Ha. She didn’t intend to be in London to attend her wedding. “If we’re still pretending this is a surprise love match, I wouldn’t necessarily have time to arrange for a wedding gown to be made.”
“I would like her to be in a flowing white gown.”
Gasping, Rose twisted to view the doorway. Lord Cosgrove stood there, James directly behind him. Swiftly she buried her correspondence beneath her appointment book. “What are you doing here?” she asked stiffly, rising in the wake of her mother and sister.
“I’m calling on my friend James and finding myself drawn to his charming sister,” the marquis replied.
“Beatrice?”
“Oh, pl-please,” Bea stammered, and fled the room.
“Spin whichever lies you choose,” Rose continued, returning her attention to Cosgrove, “but I’ve no intention of spending any time in your company until I must.” She only added that last bit for effect; if he had an inkling that she meant to run from London, he would likely have her chained to a chair.
“Rose!” her mother chastised.
Gathering up her things and trying to keep her hands from shaking, Rose looked up again. “I may be expected to spend the remainder of my life under his thumb, but you’ll have to forgive me if I choose not to begin that before I must.” She walked up to the doorway and stopped, gazing as calmly as she could at the man who blocked her escape and practically daring him to hit her with her family present to witness it.
“Such spirit,” he drawled, taking a moment before he stepped aside. “How very invigorating.”
Clenching her jaw closed, Rose kept walking until she reached her bedchamber. Dimly she heard James suggest that the two men play billiards to pass the time, and Cosgrove’s agreement. She paused before she closed the door. James hadn’t suggested a game of cards, friendly or otherwise.
Had her brother finally listened to Bram’s repeated and creative warnings? Oh, she hoped so. If her family managed to pull themselves out from under the debt they owed Cosgrove, at least it wouldn’t happen again. Of course one instance of intelligence hardly made for a pattern, but it could make for a beginning.
All that, though, made her think about Bram again—as if a moment passed when she didn’t. She missed being able to talk with him even after his flight of last evening. Cynical and jaded or not, he’d never failed to be amusing and even comforting. That craving for him, the heat that coursed just beneath her skin when she thought of him—she had to fight against them every moment.
Perhaps it was a good thing he’d turned away when he had, because if she knew one thing, it was that the marriage he’d proposed would never suit him. Faced with a choice between one potential disliked husband who would terrorize her and one she felt affection for who would surely stray and break her heart, she had to take the third alternative and run. Far, far away.
A light knock sounded at her door, and she jumped. “Who is it?” she called, wishing she’d jammed her chair beneath the handle again.
“Elbon, my lady. A runner has just delivered you a note, and is waiting for a reply.”
Rose pulled open the door just far enough to accommodate the butler’s silver salver. “Wait here a moment,” she said, lifting off the note and unfolding it. Swiftly she read through the brief missive. “Please tell the runner that the answer is yes.”
The butler bowed. “Very good, my lady.”
Closing the door again, she leaned back against it. Even with Cosgrove in the house, some light managed to shine through. Alyse Bromley had invited her to a cozy, informal dinner. It wasn’t a complete escape, but it would do for one evening.
Rose stepped down from her father’s coach and climbed the trio of steps to the Bromley House front door, her maid behind her. From the nearly identical expressions on her parents’ faces as she’d left Davies House, they’d realized that the amount of control they wielded over her was slipping. She would have to be more cautious, or before she could manage her final flight she would find herself locked in her bedchamber with a chair jammed against the outside handle.
Lord Quence’s butler led her to the upstairs drawing room. “Lady Rosamund Davies,” he announced, and stepped aside to allow her entry.
“Rose!” Alyse came forward, smiling, to greet her, while all the men present, with the exception of Lord Quence, stood as she walked into the cheery room. “I’m so pleased you could join us.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” Smiling in return, she continued forward to offer her hand to Viscount Quence, the family’s patriarch. She owed Bram a debt for introducing her to these people, however short their acquaintance would be. They seemed so different from her own family. They’d become their own family, friends without the ties of blood; they looked out for one another, and supported one another. She only wished she’d met them under better circumstances.
