“Good night, gentlemen.” Connor’s hard tone cut through the men’s amusement like a knife. Unfortunately, the effect proved temporary. Adelaide could hear them laughing seconds after they walked out the door.
She ground her teeth a little at the sound. “You keep interesting company, Mr. Brice.”
“They meant no offense, Adelaide.”
“Was everything about that night a lie?” She cut in, uninterested in listening to a defense of his men. It was Connor’s behavior for which she wanted an explanation. It was his apology she’d been waiting to hear.
“Not a lie, exactly,” Connor hedged. “A ruse. There is a difference.”
By no stretch of imagination did that qualify as an explanation or an apology. “There certainly is. A ruse requires a multitude of lies.”
“I had no other choice,” Connor replied patiently. “I’d only just gained my freedom and you were all but engaged. I thought there wasn’t time for a traditional courtship.”
“Well, we’ll never know now, will we?” She folded her arms over her chest. “I want to know what else has been kept from me. What else should I know—?”
“Nothing. There is . . . Well . . .” He offered her a sheepish smile. “I might have had a hand in stalling your brother’s creditors in their attempts to seize your inheritance.”
Her heart executed a quick and painful somersault. “There was an attempt to take my inheritance?”
“Also, I might have had a hand in keeping that information from you.”
She digested that disturbing news in silence.
Connor lifted a shoulder. “It was just a bit of lost paperwork here and there. A way to stall things until I could gain my release. If you had lost the inheritance, you’d have put every effort into bringing Sir Robert up to scratch.”
She would have, without question. His reasons for interfering made perfect sense—from the standpoint of a man intent on stealing his brother’s almost-fiancée. But there was no reason for him to have hidden the trouble from her. No reason at all . . . except to shield her from worry. It had been an act of thoughtfulness. A rather misguided and inexcusably high-handed act, but a thoughtful one all the same.
“You should not have kept information related to me and my family to yourself. It was wrong of you, and I’ll not tolerate such overbearing behavior in the future.” She sniffed, made a show of brushing a few wrinkles from around her waist, and mumbled at the floor, “But I thank you for your assistance.”
“You’re welcome.” He didn’t mumble at all.
She dropped her hands and straightened to give him an exasperated look. “You are fundamentally incapable of issuing an apology, aren’t you?”
“Not fundamentally, no.” A thoughtful furrow formed across his brow. It looked at odds with the spark of humor in his green eyes. “Deeply suspicious of the purported wisdom of admitting to fault, however—”
“Oh, never mind.” A reluctant laugh escaped. “Is there anything else? Any other secrets I should be made aware of?”
“No. There is nothing else you need to know.”
“Are you certain?” she asked, her tone mocking. “You haven’t any other nasty siblings? You’re not married? You’re not wanted for murder in the Americas?”
“No.” He ran his tongue along his teeth. “Not murder.”
“Oh, my—”
He laughed and stepped forward to sweep her into his arms. “Holy hell, you’re gullible.”
“This is not—”
He bent down and gave a brief but heated kiss. “Be easy, wren. To the best of my knowledge, and much to my regret, I have only the one brother. I’ve never had a wife, and I am not wanted for a crime in any country. It was only a jest.”
“It was in poor taste,” she grumbled. “I want your word there have been no other, and will be no other, deceptions.”
He brushed the backs of his fingers across her jaw, a quizzical expression on his face. “Do you trust me to keep it?”
“No, not entirely.” He’d given her reason to like him, even to be grateful, but she’d be a fool to forget where she, and her trust, fell on Connor’s list of priorities . . . Well below his plans for revenge. “But I should like it all the same.”
He let her go suddenly, and a humorless smile pulled on his lips. “Very, well. You have it.”
Two days later, Connor took a seat behind his desk in the Ashbury Hall study and frowned at the pristine mahogany surface. The desk was new, just arrived from the cabinetmaker. The wood was waxed and polished to a glassy shine. Nearly every piece of furniture, every inch of the house, looked the same. He could practically see his reflection in the library shelves.
