by Tanya Wilde
Brahm scoffed. “A duke. A bastard. It’s all the same to me. You speak as though you are untouchable, but are you? A man whose pride is so easily wounded that he keeps young women locked away as retribution? I tell you this: you might have Miss Middleton now, and you might even believe that you will marry her off to your brother, but that marriage will happen over my rotting carcass. You take my word for it.”
“She humiliated my family name,” the duke bit out.
“I don’t give a damn. You already have one Middleton to make miserable for the rest of her life. I’ll be damned if you take another.”
With those parting words, Brahm pivoted on his heel and marched from the residence, shooting the butler a frosty glare as he passed.
“I am not an enemy you want, Warton.”
The duke’s ominous words reached him just as he crossed over the threshold. He didn’t even pause his stride.
“Neither am I, St. Ives,” Brahm shot over his shoulder.
The duke would soon discover just how true that was.
Chapter 18
The next evening
When it came to the people he loved being threatened, Brahm had never harbored any delusions about his reaction: he transformed into a beast. He would rant and rave, bellow and boom, and move mountains to shelter and protect them. Unchartered waters did not faze him; he would charge into hell itself. And in the case of Lord and Lady Eldridge’s ball, he’d even enter the heart of the ton to secure the safety of his family.
And Holly Middleton was his family.
Not the damn duke’s or his weasel brother.
His.
Brahm thundered through the ballroom with long strides, his narrowed eyes searching for their prey. Fury churned in his gut. And fear. Fear that he may be too late, that Holly was already married and well outside his reach. It did not help matters that not even Hunt and the Bow Street Runners had been able to track down her whereabouts.
The duke may be a bastard, but he was a clever one.
He spotted Poppy Middleton in the crowd, her face losing color at the sight of him. This he took as a sign that she also did not know her sister had been commandeered by her brother-in-law. That made Brahm even angrier, for it meant Holly was well and truly alone.
Poppy Middleton murmured something in her cousin’s ear, and the next thing Brahm knew, Bradford Middleton, the Earl of Dashwood, was shouldering his way over to him.
Just what he bloody needed—interference from the Earl of Charming.
The man was in his cups if he believed he could dissuade Brahm from confronting St. Ives again. He was dead set on his pursuit to get Holly back. They had not parted on the best of terms. He bloody well needed to give her an apology and make it right.
And Brahm wanted her to have her dream wedding. He wanted her to find the love she so richly deserved, even if it meant getting married in a peacock outfit. But what he truly wanted was for her to direct all that love at him. Because never in his entire thirty-two years of existence had he felt anything as he had in the moment she had come undone in his arms.
He hungered for her, all the time. He wanted her in his bed, in his arms. He wanted to be the only man to ever place such a look of complete rapture on her face. He wanted her small, innocent touches. He wanted to hear her laughter every day.
He just wanted . . . her.
And damn if he’d let anyone stop him.
But Holly was still tucked away, unreachable, and the duke had yet to admit defeat. And that was why Brahm would leave nothing to chance. He thought she could forgive him for leaving her; he only hoped she’d forgive him for what he was about to do.
Another of the Middleton brood, Lord Quinn, appeared before him, grabbing him by the shoulders and halting his movements.
Brahm’s face darkened. “Get out of my bloody way, pup, or you will hit the ground.”
“I’m not a pup, you sour cur,” Quinn growled. “And you will hit the floor before you can pull a punch.”
Brahm growled low in his throat.
“No need for violence, brother,” Dashwood murmured as he finally came up beside them. “Whatever you are thinking of doing, Warton, don’t.”
Brahm glared at them. “And what do you know of what I may or may not do, Charming?” he snapped.
The man only cocked an arrogant brow.
Quinn, the younger of the two, lowered his voice and said, “Poppy has informed us that you aided Holly, and yet you are here. What have you done with our cousin?”
Brahm swore, his impatience swelling with each passing second. He did not have time for this.
“What did I do with your cousin? Best direct that question to St. Ives, since the moment I turned my back, his thugs snatched her.”
Both men’s eyes darkened at the news.
“Why did you turn your back in the first place?” Quinn challenged.
“To take a piss,” Brahm snapped, his temper erupting. “Or would you have me dangling my cock before your dear cousin while unchaperoned?”
Dashwood cursed.
Quin’s grip tightened on his shoulders. “How dare you—”
“Quinn,” Dashwood interrupted with a firm voice. “Let it go.”
Brahm smirked. He knew he was being a beast, but damn it all to hell, who the deuce was this pup to accuse him of anything? Even if he was right. Losing Holly was his fault, but Quinn didn’t need to know that.
“Where is Holly now?” Dashwood asked.
Brahm turned his hard gaze to the man. “She is not at his residence. I have a man searching the entire city, but there is no trace of her.”
Both men uttered oaths.
“We have been searching for her since the wedding,” Dashwood said. “And now that she is back, we will find her. To make a scene now, Warton, would only complicate matters.”
Lips curling into a grimace, Brahm knocked Quinn’s arms away. He wanted his home to be the place Holly laid her head to rest at night, except she was being held prisoner by a stubborn duke who wanted to marry her off to someone else. So, yes, things were already bloody complicated.
