If Love Were Enough (14 page)

“Why, I’m taking a bath. With you. I told you we both needed to clean up.” Brandon slid down into the tub raising the water level near to the brim.

“But. But . . .” Cilla crossed her arms over her chest, her face still flushed red.

“My love, we’ve been most intimate. I have discovered so many of the little places that bring you pleasure. More than you even knew existed. And there are yet more to come. Why should you be shy to share a bath with me? Now turn around here and lean against my chest. In a moment I’ll scrub your back. Later you can scrub mine.” He quirked a smile. She looked doubtfully into his eyes. He lifted an eyebrow in question.

Finally, she acquiesced. She turned and leaned against him. He hunted in the water for the soap, and once the bar of French milled soap was found, started lathering her breasts to squeaks of surprise followed by delight.

Brandon bent to suggest, “There are many places we can make love, my love. I think we should take the time to discover them all.”

It was then Cilla relaxed back against him with a sigh.

There was so much to teach her.

There was so much he wanted to learn.

Cilla woke the next morning to find daylight streaming through the window. Brandon, clad in his trousers, leaned against the French door frame gazing out over the grounds.

“A tuppence for your thoughts, my lord.” She sat up in bed holding the warmth of the linens against her naked skin.

Brandon looked over to her. “They are not worth a half-penny. I was just wondering how long we both can hide out here until our responsibilities overtake us.”

Cilla shed the sheets and reached for his green silk robe. When she had covered herself, she joined him at the window.

Brandon pulled her to him, his chest against her back as he nuzzled her ear.

“You must be thinking of your father. There has been no news. Has there?”

“I have sent a few missives but have not heard back. I go on the assumption that no news is good news.” Brandon drew her tighter, nuzzled her neck.

“I cannot think when you do that, my lord. Stop so I can think.”

“Maybe you have no need for thinking.”

“Brandon, I will not be able to walk if we make love again. Have pity on one so new to these exertions.”

Brandon eased his hold on her. You’re right, of course. But it’s with regret and disappointment I do so. If you were not so tender, I would have you again, gladly.”

“I can tell. But I demand a respite. At least for this morning. Shall we not join the others for breakfast? Maybe a walk in the gardens for some fresh air. It looks like a glorious day.”

He looked over her head toward the green lawns and burgeoning plants and flowers. “All right, but later we’ll return and I’ll have you again. Promise me.”

“I promise.” Cilla turned in his arms, slid her arms around his neck. “I doubt I will be able to keep my hands off you for much more than an hour or two.”

Brandon gave her the kiss she wanted then went to the bell pull.

It was half past ten when they entered the dining room. All faces turned to them when they did so. Cilla, her arm placed upon Brandon’s, did not so much as quiver. Brandon nodded his acknowledgment and settled her at the table. After inquiring her preferences, he went to the side board to make up two plates. He was settling in next to her, a word yet to be spoken by anyone in the room, when a flurry of activity brought their attention back to the door.

“Is it not a beautiful day?” Anne entered, dressed in a fine dress of soft blue that made her eyes dazzle. The sleeves were long and hid whatever bandages were still necessary from the debacle two nights before. Without waiting for an answer she continued, “I am so glad I am over that little illness. I felt I was near death I was so debilitated.”

Flitting toward the foot of the table, Anne waited while a footman hurried to pull out her chair. “James, serve me the usual,” she demanded.

Anne turned her attention back to the group. “It is such a lovely day. We must have an outing. I must take the ladies into the village. I was told before you all arrived, the dressmaker received some new piece goods from France and the milliner had a new selection of hats. What could make a woman more elated than a new dress or a new hat?”

Cilla looked at Brandon but he just shook his head almost indiscernibly.

Anne brought the attention of all back to her. “Sally, I just know you’ll go with me. You’re never tired of a new gown. Regina, I know you rarely have someone of discerning taste with which to shop so of course you’ll go. James, send someone off to locate Charlotte, Mrs. Tilden, get her out of bed if needs be and tell her we will be off to the village. And send someone to the stables to prepare the coach.”

