Kathryn Smith (9 page)

“No,” Julian replied with a smile. “But I do promise not to say another word about Rachel Ashton.”

“Good enough.” Brave stood and followed his friend across the room to the bar. They were stopped by several female “guests” along the way, and though Brave managed to fend off their advances with flattering kindness, Julian, who was so much better at putting words on paper than in his own mouth where women were concerned, muttered some lame excuse and went off in search of Gabriel, leaving Brave alone again.

“Frailty,” Brave muttered, pouring himself another glass of port. “Thy name is Wolfram.”

He shouldn’t be there, and he certainly shouldn’t have
brought his friends, but he’d brought them because he wouldn’t have been able to go on his own, and not just because he hadn’t been invited. He hadn’t known how he would react to the temptation to drink himself blind and take what the women present offered.

He should have known neither would prove much of a temptation. The port was adequate, but the women…Well, it had been a long time since he’d been tempted.

And Rachel Ashton didn’t count. His reaction to her was the reaction of any normal man who’d been too long removed from the world.

So why didn’t he react the same way to any of the women around him now? There were women there who were prettier than Rachel Ashton, albeit without those striking lavender-blue eyes of hers. There were women there whose bosoms were bigger, smaller, higher, lower, even creamier, and he’d be willing to bet that most of the women there had smaller feet, but that didn’t make him want them. Meanwhile, the memory of Rachel’s bosom straining against the neckline of his mother’s gown was enough to make him start to harden.

Maybe Julian was right. Maybe it was
him
Rachel needed protection from.

“Good evening, Braven.”

Or maybe not.

Turning to face Viscount Charlton, Brave plastered his best and least sincere smile on his face. “And good evening to you as well, Charlton. This is quite the…soiree you’ve got here.”

Charlton smiled. He wasn’t really a bad-or evil-looking man. He was a little stocky and could stand to bathe a bit more often, but it was his personality that made him so revolting, not his looks or smell.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. I must confess, I was beginning to wonder if you were enjoying yourself or not. Are the ladies not to your
liking
?”

Something in his tone of voice made Brave’s hackles rise. No man liked having his sexual preferences questioned.

“I prefer to watch,” he replied, and then realized how that sounded.

Charlton clapped him on the back so hard Brave thought he might have knocked one of his lungs loose. “So, that’s the way of it, eh? Well, I’ve enjoyed being a spectator once or twice in my day as well. You should have told me, old man. There’s a room upstairs with a peephole that allows a person to spy on the room next door. I could have put you up there instead of Hathaway.”

Brave tried to keep his expression polite. “That’s very kind of you,
old man
, but I’m quite content where I’m at. I like to browse a bit, see what mares are available before I choose a suitable mount.” His father would slap his mouth if he could hear him now. Charles Wycherley had not raised his son to be a libertine, and Brave did not approve of using women solely for pleasure and then casting them aside.

Another reason he could never figure out why Miranda had chosen a roguish stableboy over him. Maybe
that
was why.

Charlton laughed and gave him another slap on the back. “Quite right, Braven, quite right! I’ve never cared whether she be filly or nag, just as long as she gets me where I want to go!”

Brave hid a grimace behind his glass and drank deeply. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand to witness this debacle that would make even a Roman emperor blush.

Charlton leaned closer, so close that Brave could smell him. He held the glass of port under his nose to try and mask the odor. Sex and sweaty feet did not mix.

“Although, I’ve discovered it is time to buy a new mare, Braven.”

Brave stiffened, his heart racing. “Really? Did you have to put your old one out to pasture?”

Chuckling, Charlton shook his head. “I’ve decided to marry.”

Brave nodded in mock sympathy. “Decided to start your nursery, have you? Well, never fear Charlton, it happens to us all eventually.”

Charlton sighed. “Aye, ’tis time for that as well, but it’s not just for an heir that I’ve decided to marry.”

“Oh? And what is the other reason.”

“A bird in hand is worth two in the bush,” Charlton replied as though the old saying held some secret, mystical meaning.

Brave shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Charlton stepped even closer and Brave was forced to take a step back to keep his eyes from watering. The
old man
was ripe tonight.

“You see these women, Braven? I had to have them sent up from London, and even then it was hard to get enough of them to come.”

“They don’t like the country?” His tone was dry.

“They don’t like
me
.”

Can you blame them?
“Oh, now I don’t believe—”

“It’s true. Word’s gotten around that I sometimes have…peculiar tastes.”

“Well, you’re scarcely alone there,” Brave replied honestly. “Seems half of England has peculiar tastes.”

“Be that as it may, there’s only one bawdy house in London that’ll allow me within its doors, and even then there’s only a few of the girls that’ll have me. And since they know no one else will have me, they’ve begun charging me a king’s ransom for my pleasure.”