As she greeted Tibby Waring, standing with her husband Sullivan’s arm around her, Rose’s gaze shifted beyond the couple to the lone figure standing at the back of the room, watching her. Bram.
Abruptly flustered, Rose took a step back. “Was this his idea?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“The timing was,” Alyse returned. “Not the invitation.”
“Oh.” Perhaps she’d expected too much, hoping for a grand gesture from Bram, something that said he regretted leaving her at the theater and he wouldn’t do such a thing again.
“You’re disappointed that I didn’t set an ambush for you?” Bram said abruptly, stepping forward. “I thought you’d had more than your fill of that.”
“You left me standing there with that woman!” she snapped back.
“That’s what your angry ab—”
“Perhaps you’d like to make use of the billiards room for this conversation,” Lord Quence interrupted, emphasizing the word “conversation.”
At least someone still had an eye for decorum. “That would be acceptable,” she said stiffly.
“We’ll be in the billiards room, then,” Bram said more loudly, gripping her hand hard.
“Bramwell.”
He paused, glancing over his shoulder at the crippled viscount. “I heard you. I’ll behave.”
“Very well.”
“He took you at your word,” Rose noted, somewhat surprised, as Bram ushered her across the hallway into the billiards room and closed the door before her maid could follow.
“When I give my word, I keep it.” Bram tilted his head, black eyes gazing into hers. “Miranda wanted to provoke me,” he said abruptly. “I knew she wouldn’t leave unless I did.”
“And what if she’d decided to begin pulling my hair or something?”
“I was close by, you know. I didn’t leave the theater until she wandered off. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you.”
Oh, she wanted to put her arms around him, to kiss him until they were both breathless. Instead she walked over to roll one of the billiards balls across the table. “You are what’s happened to me, Bram.”
The hairs on the back of her neck rose as he stepped up close behind her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I would rather be in the middle of an argument between you and your latest mistress and know you mean to stand with me than see you run off. I’ve—”
“I did not run o—”
“I’ve put my trust in you. If I shouldn’t have, then I need to know.”
“I made you a promise. Ten thousand pounds or my assistance in getting you out of London. As I said a moment ago, I don’t give my word often, but when I do, I keep it.”
Rose swallowed. “I’m not certain I believe you, Bram.”
His hand touched her arm, very lightly. A heartbeat later it dropped away again. “But you want to believe me,” he said after a moment.
“I want to know that I can believe you.” She turned around, then wished she hadn’t. He stood so close, and her gaze focused on his serious, sensuous mouth. Oh, the things she wanted of him. “You were friends with that monster Cos
grove. And that stupid woman is the sort of female you prefer. What in the world are you doing, saying you’ll help me?”
Bram took a breath. “Before I met you, I was perfectly content with the unbridled mayhem of my life. I never expected to encounter anyone interesting enough to make me reconsider things. Everything, actually.”
Her insides heated. How could she not feel flattered, with someone as compelling as Bram Johns telling her that he found her interesting? But that didn’t make him trustworthy. “And tomorrow or the next day you’ll find someone or something else to interest you. Don’t—”
“I won’t,” he interrupted. “You and I have more in common than you probably realize. And you’ve…managed your situation with much more dignity and honor than I ever did. I feel like…” He trailed off again, almost absently reaching out to twine his fingers with hers. “I feel like you’re my chance. That one moment that comes around and gives you the opportunity to set things right. If you don’t want me about later, I will accept that.”
“Bram.” If he continued, she was going to lose all her bearings and simply throw herself on him, regardless of the consequences.
“All I’m trying to say—badly, obviously—is that I’m attempting to change. For you, and for me. And yes, I’m asking you to trust me. Give me that chance to prove myself, Rosamund. Please.”
