by Tanya Wilde
“Reasons that apparently do not require any explanation. How is my dear sister faring with those rules?”
For the first time, he looked something other than aloof.
He looked sour.
Holly smothered a grin. A surge of pride swelled in her heart. Willow had not allowed this man’s mad ways to govern her.
“Your sister is . . .”
Holly raised a brow.
“A challenge,” he muttered.
He seemed so put out that her lips did twitch. “Have you ever considered that your rules suppress the very essence of our nature?”
“Because it is not in your nature to follow rules?” he mocked.
“It’s not our way to blindly follow,” Holly corrected. “If I were you, Your Grace, I’d focus on what does lie in our nature rather than on what doesn’t. Your life would be easier.”
“Wise advice, but it changes nothing. You will marry Jonathan.”
Holly’s heart dropped to her shoes. “Are you in possession of a heart? Do you feel anything resembling emotion, or is this all just a pretense?” She rose to recline against the pillows.
Black eyes narrowed, their depths as cool as before. “Oh, I feel. I feel too damn much. And it changes nothing. You will marry my brother within the coming fortnight and become part of the family you so wished to escape from.”
“I am already part of your family! Is that not enough?”
“My decision has been made.”
Holly almost choked on her anger. “You tricked me,” she exclaimed. “You used my romantic ideals against me from the beginning! You sought to take advantage of my nature, which ought to be punishment enough.”
She needed something from him, even if just an admission.
He studied her, seemingly debating what an admission of truth would reveal about himself. Holly could not be sure, however. Not a muscle twitched on his features. It was as if the man were made of granite and had no capacity to bend.
Finally, he said, “It was imperative that I marry posthaste, and you were in desperate need of falling in love.”
“Not that desperate,” Holly snapped, but inside she felt a sense of satisfaction. She’d already known this; she simply needed him to say it.
He gave a curt nod. “I miscalculated.”
“You thought me too weak to oppose you,” she murmured, this time more to herself.
“Not weak, Miss Middleton,” he denied. “Only smart.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Where is my sister? I wish to see her.”
“All in good time.”
Holly had expected such a response. It still annoyed her. “Too afraid we will outsmart you once again?”
“Precautionary measures.”
“But of course,” she replied mockingly.
St. Ives leaned forward in his chair, his elbows lowering to rest on his legs. “As you said, Miss Middleton, I should focus on what lies in your nature. You can’t help but stir trouble.”
Blast. She had said that.
“Does Willow know you are keeping me against my will?”
He settled back again. “My wife knows what I see fit to tell her.”
Meaning no, Willow did not.
They studied each other. His gaze traveled over her bruise before meeting her eyes again. “Have you been compromised?”
Holly raised a brow at his unexpected question. Inside, her heart danced against her chest.
Of course, she knew what he meant, but in how broad a sense did he mean? And which answer would help or hinder her? If yes, she might not need to marry his brother, but he’d likely print the fact in the papers just to thoroughly ensure her ruin. But then she recalled one of the men, Mr. Mean, had intended to inform the duke that she had traveled with an escort. Would that in itself ruin her in any way? She’d never admit it was Brahm. She’d protect him from this at all costs.
“You sent three monkeys after me,” she responded vaguely, buying time.
“A simple yes or no would suffice.”
In that case . . .
“Yes,” she snapped.
An all too knowing smile stretched across his lips. “I see your spirit hasn’t been broken by your little adventure. I am, however, disinclined to believe you.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“The men that brought you back,” his eyes took on a dangerous glint as he glanced at her wound, “told me of your little attempt to escape and that you were thrown from your horse in the effort.”
“I’ve had rotten luck lately.”
“So they spoke the truth, then?”
“Yes, though you believe nothing I say in any case.”
The duke ignored her comment. “They also told me you were aided by a gentleman.”
“A tale I told in an attempt to foil them.”
The duke raised a haughty brow. “You are a terrible liar, Miss Middleton. Your eyes are much too expressive. If there was indeed a man who aided you, I will discover his identity and bring him to task.”
Holly scoffed. “You are under the mistaken impression that every man quakes in his boots at the prospect of defying you.”
“Some men are brave,” he agreed.
Holly searched his face, now nothing but pity in her heart for him. What had happened to make him such a stick in the mud, so controlling over everyone in his life? “Some men, Your Grace, are more formidable than you give them credit for. And some are far more dangerous than even yourself.”
“A man is only as formidable as the friends that stand at his back, Miss Middleton.”
“And how many people stand at yours, Your Grace?” she challenged.
“Friends come in all forms, Miss Middleton.” He stood. “If you will excuse me, I have preparations to see to.”
“What of my father? You cannot marry me against my will!”
“Your father has given his permission to the union.”
“That is a lie! He would never do that!”
St. Ives lifted a mocking brow and strode from the room.
Holly watched him go, the slam of the door signaling more than just the end of all her dreams.