The pieces fell together in Brave’s head like a child’s puzzle, leaving him cold inside. “And you don’t have to pay a wife.”

Charlton nodded. “And a wife can’t refuse her husband.”

Brave swallowed the bile at the back of his throat. Sir
Henry was knowingly selling his stepdaughter—Rachel—to this man. No doubt he thought he was getting a pretty good price, and no doubt Charlton was all too happy to pay it.

He took a swallow of port to wash the bad taste out of his mouth. “When is the happy occasion to take place?”

Charlton shrugged. “Not sure. As soon as I can secure it. I don’t mind telling you I’m looking forward to saving the blunt.”

“I’m sure you are,” Brave replied, barely hiding his rancor.

Charlton blinked. “Yes, well, feel free to watch all you want, Braven. Join in if you wish. There’s plenty to go around.”

The only physical activity Brave was interested in at that moment was beating both Charlton and Sir Henry into bloody pulps.

“Thank you, Charlton, but I think I’ve seen enough for one evening.” Setting his glass on the bar, Brave turned his back on the confused viscount and strode toward the door. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached and his hands were balled into tight fists at his sides.

One way or another, he was going to protect Rachel from Charlton’s sick and twisted desires.

And he wasn’t doing it out of the kindness of his heart either.

W
hat was Brave doing with her bonnet?

Strolling up the lane to Tullywood, Rachel silently asked herself the question for the hundredth time since leaving the milliner’s shop. The owner hadn’t found any unfamiliar bonnets in his store after she and Belinda left the day before, but the Earl of Braven had been carrying a lady’s bonnet when he and his friends departed shortly after. Obviously it was hers.

Well, he could have at least returned it to her. Perhaps attending Viscount Charlton’s party was more important?

Or, she thought with less bitterness, it hadn’t occurred to Brave that it might be the only one she owned—other than the rose-velvet one she hadn’t yet been able to bring herself to wear. Certainly he was used to ladies with extensive wardrobes, but Rachel owned only one bonnet that was fit for wear. She borrowed one of her mother’s for the walk into town—she hadn’t wanted to walk into the milliner’s wearing the bonnet Belinda had purchased the day before. Then
they’d know of Belinda’s generosity, and that made Rachel uncomfortable.

So, she thought, returning to the matter at hand, when did he plan to return it? Just the idea of seeing him again was enough to make Rachel’s stomach knot with anxiety. Brave was an appealing man, despite his brooding appearance, and Rachel was well aware she owed him a debt of gratitude for saving her life. But he made her nervous.

Ever since that kiss on the Westwoods’ balcony things had been different. She’d even had a servant return his mother’s gown so she wouldn’t have to face him again.

She’d been so aware of him in the hat shop. His scent, the sound of his voice, the somber set of his features, even when he smiled—if that’s what one could call that sad twist of his lips. She’d been completely overwhelmed by all of it.

Rachel wasn’t so naive that she didn’t understand what it meant. She was attracted to Brave. Very attracted, and for that reason alone it was best that she stay away from him. She could never give herself to a man who wasn’t her husband—it went against everything she had been raised to believe. At the very best she would end up making a fool of herself, for a woman in her position—even if she wanted to marry—had no hope of ever marrying an earl, especially when that earl hadn’t given her any indication that he returned her attraction.

Rachel didn’t know what would be worse—having her feelings returned, or not having them returned. If they weren’t returned, only her pride would be bruised, but if they were…

There was no point thinking of that. As long as Sir Henry was a threat to her mother, Rachel couldn’t stay in Yorkshire and couldn’t even entertain the idea of marriage. Her mother’s safety came first. What kind of daughter would put her own wants before the needs of the woman who raised her? Especially a woman who had aligned herself with a man
like Sir Henry just so her daughter would have food in her belly. No, Rachel would just have to get past this foolish attraction to Brave. And she would.

“There’s a gentleman waiting for you in the parlor, Miss,” Potts, the butler, informed her when she entered the house.

Rachel gaped at the round-faced elderly man.

“A gentleman? For me?” Was it Brave? Despite her resolution of only moments before, Rachel’s heart thrilled at the prospect of seeing him, even if he was there only to return her hat.

Handing Potts her bonnet and cloak, Rachel smoothed her hands over her hair and skirts and hurried across the foyer to the front parlor.

Her smile of greeting froze as her gaze fell upon her visitor.

Viscount Charlton
.

He rose to his feet and started toward her as she entered the room. “Miss Ashton, how lovely to see you.”

“Good morning, Lord Charlton.” Etiquette dictated that Rachel offer him her hand, and as she did so, the odors of cologne, stale sweat, and hair pomade struck her full force.