She had the distinct feeling that “please” was not a word he used often. But she had less than a fortnight to plan an escape. If she put a stop to that again, left it all up to him, she would literally be trusting him with her entire future. With her life. She looked down, then up at his face again, her mind running in a thousand different directions. “You’re wearing all black again,” she noted.
A brief smile touched his mouth. “I’m in mourning for my old life.”
“I want to be certain you won’t return to it.”
“How can I? I love you, Rosamund.”
The words hit her like a blow to her chest, stunning her, stealing her breath. Her heart absolutely stopped beating. Bram Johns, the wildest man and most sought-after lover in London, loved her. Tall, too curved or not curved enough, barely noticeable her.
“It’s all I can give you at the moment,” he went on, “but if you allow me the chance I will set things right. I swear it.”
Slowly, still half dazed, Rose nodded. “I will trust you,” she whispered.
Letting out the breath he’d apparently been holding, Bram closed his eyes. Rose lifted up on her toes and kissed him. Immediately he seized her, wrapping his arms around her, returning the kiss with a deep one of his own. Shaking, she wanted to crawl inside him, to give in to the dawning feelings of joy and desire that pulled at her.
But she didn’t dare. Not yet. This was the one chance for both of them. They were going against Cosgrove. If he failed, it was entirely possible that neither of them would live to regret her decision.
“Bram, your hair’s on fire.”
He started, looking over at Phin. “What?”
“You see, Alyse,” the former colonel continued, “he is alive.”
“We’d begun to think you’d expired and had already been pickled by the alcohol in your veins.” Chuckling, Sullivan offered him a toast.
“I was thinking,” Bram snapped, annoyed at being caught at it. “And what a surprise that you two wouldn’t recognize a thoughtful pose.”
“I liked it better when you were staring into your plate.” Phin shifted. “Beth, would you mind fetching me th—”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” his sister interrupted, all hazel eyes and brunette hair. “I’m part of this family, and I’m an adult now. Tibby’s only three years older than I am. You’re finally going to talk about whatever’s brought Sully and Tibby in from the country, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“Beth,” Quence countered, “your heart is still very young. I would like it to be able to remain that way for a while longer.”
“No. By the time you were my age, Phin—and Sully, and Bram—you’d already become notorious. I haven’t done anything but see Prinny once kissing Lady Jersey on the cheek when he thought no one was looking. And that’s not even very scandalous.”
Bram forced a grin. “That is somewhat pitiful, my dove, but we’ve really nothing much to discuss,” he drawled.
“But Lady Rose was surprised to see you here, and she was furious with you. Now you’re holding hands beneath the table.”
He hurriedly untangled his fingers from Rosamund’s. Blast the keen observations of children. Even nearly grown ones. “Her fingers are cold, and she forgot her gloves,” he improvised.
“Her gloves are on the table right beside her.” Beth pointed at them. “Now I’ve caught you in a lie, and you have to be my partner for charades.”
“Devious infant.”
“I’m not an infant. The Marquis of Cosgrove has even begged a kiss from me.”
All the air seemed to leave the room. Phin shoved to his feet. “What?”
For a bare moment Bram thought Quence might make it out of his chair on the power of pure fury. “Elizabeth Anne Bromley,” the family’s patriarch snapped, “you tell me precisely what transpired. Now.”
The eighteen-year-old’s cheeks flushed. “It was only on the hand,” she stammered. “For heaven’s sake. He’s a friend of Bram’s, so I thought it would be wicked.”
Devil take it. That was precisely what he’d worried about. Cosgrove was already moving against those dear to him. Bram opened his mouth to tell Beth the precise value of his friendship with Cosgrove, but Rosamund put a hand over his clenched fist, this time on top of the table where everyone could see.
“Cosgrove is quite handsome, isn’t he?” she said quietly, her meadow green eyes on Beth.
“Yes, he is,” Beth agreed, shifting away from her practically combusting brothers.
