The Flame and the Flower (60 page)

Heather turned with a start, looking around, and Brandon glanced up. At sight of Louisa, he scowled blackly and contemplated what pleasure he would gain from wringing her neck. He would be damned before he'd show her the common courtesy of rising when she entered.

"You seem to enjoy bursting in on people, Louisa," he muttered.

Louisa took in the scene with a snide smile and looked pointedly at Heather's arm and the parted low-cut gown. Brandon watched her perusal of his wife and remembered, thinking of one of the last times he watched Louisa stroll naked across a room, that she had begun to lose the firmness of figure which fades from every woman as she ripens with age. In Louisa it was becoming apparent in her slightly broadening hips and her less than firm breasts. If she had one whit of sense, she'd have blushed in embarrassment instead of looking at his wife with mockery.

Stubbornly, Heather refused to move her arm or fasten her gown under the woman's superior smile. Louisa's gloating expression infuriated her, and she found displeasure in the fact that the blonde was exceptionally well garmented in a yellow muslin gown that was no doubt one of Mr. Hint's creations. It seemed the man was a capable artisan, yet it was difficult to imagine one so hideous creating something so lovely to look upon. She wondered if the man had created those other gowns William Court had claimed as his own. It was something to think about.

Louisa paused for a moment, standing above them with her feet spread, arms akimbo. She smiled.

"Such a quaint little family circle. The more I see of you, Brandon, the more I think marriage does agree with you.
You
appear to be a perfect father and husband."

Brandon raised an eyebrow at her, but she turned away, removing her gloves and hat, carelessly tossing the dusty articles onto a polished table and took a seat facing him. With a casual hardness in her voice she spoke to Heather.

"Will you get me a drink, child? A little Madeira if it's cool."

Flushing angrily, Heather rose to her feet and went to the bar, jerking her bodice together and fastening it.

Louisa went on, speaking again to Brandon. "I acquired such a thirst on that dusty old ride from Charleston, and I do so enjoy your good wines, darling. It's so difficult to get them in town these days, and I've quite exhausted the supply you gave me."

Brandon sat playing with Beau, who seemingly had lost the spirit of fun since Louisa's arrival, casting wary glances toward her; he wondered what had brought her this time. Heather returned and thrust a glass into Louisa's hand. Again the hard, impersonal tone was in the woman's voice as she spoke.

"Thank you. And would you leave us for a while. There's some business I wish to discuss with your husband."

The last word seemed forced and Heather hurried to Brandon, biting a trembling lip, and reached to take Beau from his lap. Anger flared in her husband's face, and he caught her arm and looked past her to the other woman. His jaw tightened and he opened his mouth to retort, but tears flooded from Heather's eyes and she shook her head furiously, raised Beau and hiding her face against him, hurried from the room. She fled into the study to quiet her son, who had begun to whimper when he was taken from his father's arms, and wiped the tears from her face.

Brandon now looked at Louisa with a coldness in his eyes, knowing her crude manner had deeply injured his wife. "Now, Louisa, what is your business?" he ground out.

Her mouth curved into a slow, confident smile. "I met an old friend of yours in Charleston this afternoon, Brandon."

He raised a disinterested eyebrow. "Who?"

"Well," she laughed, "he's not really an old friend—just an old shiphand. I knew him right off as one of your men from the
Fleetwood
when my carriage passed him. Poor soul, he was, completely out of his wits with drink, but he recognized me just the same as being a close friend of yours. He was very helpful."

"Helpful? In what way?"

She threw back her head and laughed gaily. "Really, Brandon, I never dreamed that you of all people would let yourself get caught like that—and by a conniving little prostitute, too. I swear I'd have tried that ages ago if I'd have thought it would have worked."

"What in the hell are you talking about, Louisa?" Brandon demanded.

"Why—you know, darling. Heather, your sweet, innocent little Heather, a prostitute. Dickie told me everything—how he and George found her walking the streets selling her wares, how you were forced into marriage with her, everything."

"Obviously not everything," Brandon growled. He got up and poured himself a stiff drink.

Louisa continued on happily. "I know you don't care about Heather, darling. There have been so many rumors about separate bedrooms. I didn't need anyone to tell me how you felt about her. I just couldn't understand why you had married her. But this afternoon—this afternoon when Dickie told me, I knew for sure your marriage was just a front. Now you can send Heather away, send her back to England. I can forgive you for that little escapade in London and take you back. We can be happy. I know we can. I'll take care of your son, for there is no doubt he is yours—luckily. I'll love him and be good to him. Everyone will understand when we tell them how you were forced to marry her."

Brandon stared at her for a moment in amazement and then began to speak slowly but very carefully.

"Louisa, listen very carefully to what I say, for if you do not believe me, you are a fool. If you think that anyone could force me against my will into marriage or any other contract, you do not know me at all. Now believe this," and he spoke carefully, "as if your life depended upon it, for it does. My wife was no prostitute nor a streetwalker. She was a virgin the first night I took her and George will vouch for that. The child is mine. She is my wife by my consent and I will not again endure your rudeness to her in this house. From this moment on, you will treat her with all the respect due the mistress of Harthaven. You have no further claim upon me, this house or my property."

Louisa rose from her chair and poured herself another glass of wine. She stood before him and as she sipped, stared at him over the rim.

"So you choose that child over me," shehalf sneered.

Brandon smiled tolerantly. "The choice was made long ago, Louisa. I only reaffirm it now."

Her eyes grew narrow and she turned away for a moment to stare out the window. Suddenly she whirled to him again.

"Strange, Brandon, that you should be the one to speak of respect and property in the same breath." She sipped the wine and strolled across the room, placing the settee between them. She rested her free hand upon its back and half lifted the glass, almost as if in toast. "That is what I came to talk to you about, really. I've reconsidered and think my property is worth twice what you paid for it."

