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Mariah felt sorry for him, her heart ached
for him. But she wouldn't lie. "Yes, you have really. Not all the
time, but yes."

"You are refreshingly honest, Mariah."

Her name again. She didn't correct him. She
liked hearing it too much.

"I was not always so ham-fisted when dealing
with the opposite sex," he said with a self-deprecating shrug which
she found rather adorable. "In fact, I was quite the rake in my
time."

She could well believe it. Anyone who looked
like him and kissed like him was sure to have been the heartbreaker
of many. "You miss it? The life you had in London?"

"I miss how carefree my life was before—"

"Before?"

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face,
looking suddenly older. "You asked the other day who the gown you
wore belonged to."

Mariah's heart hammered in her chest. Was he
going to admit that actually, yes he was married? The thought made
her feel queasy, and she placed her glass untouched on the coffee
table.

"You should know, you looked enchanting in
it."

"Thank you," she said dismissively, refusing
to be sidetracked from the conversation by his pretty
compliments.

"The dress is my sister's. Was my sister's,
rather."

Mariah felt a surge of relief so intense it
took her by surprise. But as the words sank in, she realised their
meaning.

"Was?" she asked quietly.

"She died two years ago," he said, his voice
emotionless but that ticking in his jaw gave him away again.

"What happened?"

Abruptly, he stood, almost as though he could
no longer bear to sit still. He walked to the fireplace then
stopped, his back to her.

"My sister was beautiful, sweet and
incredibly naïve." The words came out so quiet, she strained to
hear. "She was the apple of my parents' eyes, and mine too. She was
younger than me by some years, and I doted on her as did everyone
who knew her."

Mariah stood and went to stand by him,
feeling suddenly cold and uneasy though not knowing why.

"We knew that when she eventually came out
she would be the toast of the
ton
. And incomparable, of the
highest order. I worried, as overprotective brothers do, that she
would be pursued by the very worst sorts of rakes as well as men of
good character, and I was determined to stick by her side for the
entirety of her Season."

"It turned out that while we were all
preparing for her catching the eye of a disreputable gentleman
during the Season, she had already caught the eye of one much
closer to home. "

"She was seduced by the son of a neighbouring
earl, who was significantly older and married. We none of us
guessed it. We only found out when she came to me, utterly
distraught. He — he had gotten her with child, and when she went to
him and told him, he told her of his wife and children. Told her to
stay away from him and swore that he would deny any knowledge of
their supposed affair."

Mariah gasped, feeling the pain radiating
from him as he told his sorry tale.

He went on as though she had not spoken. "I
was murderous. I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. But Father
convinced me to stay home while he went to the earl. I did not know
what good he thought he could do. She was ruined. Her life
destroyed at fifteen years old.

"Father returned, as I knew he would, with
the news that the earl had threatened to use all of his power to
keep my family quiet about what had happened." His lips pressed
into a thin line, and the vein in his temple throbbed.

"Daphne was inconsolable. She became a
shadow. Her belly grew with her child, but her soul withered more
and more every day." He ran a hand through his hair, pulling
slightly at the strands, his face a picture of helplessness and
despair. "We none of us knew how to help her. We kept quiet about
it as best we could. Servants were bribed, visitors were sent away.
People gossiped of course, but we ignored it."

Mariah felt herself trembling with rage, with
sympathy, with a myriad of emotions that wouldn't help him now so
she bit her tongue to keep from speaking.

"I took over the estate and began to build my
various business ventures. I had thought if I made enough money I
could give her and the child a peaceful life in the country, away
from prying eyes and vicious tongues." He sighed wearily and it
sounded as though it came from the very depth of his soul.

"When word came that she had had the child, a
little girl, I returned home."

His eyes closed but not before Mariah saw a
flash of pain so raw that her eyes filled with tears.

"I did not even recognise her. The birth had
been hard, but it was more than that. She was lifeless. Like a
ghost. She barely ate, she would not speak. And the strain had
taken its toll on my parents too. My father's heart gave out
completely not long afterwards. Daphne did not even attend the
funeral."

He paused and swallowed convulsively. The
crackle of a log settling was the only sound. She wanted
desperately to reach out to him but she held herself still, wanting
him to finish, sensing he needed to talk about it.

"Anyway, years passed. I went away again and
worked like a dog. I admit now that I was avoiding my
responsibilities. I did not know how to deal with Daphne's sickness
and my mother's grief." He shook his head, his eyes bleaker than
she'd ever seen them.

"I stayed away until I got the letter."

He stopped again, his voice having cracked on
the last word. Mariah was filled with dread. She wanted to tell him
to stop, that she did not need to hear anymore. But something told
her that he needed to speak it aloud.

"When Charlotte, my niece, was three years
old, Daphne took herself into the woods surrounding our estate and
— and shot herself. She was not yet even twenty."

"Oh, Brandon," Mariah knew she shouldn't have
spoken his Christian name, but she didn't care about such mundane
things right now, so consumed was she by pity. She raised an arm
and placed it on his, feeling how tense his muscles were beneath
his shirt sleeve.

"I wasn't there. If — if I'd been there I
could have stopped her. If I'd moved her away sooner, brought her
here where nobody could know, I could have saved her." He grimaced
at the glass in his hand then slammed it forcefully onto the side
table. "I failed her, and now she's dead. My niece is without a
mother, my own mother has been utterly destroyed by it, and all
they have now is me, a man who has made more money than he can
spend in his lifetime and cannot do right by them. I was a coward,
and they have all suffered for it." He pulled away from her
sympathetic touch and leapt to his feet.

Mariah was horrified by the sadness of his
tale. She was horrified that he should blame himself so much.

She jumped up and walked towards him.