“The thing is, Beth,” Rosamund continued, “I have recently discovered the difference between wicked and monstrous. And I’m afraid that Cosgrove knows of Bram’s fondness for you and your brothers, and he may be looking to cause trouble.”
“But you and Cosgrove are friends,” Beth argued, facing Bram.
Damnation. Being good wasn’t nearly as fun as either being bad or simply not caring. “We used to be friends,” he said slowly. “We’re not any longer. King overstepped a line not even I could cross.” He scowled. “And however surprised you may be by that, I am even more so. It’s not a challenge to how grown up you are, Beth, because you are a stunning young lady. If I wasn’t terrified of you—Well, I am, so there’s no getting around that. Be cautious of him, my dove. Keep your distance from him. Will you?”
Beth swallowed. “Yes,” she answered, her lilting voice unsteady.
The ladies excused themselves from the table after that, and Bram sent a regretful look after Rosamund. Clearly he was becoming irredeemably softheaded. As a new experience, being in love was powerful, and at the same time petrifying.
With the way he’d spent the last ten or so years of his life, someone else’s approval of his behavior or his actions—intended or already perpetrated—should have meant less than nothing. But where she was concerned, that wasn’t so. Not even nearly.
Rosamund hadn’t scoffed when he’d again offered his assistance. Nor had she thrown herself at his feet and begged for help, ever. She was more levelheaded than he, and more circumspect. Love. He didn’t think he’d ever said the damned word before except in the sarcastic recitation of poetry or to poke fun at others. It didn’t mean what he’d expected.
As he’d said it, he hadn’t been thinking of what he wanted or what he needed. He’d been solely and utterly concerned with the well-being, happiness, and safety of Rosamund Davies. He’d teased Phin and Sullivan about domestication and castration, but he didn’t feel weakened. Just the opposite. And all this without her saying that she loved him back.
An awful pain bit into his chest. Her lack of response wasn’t any of her fault, though. He was barely human, a wreck of
drinking, fornicating, gambling offal. But she hadn’t run away. She’d agreed to give him the chance to save her—and thereby to save himself, as well.
“Thank you, Bram,” Quence said heavily, once the chits were out of earshot. “I don’t think Beth would have listened to anyone but you.”
Bram took a swallow of port. “It was my fault.” He stared into the glass, the slow anger he’d felt at Beth’s confession spreading through him, out to the very tips of his fingers. “You lot should keep clear of me. That’s only a warning shot where King is concerned.”
“A fairly devastating one,” Phin observed, his own expression grim.
“I say we kill the bastard.” Sullivan refilled his own glass and downed it.
“Finally a suggestion I can embrace.” Bram pushed to his feet. Games were well and good, but not when those dear to him could be hurt. He would do the deed, of course; no sense getting his friends hanged or transported. At least Rosamund would be safe. She couldn’t very well be forced to marry a dead man.
“Sit down,” the viscount ordered. “I won’t have murder plotted at my table.”
“Then we’ll go outside,” Phin retorted. “It could have been worse than a kiss, and you know it.”
“No.” Bram shook his head, seating himself again. “You lot are keeping clear of this. It’s me he’s playing with. After he sent Miranda to bait me last night I should have—”
“He what?”
Damn Phin and his need for facts. “I enjoyed Miranda because she didn’t put any demands on my intelligence. Unfortunately she doesn’t become more brilliant in my absence. Cosgrove’s making use of her stupidity by giving her my old signet ring and having her flaunt it in front of me.”
“She’s another man’s wife, Bram.”
“And I’m no saint, William.” He took a breath. None of this was Quence’s fault. “If it makes any difference, I turned her away weeks ago—which probably made it easier for Cosgrove to get beneath her skirts. But it still comes back to me.”
“And to Lady Rose.”
Bram sent a glare at Sullivan. “She’s the only innocent party in all of this. Well, aside from Beth.”
Always a Scoundrel Page 22