Then she turned her attention on Cilla. “Well, Lady Rutherford, when was the last time you bought a new gown or chapeau? I swear, all these years you have hibernated in Northumberland your wardrobe looks more that of a country squire’s wife than of a marchioness. You must go as well.”

Cilla opened her mouth to protest but Anne cut her off. “Surely Lord Brookfield can stop rutting for a few hours. Take a breather, Pris, and come out with us. I will not take no for an answer.”

Cilla looked to Brandon. In a quiet voice he said, “Go with her, Cilla. At least you might find out how well she is and whether there is need for further concern. Besides, you wanted a rest. This little diversion will give you what you asked for. I will see you when you return.”

Brandon entered his rooms with no further plan than to relax while the ladies went to the village to shop. No sooner had he closed the door behind him, however, than a knock came upon it.

“My lord Brookfield,” Rogers, the butler said, “this missive arrived for you only moments ago. I came in search of you as the bearer indicated it was urgent. He is awaiting your response. I have sent him to the kitchens for a meal.”

With a thank you and a nod, Brandon took the letter and watched as the butler made a slight bow and took his leave.

Brandon tore open the seal with dread in his heart.

It was as he feared, and at some point, knew to expect. His father had gone from bad to worse and his sister had no idea how much longer he might last. Marie begged him to return home at once lest Brandon not be with his father at his passing.

Folding the parchment and heading for the bell pull, Brandon called for Simpson then sat down at the escritoire to pen a quick but necessary note to Cilla.

How he wished he could tell her directly, that he could take his leave with a kiss and a promise to see her again soon. And, he needed her direction so he could write to her and keep her apprised of his circumstances.

Why did fate challenge him at every turn?

He dipped quill into ink then put the tip to paper.

My dearest Cilla,

It seems just when I learn where I want to stay, I am called away.

My father has taken a turn for the worst and I am called to his bedside. I hate that now, when we are together at last, I must leave you. But I know, having lost Robert so very recently, you of all people will understand.

Know I will take thoughts of you with me and when I arrive home will write to you, care of your brother. I am most sure he will forward the notes and give me your direction.

Be assured, my love, I will see you again once all is settled with my father’s passing and his estate.

Very truly yours,

Brandon, Lord Brookfield

Simpson knocked on the dressing room door then entered upon his call.

“I leave immediately. Pack the necessities for my return on horseback. Pack the remainder and leave as quickly as possible. I expect I can be out of here within the hour.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Simpson set to his task with purpose.

Brandon folded the letter, sealed and addressed it to Lady Priscilla Rutherford. He then sat for a moment thinking of their time together and how he regretted he could stay no longer to enjoy her charms and see what further could come of his feelings for her.

“Your bag is packed, my lord.”

Brandon rose to take the black satchel from the valet’s grasp. “I will see you in BrookLea as soon as possible. Make haste and make no digressions.”

With Simpson’s nod to his wishes, Brandon quitted the room. In the front foyer, he placed his note to Cilla on the silver salver on the
bombe
chest near the front door then strode off to the stables and his horse. If he made the minimum amount of stops, resting only for his horse, he might make it home in two days, three maximum if the weather didn’t hold.

He hoped his father would wait for him.

He hoped Cilla would understand.

The ladies were all atwitter as they entered the foyer led by Lady Asherton.

Cilla, the last among them, saw Rogers open the door, comment to his mistress then step away.

Upon entering the foyer, she caught a glimpse of Anne slipping something into her pocket before turning to mount the stairs.

The ladies dispersed, having had tea at a shop in the village there was no need to dine further until the dinner hour which was still some hours away.

Cilla went up to her rooms, half expecting to find Brandon there waiting for her.

Removing her bonnet and pelisse, she decided she would head off to his rooms to see if he was there. Maybe he was writing to his father, or just resting after all their prior exertions. She was sure she needed a nap. Maybe she could cuddle up next to him until it was time to dress for dinner.

Maybe they could call down for dinner and dine in his rooms.

No answer came when she knocked on his door. She turned the knob. Unlocked, she entered to find him gone.

But it was more than that.