Anger burned inside her like a hot torch. But her anger wasn’t just at the duke, it was also at herself and Brahm, her elusive Marquis of Warton. Honestly, she was angry at the entire situation. Simply furious that her chance at true happiness was going to be taken away from her after she’d finally found it. Because it appeared she was going to get married after all, but it was going to be against her will, and it was going to be to the wrong man.
Chapter 17
Dark fury simmered beneath a cool exterior as Brahm dismounted before the residence of the Duke of St. Ives. It had taken him two bloody days to get back. Two days of attempting to overtake the bastards who had kidnapped Holly. Two days of fear riding him harder than he rode his horse. Two days of cursing himself ten times the fool.
Upon the revelation that she had been taken—and by who—he had immediately ridden back to London at breakneck speed, stopping only to change his horse.
Since their group included three riders and Holly, he had hoped to overtake them at some point or even hear a damn rumor. But nothing. Not one word was uttered at the towns where he had stopped. They had seemed to vanish, however impossible that was. And to search the less-traveled roads would put him too far behind them.
So he had prayed for no harm to befall her and rode back to London with the sole purpose of reaching the city before the duke could marry Holly to his brother.
The first place he had visited upon on his return was a contact of his—a Bow Street Runner, Marcus Hunt. Their meeting had only served to further agitate his temper, since according to Hunt, there was absolutely nothing to be done. She was the sister-in-law of a duke, and if Charles Middleton, Holly’s father, had given consent to the match, it was over. As far as her consent went, it did not count.
Brahm had already known these facts. He had just wanted to know whether there was some way he
could get her back without breaking any laws.
Hunt had assured him that there wasn’t. Entering the duke’s premises and rescuing her would be trespassing and kidnapping. The only way he could get her back was if she escaped and they eloped, thereby making her his property.
Her father may still press charges, but if they consummated the marriage, there wasn’t much to be done.
Brahm doubted Charles Middleton would do such a thing, and he also suspected the man had not given his permission to the duke. The older man appeared gentle and pliant, but Brahm knew he loved his daughters above all else and should not be underestimated.
Hunt had urged him to appeal to the duke first, before doing something that might get him into trouble. The Runner had also said that should it come down to getting into trouble, he would have Brahm’s back.
Good man, that Hunt.
After he left the offices of Bow Street, Brahm had gone to the archbishop to procure a special license. He did not entertain the idea of racing to Gretna Green with the duke hot on his heels. A quick ceremony, if Holly would have him, somewhere in London would suffice. Somewhere in a garden, perhaps.
The archbishop, however, had been reluctant to grant him his wish. It appeared he was loath to cross St. Ives. That hadn’t deterred Brahm. He wouldn’t leave without that document. And he hadn’t.
Even with the license securely in his pocket, his temper still rode high. He was itching for a fight. And perhaps that was why he found himself banging on the door of St. Ives’s residence at three o’clock in the morning—not quite the wisest course of action.
If he was honest, Brahm had half-expected the duke’s residence to be transformed into a fortress of patrolling servants and big snarling dogs. Instead, all was silent, calm. Well, except for him.
He was on the verge of declaring war.
All because of Holly Middleton, who had crawled into the empty spaces of his heart and firmly nestled herself there.
So the bloody Duke of St. Ives could not have her now.
Not once did he pause his pounding on the door, and it was finally thrown open by a spindly old man, his pinched lips making it clear that he was not happy at being dragged from his bed.
“I demand to see St. Ives,” Brahm boomed, his voice echoing through the halls even though he still stood outside.
“The duke is not receiving at this hour,” the butler paused, quickly giving him a once-over, and added, “my lord.”
The last he said with such disdain that Brahm’s fury quadrupled. He looked like shit, yes, and he had to give the butler credit for still recognizing that he was a peer, but the man was as stiff and intolerant as his master.
He pushed the wiry servant aside, shoving him against the wall before stalking through the door.
“St. Ives!” he thundered. “Get your rotten ass down here, or I’ll tear the place apart.”
It did not take long for the thumping of hurried footsteps to echo through the halls of the mansion.
“St. Ives!” he roared again. Just for good measure.
The stomping footfalls fell silent just as a voice growled from the stairwell, “What the hell is the meaning of this?”
Brahm turned toward the voice to see the duke descending the stairs, clad in nothing but a pair of breeches. For a moment he was distracted by the duke’s beard. And his disheveled hair. It seemed too out of place from what he had expected: a stoic, controlled, impeccably groomed tyrant. This duke looked like a ruffian that belonged on the back of a horse chasing down gold in the Wild West.
Then, above him, a smaller figure came into view—the duchess, Willow Middleton, covered from top to bottom in the unsightliest night shift Brahm had ever laid eyes on.
Her eyes widened at the sight of him, her face losing all color.
Brahm turned his full glower to the duke. “Where the hell is she?”
The duke’s shoulders stiffened. Willow gasped.
If the chit had any hope of denying she had not known of her sister’s departure with Brahm, she had just dashed it.
