how can I be equally happy? I know! My lady,” he said to Brenna, on a bow, “please may I have the next dance, or will you sentence me to pine away for the rest of the night, alone?”

“Showing me up again?” Rafe laughed. “Well, I deserve it. But I have the right of first dance, for all my crudeness. And I am a surly fellow. Forgive me, Bren. Please, will you dance with me before every
male in the house descends and tries to sweep you away?”

“See, you can flatter if you put your mind to it,” Drum said with amusement.

“But he doesn’t have to,” Brenna said, looking up into Rafe’s eyes. “Yes, I’d love to.”

They danced. Brenna never would be sure, even afterward, what it was they danced. It wasn’t a waltz, because she wished he had his hand on her waist to steady her. Even so, the touch of his hand on hers and the smile on his face upheld her. She stepped through the figures of the dance, her eyes on his. Which was good.

Because occasionally she looked around.

The other guests weren’t staring at her, she thought as she spun her head back to face Rafe. They were goggling. And whispering together as they darted glances at her. She knew she was self-conscious about her gown. She knew they’d arrived late too. But only all the previous gossip could have spurred such interest in her tonight.

“Never mind them,” Rafe said as they paced through the dance. “You look beautiful. That’s half of it.” He had to leave her to follow the form of the dance. When he returned, he added, “No question curiosity’s the other half. It will fade. But your beauty won’t.”

Her eyes widened.

He grinned. “Yes, I can flatter. If it makes your color rise, good. It suits you.”

Her color rose higher when she danced with Drum. He flattered her unmercifully. “Wonderful,”
he said as he danced with her. “I didn’t know how you could blush. It’s irresistible to make you do it. But I’d better not keep on or I’ll be meeting Rafe at dawn—and not for breakfast. Now, there’s another amusing thing. He’s possessive as a bear about you. But who can blame him? Ah, more color. Good.”

She danced with Drum, she danced with Damon Ryder, she danced with his elegant friends the lords Wycoff and Sinclair too. She began to enjoy herself. Until she looked around the room for Rafe—and saw Annabelle. She wasn’t dancing. And she wasn’t with Rafe. But she stood at the sidelines, talking animatedly to a man she obviously found fascinating. Eric.

Brenna’s heart clenched. Much as she was glad it wasn’t Rafe with Annabelle now, she hoped Eric didn’t find her as lovely as Rafe did.
How awful if Eric found his heart in Annabelle’s clutches too!
Eric was more than her brother, he was her friend and support. If he came to love Annabelle, he’d love with his whole heart. He’d be hurt and angry if his sister didn’t share his affection for his wife. She’d lose brother and husband. Bad enough to wonder if Rafe still loved Annabelle. Worse if she were in the family where Rafe could always see her, and compare her, and want her. Brenna didn’t for a minute doubt Eric could win any woman he wanted. She prayed he didn’t want that one. For her own sake, and for his.

Annabelle fanned herself. Not because of the exertion of the dance, but because of her reaction to the man who had appeared beside her the minute her
last partner bowed and left her. She craned her neck to look up into the tall, blond gentleman’s admiring eyes. Eyes the color of twilight, hair the shade of honey in the comb. He had such wide shoulders she couldn’t peer over them. And such a face!

“I’ve been watching you and waiting, my lady,” he said in a deep, amused voice. “They were playing an intricate set. My war injury would have made my trying it a travesty. I waited for them to strike up a waltz. I think I could manage that. I think I’d move a mountain to try, whatever my injury, if you’d grant me one?”

“Such fun!” she said gaily. “Now, there’s a reason to have a party. See what mysterious strangers appear when you do?”

“Mysterious? Do you think I’m a jewel thief? But I have an invitation. No need to have the footmen turf me out. All I’m out to steal is a certain lady’s attention.”

“You certainly have that,” Annabelle said.

Another man approached to ask for the next dance. She turned to show him her back. She wasn’t ready to leave this prospective partner yet. He was the most interesting thing that had happened in weeks—months. A stranger. Fascinating, and obviously fascinated with her. He made her forget the bitterness she’d felt when she’d seen Rafe come in with his slut. He made her remember how it had been at her first party, when she’d worried about how men reacted to her. When she’d thought that mattered. Before Gilly Dalton and then Rafe’s harlot had taught her otherwise.

She’d grieved too long for Damon Ryder. She’d tried to heal her hurt with Rafe. And see how he’d wounded her in turn? Maybe this man could help her go beyond that. She’d spread tales about Rafe’s wife; it didn’t seem to matter. She had to look elsewhere for relief from this frustration and ache in her heart. She looked at this stranger. He was more attractive than any she’d seen in a long while. And he couldn’t take his eyes from her.

She smiled. “You say you have an invitation, sir. But how could that be? It
is
my party. And I don’t know you.”

“Then here’s your chance,” he said in his velvety voice, offering her his hand.

She laughed again; her pulses raced. She’d noticed him the minute she’d seen him, a half hour past. How could she not? He stood half a head higher than most men in the room, and every female there was ogling him. He was well dressed and the best-looking man there, apart from Damon, of course. He’d danced with no one. Just kept watching her.

She was tempted to cast caution to the wind and just take his hand, because he offered it so confidently. Because his looks, his smile, his air of assurance, disarmed her. The only question was whether he was a moment’s flirtation or a real catch. Was he wellborn, moneyed, appropriate for her? Or only some clever interloper, a hanger-on, a climber beneath her touch? She had a heart. But it had only led her to sorrow in the past; her head ruled it now.

“Can I dance with a stranger?” she said softly. “Perhaps once. But never again.”

“Your pardon,” he said. “I thought you’d heard it when I was announced. I’m Eric Ford, my lady, formerly Lieutenant Ford, late of His Majesty’s Royal Dragoons.”

He bowed and raised his eyes to hers again.

She put out her hand. She liked the feeling as his big hand closed over it. She was a small woman; most men made her feel vulnerable. But he was so big he made her feel vulnerable and yet protected at the same time. She liked that too.
A soldier? But a lieutenant, which is something. Ford…
She blinked. “Ford? Not a relation to Brenna Ford? Raphael Dalton’s wife, as she’s called now?”

“Her brother,” he said, still holding her hand.

“Brother? You’re joking, surely,” she said, standing arrested, though the waltz was starting. “You’re different as night and day.”

“Half brother. We’re only different in appearance. I’ve my father and my mother’s looks. Both were fair. Brenna’s got my stepmama’s looks, and my father’s warrior’s heart.”

“And another lady’s love,” Annabelle said angrily, snatching her hand from his. She breathed rapidly. “Is this some joke you two cooked up together?”

“No. I see no humor in it,” he said.

“Nor do I,” she spat. She took a deep breath, calming herself. At least on the surface. She felt the blood fizzing in her veins. Her heart pounded; her mind raced. She remembered the conversation she’d had with Brenna, every word that two-faced liar had said right here in this house. All that mock contrition, all those apologies and protests of innocence—with all
that deception seething underneath. Because what did the slut do but promise to leave Rafe forever—and then leave the house, go back on her word, and snare him, marry him, steal him away forever. Now, to cap it, she’d sent her brother to court the woman she’d stolen him from!