She paused and watched him narrowly, waiting for his reaction. His brow darkened somewhat, but he shrugged.

"We made a bargain, Louisa, and it's over—signed, sealed and delivered. You have no property but Oakley and the few acres it stands on. It's done with!"

"Done with, indeed!" she spat. "Then let's talk of respect. How much respect do you think you and your child bride will merit when I let it be known that you were trapped into marriage by a common whore off the streets?"

Brandon's voice rang through the house. "Shut your mouth, bitch! I will not have you slander my wife in her own house!" His voice lowered to a raging snarl. "I do not care what you do outside this house. Say what you will. No man or woman will dare stand up to me and repeat what trash you might spill. You are a bitch, Louisa, physically and mentally."

"Bitch is it now?" she screeched. With a backhanded motion she tossed the wine in his face and smashed the glass against the floor. "Bitch, indeed! I was a virgin when you took me, begging me to marry you and promising the world and all its trappings if I'd but give you that dearest treasure. Then you sailed off and wed the first driveling wench you could pick off the streets and then came dragging her back as your wife. You pledged your troth to me, took my maidenhood and then my lands for a tuppence. Well, I want more." She began to simper and her voice became wheedling and cajoling. "I must have more, Brandon. I had to pay my bills with the other and have only the house left and I can't sell it. Why, I'd starve but for the few pennies I manage to earn. No one will advance me credit since you've thrown me down."

Brandon raged and fought with himself to keep from striking her. He wiped his hand across his face.

"
Virgin!
Lord, all Mighty! You were no more a virgin than that ancient cow in the pasture out this window. Do you take me for a fool? Do you think me dumb and blind that I believed your half-witted play that night? I could not name in the next fortnight the men I know you bedded before and after that so called sacred engagement!" His voice made the walls tremble. "What simple idiocy makes you dream that I will stand and abide the slander of my own beloved?"

"You loved me once!" she screamed. "And you do not sleep with her. The very streets have whispered this fact. It's common knowledge. Why her and not me? I could share your bed and make you forget she ever lived. Try me. Take me. My God, you loved me once!"

"Loved you!" His laughter rang loud. "No! I only tolerated you and like a lad I thought I knew all my mind could want until I faced a truth and saw a beauty never seen before and then I knew what things I really wanted. Beauty? True. Passion? True." He bent close to her face and emphasized each word. "But also loving gentle kind devotion, unquestioning loyalty and a simple honest dignity for my name that lies well beyond your ability to give." His voice rose again. "I love her with every moment of my being. I give her my protection from the street-born sluts that would tear her down and falsify her virtue. With God's good grace we'll foster many sons and daughters so do not hang your hopes upon that lie and do not speak to me again of what you would do to drag her down with you." He stepped to the table and took up Louisa's hat and gloves and flung them in her face. "Now take your moldy presence from this home and keep the stench of your disappointment from its door, and never once let me hear a lie that I attribute to your lips or I shall take great pleasure in wringing that dimpled neck you prize so highly. Now get out of here, bitch. You've abused the common courtesies and are no longer welcome in this house."

Louisa trembled before Brandon's flashing eyes and found no further words to speak. Taking her hat and gloves, she applied her energies to the indicated departure and stalked out of the room, white-lipped and with downcast eyes, brushing hastily past Jeff who had stood for some moments listening, awed at this rare display of violent temper directed at a woman by his brother.

She marched out onto the porch and down the steps, and lifting her skirts high, climbed unceremoniously into the carriage without assistance, failing to notice George who leaned against a pillar and calmly spat in the dust behind her.

As Louisa's carriage rumbled away, Heather came to the study door and gazed across the hall to her husband. He still stood with clenched fists and vibrating cheek, but when he felt her eyes on him, his expression softened and he turned to her, holding up an arm invitingly. Carrying Beau, she came quickly and was enfolded in his loving embrace.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Heather came from the cookhouse, having had a delightful hour helping Cora make bread. She glanced up as a horse came charging through the gate and smiled as Jeff flung himself down from the frothy, laboring beast and ran to her. The look on his face quickly squelched the greeting she was about to give and replaced it with cold apprehension.

"Where's Brandon?" he asked curtly.

"Why, I thought he was with you in the fields."

He jerked his finger and pointed near the stable where a boy was brushing Leopold down. The stallion was no better off than Jeff's buckskin. Both had been ridden hard.

"I didn't hear him come home," she tried to explain in her confusion but he was already running for the house. She caught up her skirts and started after him. "Jeff, what's wrong? What's the matter?"

He turned and a strange mixture of emotions crossed his face, upsetting her more than any words could. She grabbed at his arms.

"Jeff, will you tell me what's wrong?" she cried. In her frightened state she dug her nails into his arm but he took no notice, oblivious to pain, and she shook him as hard as she could shake a man who stood head and shoulders above her. "Jeff, tell me!" she screamed.

He seemed unable to speak for a moment, then he told her. "Louisa's dead, Heather. Someone murdered her."

She stepped back, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. She shook her head disbelievingly.

"It's true. Someone strangled her, broke her neck."

"Why do you want to know where Brandon is?" she demanded.

He seemed reluctant to reply.

"Jeff!"

"I saw Brandon run out of Oakley. He didn't see me riding up and when I went in to see Louisa, I found her dead."

Heather almost strangled on a denial. "No!" She backed away, an accusing glare coming into her eyes. "He didn't do it. He couldn't have! He didn't, Jeff, he didn't! How can you even think it?"

"Do you think I want to believe it? I saw him, Heather, and we both heard him threaten her yesterday."