St. Ives, on the other hand, did not acknowledge his wife but remained rigid, his eyes fixed solely on Brahm. No surprise flickered in his gaze at the announcement that Brahm had aided Holly. Either the man was good at hiding his emotions, or he had already known.
“So you are the one who aided my wayward sister-in-law with her escape.”
Brahm bristled. “And you are the controlling bastard who won’t afford his wife the pleasure of an extra piece of toast.”
As the duke’s expression suddenly transitioned from stony to molten, Brahm continued, unfazed, “Not to mention an inglorious cur that sent three mercenary riders to snatch up a lady.”
At this, the duchess gasped again, but now righteous fury entered her gaze.
“Perhaps we can take this to my study,” St. Ives spit out.
“To hell with your study. I want to know where the hell you are keeping Holly!”
St. Ives crossed his hands over his chest. “And what business do you have with her?”
A loaded question and one Brahm ignored—for now. He did not wish to urge the duke into action, trying to marry Holly off to his brother any sooner than he already planned.
Brahm took a menacing step forward. “I know you took her against her will,” he barked out, his chest heaving, “which is kidnapping and against the bloody law.”
“I did no—”
Willow’s quiet voice interrupted the duke’s retort. “You found my sister and you did not think to inform me?”
The duke blanched at the soft question.
“That is of no concern—”
“Of mine?” Willow finished. “Holly is my sister. Am I to understand, then, that your brother is no concern of yours?”
St. Ives turned to his wife, shoulders bunched. “That is not what I said.”
“As of yet, my father has not permitted the union. So you have no right to take her without her consent.”
“Your father agreed to consider my terms—one of which is that she may remain on my property until he has done so. The matter is all but done.”
“He only agreed to your insanely idiotic terms because I am here to keep an eye on her. Where is my sister?” the duchess snapped.
“She is not here.”
“You said—”
“I said on my property, not necessarily this property.”
“You manipulative bastard.”
Brahm whistled.
The duke shot him a scathing glare before turning back to his wife.
Being in the company of a Middleton the past few days, Brahm recognized her tone of voice. The words were whispered in such a soft manner that he had almost frozen right along with the duke.
This did not bode well for St. Ives.
Brahm watched as the man clenched his fists, and his stony mask fell back into place.
“This is not the time, Willow.”
“I beg to differ,” Willow said, descending two more steps and coming to eye level with her husband. “This is the perfect time. You are keeping my sister from me, and that is unforgivable. I thought we have discovered something magical between us, but it seems I was wrong. So know this, I may share a house with you, attend balls at your side, dine at the same table, but you are no longer my home, and you are no longer welcome in my life beyond that.”
Brahm winced.
“You are my wife,” the duke growled.
“She is my sister,” she countered.
They stared at each other for an endless moment. Even Brahm shifted on his feet before the duke finally growled, “Get the hell out of my house.”
“This is preposterous, Ambrose. You cannot keep my sister from me, and you certainly cannot force her to marry your brother! Where is she?”
“On the contrary, my dear wife. I intend to do exactly that.”
“What of your brother? Does he not have a say in the matter?”
“Everyone seems overly concerned with my brother.”
Willow shook her head, at a clear loss for words. “There is no reasoning with you—not when you are this stubborn, this uncaring of who you hurt.”
“Quite right, my dear.”
“Then know this,” the duchess said, her tone suddenly both haughty and chilly. “If you do not let this grievance go, you will never be welcome in my chambers again.”
Emotion flashed across St. Ives’s face.
Brahm watched the exchange with avid interest. He felt almost sorry for the bastard.
Then Brahm recalled the reason he was there.
“St. Ives, as much as I am loath to interrupt your marital setback, I must warn you: if you harm one hair on Holly’s head, I will disembowel you. As for your brother, I will disembowel him, too, if he agrees to your cockamamy scheme and marries her. In fact, I might eviscerate you both just for the sheer pleasure of it.”
“What is my sister-in-law to you?” St. Ives growled. “She has been nothing but a thorn in my side.”
The muscles in his back straightened. Damn if he was about to admit to the bastard that he was in love with her. It would bring the man all the more pleasure in keeping Holly from him.
“I gave her my word,” he barked out instead.
“Your word,” St. Ives echoed, disbelief ringing in his voice. “And you will incur my wrath over the word you gave a woman who left me, a duke, at his wedding?”
Willow snorted.
Brahm struggled to maintain his composure. A throbbing pressure mounted in his skull. Incur his wrath? He had come here, at this hour, so the duke would understand whose wrath had been incurred. Just who in the blazes did this sap think he was? The bloody king of France?
“I am no more afraid of you than I am of a rat,” Brahm growled. “To me, her importance has never been in doubt. And let us not forget, you asked her to marry you under false pretenses.”
“A mistake.”
“You’ve made many of those, I see.” Brahm’s gaze flicked to Willow, and the duke stiffened. “Hand her over, St. Ives. I will not ask again. I don’t give a damn about you or your supposed wrath. It is paltry against what you will experience if you incur mine.”
“I am the Duke of St. Ives, Warton. Do not forget it.”