"Brandon, no. No! You cannot blame yourself.
I won't let you."

His face was an emotionless mask, devoid of
all feeling. She could tell he was barely listening but she pressed
on.

"Please, hear me. Your sister, your poor
sweet sister, she became sick, Brandon. So sick that she could not
bear it any longer. It would not have mattered had you been there.
She had already stopped living. It was not your fault. You are
not
to blame."

Still he did not turn to her, still he did
not react. He was a statue. His grief was no longer showing on his
face but she knew he felt it keenly from the set of his jaw, the
stiffness in his spine.

In desperation she grabbed his shoulders and
turned him to face her. "Listen to me," she practically shouted.
"You cannot help your sister now, but you can be the man you need
to be for your family. For your mother and for Charlotte."

"How?" he asked brokenly. "How can I ever
make it right?"

"By being happy," she said firmly. "By
creating a happy home for them. By being proud of your niece, not
ashamed. The sins of her father and the mistakes of her mother are
not hers. Give her a loving home. Be the father she needs. Show
your mother that she still has a child to live for."

"I haven't lived in a year. I stopped living
the day she did."

"A year?"

"It was last Christmas. Christmas day." he
admitted softly. "That is why I was so desperate for this place to
be readied. I do not think my mother can bear to stay where she is.
And I don't want Charlotte to be there, where her mother died, for
any longer than she needs to be."

Hot tears streamed down Mariah's face. In
that moment she knew she was, without reason or sense, falling
desperately in love with this man. Even though only days had
passed. She couldn't explain it. It was illogical and foolish, but
it was true. She was falling hard and she wanted so badly to help
him.

"Brandon, a big library, a new house. It's
wonderful, but it isn't enough. They need you. Not things. And the
only way to make them happy is for
you
to be happy. And to
be happy you must forgive yourself. You must." In her desperation
for him to listen, she grabbed at the lapels of his jacket, shaking
him as she spoke.

Bit by bit, his eyes focused on her. They'd
been somewhere else entirely up until that point. He'd been looking
at the past he couldn't escape, not her. But he was looking at her
now.

Slowly, tenderly, he lifted a hand and wiped
the tears from her face.

"You're crying," he said softly. "I didn't
mean to make you cry."

Mariah dashed the tears away impatiently. "It
doesn't matter" she said, dismissing their importance.

"Yes, it does," he argued. "Probably more
than it should. I don't like seeing you cry." He sounded
disconcerted by the fact.

"Brandon, please listen. Please—"

"It's late," he interrupted, suddenly
sounding exhausted and old beyond his years. "Go to bed,
Mariah."

"But—"

"Please," he said in a broken whisper. "I
shouldn't have burdened you with the sins of my past. I only wanted
you to know. When I push you away, when I am rude and cold and
unfeeling, it's because I feel how drawn I am to you, and you
deserve so much more than the shell of a man I have become."

"Brandon—"

"Go, Mariah. Just go."

It was no use. He would never listen to her
now.

Shaking her head, Mariah turned to leave. She
felt as though her heart were breaking.

As she reached the door, she looked back and
saw that he was watching her, his face a mask of utter
desolation.

Without another thought, she ran back to him
and threw her arms round his neck, pressing her lips to his.

She could not kiss away his pain. Her touch
couldn't make up for what he had suffered. What he still suffered.
But that didn't mean she couldn't try. Try to show him that
compassion still existed in the world and he was worthy of it. He
obviously felt that he was undeserving of it. But he wasn't and she
wanted to show him that.

He held himself stiff for a second or two
before, with a muffled oath against her lips, he wrapped his arms
round her and lifted her clean off her feet.

His lips were bruising, his arms crushing,
his tongue demanding. The kiss, which she had only meant as a
comfort, suddenly became something much more. Something wild and
primitive and all-consuming.

It was as though telling his tale had opened
his soul to her. And hers was rejoicing in the fact. She felt as
though she was becoming a part of him and he of her.

It was the most intense, confusing thing she
had ever felt, and she shook with the power of it.

But it was over all too soon.

He gently pushed her from him and gazed at
her for a heart-stopping moment.

Then, with a gentle kiss on her forehead, he
let her go.

"Goodnight, Mariah" he said softly.

She couldn't speak, so she turned and
silently left the room.

The storm had passed,
both inside the house and out.

By mutual unspoken agreement the conversation
of that night, when he'd told her his sorry tale was not brought up
again.

But Mariah hadn't forgotten it. And she was
determined to make this Christmas a happy one for that poor, tragic
family.

The days went on, and they fell into a
blissful routine. Blissful in any case, for Mariah. The library was
coming along magnificently, and since the wind and lashing snow had
subsided, Mariah was able to spend some time in the gardens.

She didn't venture too far since the snow was
knee deep in places, but it did her heart good to get out and
about.

What did not do her heart good was the change
in Brandon.

After the other night, they had continued to
call each other by their given names and though Mariah knew it was
a shocking impropriety that didn't stop her.

But the change in him was her undoing.

He was kind, attentive, chatty, and even
cheerful at times. Well, at least he tried to be cheerful. He
joined her for meals. He even came to see her progress in the
library and complimented her on her work.

He rather moodily joined her on a tour of the
house and listened to her list of ideas for redecorating. Pretended
to listen, that was. But that didn't matter since at dinner that
evening she presented him with a catalogue of notes on her
ideas.

He had laughed and accepted it graciously.
There had been a moment of intense sadness for her when she
realised that his mother would probably make her own changes, and
Mariah wouldn't even be there to see it.

But it was best not to dwell on that. Just
like it was best not to dwell on the fact that she had gone from
falling in love with him to being completely in love with him at
the speed of a runaway carriage. Yes, she was a fool. But she was a
fool in love.