The viscount had decided to pretty himself up for her. Charming.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” she asked, pulling her hand free of his before he could kiss it. She made no move to sit, and therefore the viscount couldn’t either. His gaze darted around in bewilderment before coming back to hers.

“Er…no doubt you are aware that your stepfather and I have come to an agreement.”

“No.”

The viscount looked even more confused. “I beg your pardon?”

Calm. She had to be calm. If she went into hysterics now, it would ruin whatever chance she had of getting herself out
of this mess. She would refuse him, and she would do it calmly and as haughtily as any highborn lady.

Schooling her features into a polite mask, Rachel shrugged. “I am not aware of any agreement between my stepfather and you, Lord Charlton.”

“Oh.” Now clearly befuddled, the viscount ran a hand over his hair, wiping the smear of pomade that came off it onto his breeches.
Lovely
.

“Ahem…yes, well…you see, my dear, I have asked your stepfather for your hand in marriage, and he has given his consent.” The viscount smiled, revealing teeth that were in need of a good cleaning.

“I see.” Still wearing her mask of tranquillity, Rachel continued, “And why was I not consulted on this matter?”

Charlton frowned. “Why should you’ve been? The marriage settlements are between Sir Henry and me. As a woman, they do not concern you.”

Rachel had a hard time keeping her disbelief from showing. “Yes, but I’m the one being bought and sold.”

“From father to husband, as it has always been done. There was no need to consult you. An agreement has been reached, and we are to be married in one month’s time.” He stomped past her. Rachel added an extremely short temper to the growing list of the viscount’s faults.

Suddenly much calmer than she had been all day, Rachel kept her gaze fixed on the far wall, not even bothering to turn toward him as she gathered her courage. She drew a deep breath. “No.”

This time there was no mistaking her meaning. There was a clomping of boots, and the viscount was in front of her again. “What did you say?”

Rachel met his gaze evenly. “I said no, Lord Charlton. I will not marry you.”

Charlton’s face flushed crimson. “You’re sorely mis
guided if you think you have any say in the matter, missy. I paid good money to have you and have you I will, by whatever means necessary.”

Her blood turned to ice water in her veins. How could she have ever thought she could just simply refuse someone Sir Henry chose? Of course he would not make it that easy for her. He despised her as much as she hated him, and his choice of bridegroom proved that.

A shaky smiled curved Rachel’s lips. “By ‘have’ I assume you mean to bed me, Lord Charlton?”

The viscount’s gaze traveled the length of her body and back up again, making Rachel feel as dirty as a roll in a pigsty. “It includes bedding, yes,” he replied, his tone low and hoarse.

Rachel shuddered, but went through with her plan. “Then I’m afraid you’ve purchased damaged goods.” It was a lie, but Charlton didn’t know that.

Pomade-stained fingers reached out to touch the swell of her bosom above the neckline of her gown.

“I don’t care that you’re not a virgin, Sweetness. In fact, I’d prefer it if you weren’t.”

What man wanted a wife who wasn’t pure? Hysteria threatened again, and Rachel mentally reached for the first lie she could think of. “And you don’t mind that I have the pox?”

Charlton froze. “You
what
?”

To be honest, Rachel wasn’t even certain what having the pox entailed, but she knew from the expression on the viscount’s face that it was bad. Very bad.

Rachel almost smiled at his horrified expression. “I have the pox. Did Sir Henry not tell you?”

“No,” Charlton ground out. “He most certainly did
not
tell me.”

“Hmm.” Rachel shrugged. “Perhaps he forgot. Anyway, Lord Charlton, I’m sure you understand now why I cannot
marry you in good conscience. It would be very wrong of me.” She hoped she didn’t look as insincere as she sounded.

The viscount looked so angry, Rachel thought he might have a seizure right there in front of her. “Miss Ashton, are you being quite honest with me?”

Rachel put on her best innocent face. “Lord Charlton, the pox is not the kind of thing a young woman would ever want to lay claim to, especially if she did not have it.”

He seemed to believe that, even though anyone with half a brain would know that a desperate young woman would say almost anything to avoid marrying a man she found disgusting. Obviously, the viscount saw himself as quite the catch.

“Yes, of course,” he agreed, his face still tight with anger. “I am sorry for wasting your time, Miss Ashton, and I thank you for your candor. You may rest assured your…condition is safe with me.”

Rachel didn’t doubt that for a second. Charlton wouldn’t want anyone to know of his humiliation.

“Thank you, Lord Charlton. I appreciate your confidence. Now, I am certain you will wish to be on your way…”

Minutes later, Rachel watched Viscount Charlton’s horse gallop down the lane, with the viscount bent over its neck as though Satan himself were on his heels.