The room was empty. It had been set to rights, fresh linens, a fire set in the hearth, the French doors ajar to allow the fresh spring air to enter, and there was not a trace of her lover, no less of the intimacies they had shared. Brandon was no place to be seen. The room was devoid of any trace of him. There were no men’s toiletries on the washstand. There was not a jacket, shirt, or trousers over a chair, though she doubted Simpson would be so careless.

Even the scent of him, of their lovemaking, was gone.

Anxiety tightened her stomach into a knot as she walked to the armoire and opened its walnut doors.

Empty.

Brandon was gone.

Cilla rushed back to her rooms. Had she missed a note explaining his departure?

Upon entering, she searched the tables, looked on the pillows of the neatly made bed, the secretary near the window.

Nothing.

Refraining from giving way to panic, Cilla hurried down the stairs. She checked the salver in the foyer but a missive was not there. She then entered one room after another, the drawing room, the dining room, the breakfast room, the music room. Each was either empty or occupied by persons with whom she did not care to converse. She nodded, perused the room for an envelope then continued her quest when none was found.

When the formal rooms had proven another disappointment, Cilla went through the green baize door and headed below stairs. Before entering the kitchens she took a deep breath to compose herself. It would not do to have the staff see her in a state of near hysteria.

Cook was at the ovens; Rogers at the table taking tea when she entered.

“Rogers, Lord Brookfield, has he left?”

Rogers jumped from his seat when he realized who she was. “Nearly two hours ago, my lady,” he answered, with a slight bow at the waist.

“Do you know why or where?” Cilla entered the room as she schooled her features into polite inquiry.

“He received a letter. I delivered it myself just after you and the ladies left on your shopping excursion. The messenger indicated it was from his family home but knew not the contents. Lord Brookfield left by horseback not a half hour later. His valet, the messenger and carriage with his luggage were gone within the hour after that.”

“Oh, my yes. With such urgency it must be his father. He must have taken a turn for the worst.” She tried not to show her disappointment.

Rogers nodded his agreement as he remained standing. Cook, who had moments before been paying attention to their exchange, wiped her hands on her apron, nodded and went back to the evening meal she was preparing.

Cilla turned to leave fighting the dejection she felt. Then with a second thought, turned back.

“Rogers, perchance Lord Brookfield left a note for me?”

The butler looked flummoxed, then pensive. “No, madam, he gave me nothing to give to you or even to Lord Asherton. I will check with the other servants but no one as yet has indicated his lordship left behind any communication.”

“Thank you, Rogers. If one does turn up, I am most confident I will receive it directly.”

With head up, Cilla retired from the kitchens then used the back stairs to gain her rooms. No sooner had she entered than she threw herself upon the bed. Try as she might she could not stop the tears that broke forth.

He had left her. She knew he would if his father needed him, but without a word, a note, anything to say goodbye? Had their affair meant so little to him he did not even leave some slight explanation or farewell?

Cilla leaned on an elbow as she rummaged in a pocket for her handkerchief. On its discovery, she pulled it out to wipe her eyes, blow her nose.

She must compose herself. After all, she had not come here to form a permanent attachment. She had come for one purpose – to create a child to be Robert’s heir.

Had she succeeded?

With no prior experience on which to draw, she could only hope she had, and wait for some significant signals to prove it.

But why had Brandon left without a word? It seemed to her their intimacy had been more than just a tawdry affair. He had been kind, tender, caring, patient, and attentive.

True, he had a fiancée waiting for him back at BrookLea. Had she misread the feelings of mutual respect and empathy over their similar situations?

Three solid raps came at the door just before Anne sauntered into her chamber without so much as a by your leave.

“Rogers tells me Brookfield has left. Did he not bid you farewell?”

Was that a triumphant gleam Anne tried to temper in her sky blue eyes?

Cilla sat up on her bed, patting her handkerchief against her nose. She refused to give Anne the satisfaction of seeing her distressed.

With cool nonchalance she replied, “Evidently, but I’m sure his family called him home to his father’s death bed. We all knew he would leave as quickly as possible whenever he was summoned.”

“But he left without a word to you?” Cilla could tell Anne was fighting to keep the smirk off her face. Cilla could see the twitches at the corners of her mouth.