His scowl deepened. “Get out of my way.”
“I don’t think you are being practical here,” Quinn argued.
“I agree,” Brahm said. “But then again, being practical has not helped to locate her. Now, acting bizarrely and out of character . . . that may stir up the hornets’ nest just enough to find her.”
“She is my family, Warton, thus my responsibility,” Dashwood echoed in voice that warned not to defy him.
Brahm scoffed. “It’s hard to take you seriously, Dashwood, with your purple jacket blinding my eyes.”
Quinn gripped his brother’s shoulder. “Do not take the bait.”
Brahm’s laugh was a low, ominous sound that had the brothers shooting glances at each other.
“Is he laughing at us?” Quinn asked Dashwood.
Brahm’s lips curled up in a snarl, impatient to get away from them. Since St. Ives had yet to announce the engagement between his brother and Miss Middleton, he was about to do some announcing of his own.
“I do not take well to being laughed at, Warton.”
“Then maybe,” Brahm drawled in a lazy voice, “You should not have worn a purple jacket. I myself prefer a more manly shade.”
Quinn glanced at the jacket with a frown.
Dashwood raked his hair in frustration. “What are you implying, Warton?”
Brahm smiled. Crookedly. “Perhaps a shade of royal blue would be better suited?”
Dashwood growled low in his throat.
“That is enough,” Quinn snapped. “What is it you are trying to accomplish here?”
“I will lay dead in my grave before I let St. Ives marry your cousin to his brother.”
“That’s a passionate statement,” Dashwood observed.
“I’m passionate about your cousin.”
Brahm shoved away from them without waiting for a reaction. This time they let him go. They did, how
ever, much to his annoyance, trail after him at a discreet distance.
No matter. He pushed them from his mind and focused on the reason he had come to this godforsaken ball—the final stand. His eyes roamed the throng of peers, eager to be done with the night. It didn’t take long to spot St. Ives, who was in deep conversation with his wife. After all, he had only to search for the most arrogant bastard in the room. And at the couple’s side stood Lord Jonathan.
He reached the trio just as the duke’s eyes leveled with his. In the way of height, there wasn’t much difference between them, but the duke was leaner where Brahm was much bulkier.
Brahm smiled. It was just the slight stretch of his lip but enough of an indication that the evening was about to get interesting.
The man’s posture stiffened.
“Just the dog I’ve come to see,” Brahm snarled before he even came to a halt.
A hush fell over most of the room as his voice traveled to bystanders. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Josephine in the crowd, her eyes wide with disbelief and her hand covering her mouth in shock.
“Warton,” St. Ives warned, casting a quick glance to their audience, “not here.” He bit out the sentence, each word clipped and unmistakable to their spectators.
Brahm didn’t mind. It implied a previous skirmish.
Good. That’ll start the talk.
“Settle down, St. Ives. I was talking to your brother.”
Lord Jonathan arched a brow. “I am not aware of any business between you and me, but I stand with my brother, Warton. Let’s take this to a more private setting?”
“No? And where would you prefer we go to hash this out? Perhaps you can take me to my betrothed? Or do you not want the good people of London to know you are keeping us apart just because she fell in love with me and not you?”
Brahm cringed at Josephine’s soft gasp. She had joined him at his side, and he hadn’t noticed. He spared her a brief glance. It was a big disclosure if Josephine was scandalized.
And that was what he had intended. It was a wild, speculative, extremely risky declaration, but it was one Brahm refused to take back.
“Warton,” the duke warned, his voice soft and menacing.
“You are not hard of hearing, are you, St. Ives? This is between me and your brother.”
Brahm glared at the man. He still had a hard time fathoming how Holly had fancied herself in love with the stiff jackanapes. The bastard should be grateful. It was only out of respect for Holly and her family that he directed this confrontation to Lord Jonathan so as not to unravel all the efforts Dashwood and the duke had made to keep gossip at bay.
“Be that as it may, I’m still the head of my family.”
“Perhaps it’s time to let your brother fight his own battles, or does your need for control extend to him as well?” Brahm taunted, directing his glower to Lord Jonathan. “Where is Holly Middleton, my betrothed?”
Gasps sounded all around them. Whether it was because of his insult or the announcement of who, precisely, was his intended, it had the same effect: the duke’s face turned red.
“Warton, this is outrageous. If you—”
“No, Lord Jonathan,” Brahm interrupted in a low, dark voice laced with steel. “If you so much as bring a priest within ten feet of her, I will geld you and mount your skin to a wall.”
The words hung in the air as all around them whispers of scandalized matrons flared throughout the ballroom.
“How utterly rude,” a woman from the group nearest to them exclaimed.
“Lord Jonathan kidnapped the marquis’s fiancée? Scandalous!” another one said.
“How romantic!”
Brahm scowled.
Behind St. Ives, Willow offered Brahm a small smile of gratitude.
Lord Jonathan stepped forward until he was face-to-face with Warton. “I don’t respond to threats.”
“That’s splendid, because it’s not a threat, it’s a promise.”
“Any more promises, Warton?”