Sagging onto the window seat, she congratulated herself on a job well-done. She had successfully managed to avoid marriage to Lord Charlton. She’d made him doubt Sir Henry, and, because of that, Charlton would never believe Sir Henry hadn’t lied to him. She was safe from Charlton—for now.

Which led Rachel to wonder what Sir Henry’s reaction would be when he found out what she’d done.

Her stepfather was
not
going to be pleased.

“What the hell did you tell Charlton?”

Looking up from her sewing, Rachel ignored the worried
glance her mother shot her and greeted her stepfather with what she hoped was a bland expression. It had been almost six hours since Charlton’s departure. She had expected Sir Henry before this.

Standing in the doorway, his clothes wrinkled and his hair standing on end, he looked pathetically out of place in the neat parlor.

“Good evening, Sir Henry,” Rachel replied, ignoring his anger. “I believe cook saved some dinner for you.”

Sir Henry’s round face reddened with rage, but Rachel felt no fear for her own safety. Her stepfather had never struck her, but she wouldn’t put it past him to take his anger out on her mother.

She met her mother’s worried gaze. “Mama, perhaps you should allow Sir Henry and me to talk in private.”

“Good idea,” Sir Henry agreed, his jowls quivering. “Better she not hear what a wicked wretch her daughter is for refusing to marry a peer of the realm!”

One look at her husband’s face and Marion knew better than to argue. Casting one last worried glance at her daughter, she put aside her needlework and hurried from the room.

Rachel rose to her feet as her stepfather approached. “I assume you’ve talked to Lord Charlton.” There was no need to delay the inevitable.

Sir Henry nodded, his dark eyes narrow and bright. “He had a very interesting story to tell me—after demanding that I return the gold he paid me to marry you. He said you told him you had the pox.”

Rachel smiled. “I did.”

Crack!

The blow was staggering, the back of Sir Henry’s hand struck Rachel’s face with a force that almost drove her to her knees and brought tears to her eyes. She would have fallen had she not grabbed the arm of the chair for support.

Her stepfather grabbed her by the shawl, hauling her to
ward him until they were almost nose to nose. Fear—real fear—clutched at Rachel’s chest.

He shook her, his eyes black and cold in the firelight. “I told him you were lying, a case of maidenly nerves, that the marriage would go ahead as planned.”

Rachel could taste blood inside her mouth, but she forced her gaze to his. Her arms dangled helplessly at her sides, pinned by the shawl. Physically, she was unable to defend herself, but she would not back down from him. Even if he beat her black-and-blue, she would not consent to marry Charlton.

“I hope you haven’t spent any of that gold, Sir Henry, because you’re going to end up having to repay it all.” How cool and controlled she sounded! No one would know she was terrified. “Even if you can convince Charlton that I don’t have the pox, I’ll find another way to avoid marrying him. You cannot control me.”

He flung her backward. She hit the mantel with a crash, the hard oak gouging her shoulder blades with a force that made her cry out. Pain shot down her back, and her shawl fell to her feet as she sank to the floor. If he’d pushed her a bit more to the left, she would have ended up in the fire.

She wasn’t so sure that hadn’t been his intention.

With bleary vision she watched him move toward her and she groped for a weapon, anything to keep him from hurting her again. Her hands closed around the poker near the grate.

Dragging herself to her feet, Rachel delved deep within herself, past the fear and pain to the rage she felt whenever Sir Henry hurt her mother. Calling on that anger, she raised the poker like a sword.

“Put that down,” he demanded, poised like an animal ready to pounce. Rachel had never seen him look so energetic, so anxious.

Good Lord, he was enjoying this! It pleased him to see her bleed. Until that moment she’d never quite realized just how much he hated her.

“Get away from me.” She swung the poker at him when he tried to advance. Pain shot through her shoulders. “You come near me again, and I’ll kill you.”

Sir Henry smiled, sending a shiver down Rachel’s bruised spine. “You can’t fight me forever, Rachel. Sooner or later I will break you, and you will do as I say.”

Anger, fear, and pride brought Rachel’s chin up a notch. “Once I turn twenty-five, you can’t touch me, you bastard. I can certainly fight you ’til then.”

Confusion furrowed his brow. “Twenty-five? What happens when you’re twenty-five?” Then, he laughed, as though he’d just gotten the gist of a joke. “Oh, your inheritance! Is that what you’re talking about? You’re planning to take your little nest egg and fly the coop, are you?”

“That’s right. And you can’t stop me.”

Still chuckling, Sir Henry relaxed his stance. Unease wormed through Rachel’s veins. What did he find so amusing?