Brahm’s hands clenched and unclenched at his side. “Not at present, but I am sure I can drum some up if you do not give me my betrothed back.”
“Brahm,” Josephine laid a soft hand on his arm.
Brahm and Lord Jonathan stared at each other, eye to eye, shoulder to shoulder. All around them the tension soared. No one breathed a word.
Finally, Lord Jonathan muttered only four words, “This is not over,” and stalked off.
Brahm watched him go, controlling every impulse in his body not to take after the wretch. He had done enough for now. A threat made this publicly would need to be dealt with.
“You have made an enemy today,” St. Ives said, his voice a low growl of promise.
“You mean nothing to me,” Brahm snapped. The only thing that mattered was that he get back Holly.
They glared at each other, both stubborn and set in their ways. Brahm had not given St. Ives any other choice but to release Holly. But now Holly had to marry Brahm or else commit true social suicide.
He hoped that she’d forgive him in time. Until then, he would do his damndest to make her happy.
Chapter 19
Three days, two hours, and approximately eleven minutes—that was how long Holly had been imprisoned in this room. Or at least she thought it was. It was hard to say. Her eyes had hardly left the clock since she had awoken to find St. Ives at her bedside, but she didn’t know how long she had been asleep after they first brought her to the room.
She sat on the floor before the bed, staring at the luxury around her in mild contemplation. After the duke had left, not one other person had entered the room except for the footman who brought her food. Whenever he left, he locked her in. She supposed the next time she’d see anyone else would be at her unwanted wedding.
St. Ives must not have told anyone that he had found her; he practically admitted he had no intention of telling Willow. If he had, she knew her sisters would have found a way to free her. And being a captive for three days, Holly had ample amount of time to consider her fate. It had become startling clear that there would be no escaping it.
She had tried, of course. To escape, that is.
She had tried her damndest.
But the duke had thought of everything. She shot a glare at the window, which had been bolted shut. From the outside. She had even considered smashing the glass, but what use would it be, since there were nails mounted into the wall on the outside.
Damn you, St. Ives.
Her eyes flicked to the door, her lips pulling up in annoyance. She had tried to pick the lock, too. But her hairpins hadn’t done the trick, and there was nothing strong enough in the room to pick the sturdy lock.
There was nothing to signal for help, either. The windows faced a private garden and no other houses.
At one point, she did contemplate knocking out the footman with a food tray and making a dash for it, but she simply wasn’t a violent person, and given their size difference, she doubted it would work.
If a maid had visited, she could have pleaded her case and begged her to send a note of her whereabouts to her sisters. But only the footman came into her room, as sour as the duke himself.
She had even stood by the door screaming for hours on end for the staff to let her out.
She eyed the golden tray with ambivalence.
She had reached the moment of truth: she would launch a stealthy attack on a footman and make her grand escape or soon be the wife of Lord Jonathan Griffin. Not a bad match, if only her heart did not hurt so much over it.
She reached for the tray.
Holly missed Brahm. Missed his thunderous expressions, his dark scowls, and the way his lips twitched whenever she amused him. But, above all, she missed the strong circle of his arms.
Her fingers traced over the patterns etched into the plate.
Hope was a damnable thing.
When all else failed, it allowed her to fantasize of being rescued by Brahm. But then she would remember he had
left her, and those fantasies would turn to dust. An hour later, she would entertain them again, but this time her sisters would be the administrators of her rescue, and Brahm would ride in on his knightly steed and whisk her away just as the duke caught up to them again.
Holly was and would always be a romantic at heart—she loved a good, happy ending.
It wasn’t over yet.
Not while she had this tray. She clutched it tightly against her chest.
However, the truth remained that Holly was the sole administrator of her escape. Brahm believed she was firmly nestled at the cottage, and by the time her family discovered her presence here, she might already be wedded—and bedded—if her bolt for freedom failed.
Holly’s head fell back against the bed.
The thought of rolling around in the sheets with Lord Jonathan left her feeling cold and numb. The only man she wanted to be seduced by had run away from the seduction.
She sighed. Holly had wanted to believe him different from all the others. It had certainly felt different than all the others. She’d truly believed she stood a chance with Brahm. That it had been true love.
She had been wrong. Again.
Holly wondered how her sister fared as the overbearing duke’s duchess. Here, locked away in this stellar room, she had caught a glimpse of the life she had escaped but doomed her sister to. At least St. Ives had seemed flustered by Willow’s presence in his life.
This routine would kill her yet. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were delivered to her room at exactly ten o’clock, two o’clock, and eight o’clock, respectively. Not a minute earlier or a minute later.
Every day it remained the same. Her surroundings may be elegant and lovely, but inside, Holly felt as hollow as the small vase stationed expertly on the—empty—writing table.
She had begun to wonder what would happen if the footman brought her food two minutes early. Would he wait outside her door until those excess minutes passed? Which begged the next question: Was the entire staff in possession of pocket watches?
Honestly, she could just imagine the servants regularly checking their pocket watch to ensure their timing was always impeccable. And what if their timing was a bit off? Would their faces then distort in justifiable horror? Or would their hearts slam against their chests as their footsteps either slowed or quickened?