Ashbury Hall was ready; the repairs were nearly complete. The servant’s quarters were full of Sir Robert’s former staff. All that was left was for Adelaide to arrive and decide what final decorative touches to put in place. Everything was as it should be. All was going according to plan.
So why the blazes did he feel so dissatisfied? Why was he being plagued by thoughts of one little lie?
There is nothing else you need to know.
It wasn’t even a real lie. Adelaide did not need to know that Sir Robert had never cared for her, that the only reason he’d taken an interest in her at all was because . . .
Connor swore ripely . . . Was because of him.
That was the truth. He knew it, and had no intention of telling Adelaide. He was lying by omission.
As a rule, lying in any form didn’t trouble him overmuch. Needs must, and all that. But this was different. It felt different. He’d made a mistake not keeping his interest in Adelaide secret. It was a carelessness that had cost Adelaide dearly, and for that she deserved an apology. Offering one, however, would only serve to ease his conscience, not give her peace of mind.
Adelaide loathed Sir Robert, didn’t give a damn for his opinion of her, but no one, no one wanted to hear they’d fallen prey to a false courtship, twice.
Not exactly twice, Connor amended. However unconventional, however far removed from the ideal, his courtship was legitimate. Unlike Sir Robert, he wanted Adelaide. The fact that Sir Robert hadn’t was an insult that would never reach her ears.
This was, at best estimate, the fourth time Connor had arrived at this conclusion. And still he remained dissatisfied, and still the lie niggled at him.
Which was his fault entirely. Sometime in the past week or so, he’d let Adelaide get under her skin.
After a moment’s reflection, he decided this assessment was not entirely accurate. Adelaide had gotten under his skin months ago. Somehow, she’d worked her way deeper. She was in his blood.
And why the devil wouldn’t she be? Lord knew, she was everywhere else. She dominated his thoughts, invaded his dreams, and featured prominently in every one of his waking fantasies.
Something had to be done about those fantasies. Visions of her and him engaged in the most delightful—and, admittedly, improbable—activities popped into his head at the most inconvenient times. Just that morning, he’d been going over the books with Michael one minute and envisioning Adelaide in the next . . .
Connor tilted the chair back on two legs, propped his feet on the desk, and stared at the ceiling.
She’d been in the walled garden at Ashbury Hall, if he recalled correctly, wearing her wren’s mask and not a stitch more. A blanket was spread on the ground, and her lips were parted in a seductive smile. She was waiting for him. Only him.
Her thick chestnut locks fell loose around her bare shoulders. He brushed a strand aside and bent to taste the salt of her skin. The shiver that passed over her tickled his lips. The soft intake of her breath turned him to stone. When she lifted a hand to touch, he captured it and held it down.
He wouldn’t let her take, not right away. He’d keep her still, standing just as she was, as he explored every luscious curve, every soft plane. When she trembled, when her knees buckled, he would lay her on the blanket and continue the sweet torture. When s
he moaned for him, he’d let her touch. And when she cried out his name, he’d slip between the soft cradle of her thighs and . . .
The chair slammed to the floor with a crash.
“Bloody, bloody hell.”
It was damn distracting. And it made him feel like a randy teenage boy.
How the devil was he to manage a proper revenge when every time he tried to plot, the lie he’d told Adelaide nibbled at him and an image of her stripped bare and smiling at him filled his head.
He could work around the guilty conscience. There was no plotting round a naked woman.
“Begging your pardon, sir.”
Connor looked up to find an elderly man with a baritone voice and more white hair than a footman’s wig standing in the open doorway. His new butler. Devil take it, what was the man’s name? Jenkins, Jones . . .
“Jennings.” That was it.
“Yes, sir.” Jennings held up a folded note. “A missive has arrived for you, sir.”
Connor accepted the letter, read the contents, and grinned.
Chapter 19
Wolfgang Ward was returned to the bosom of his family with nothing but the clothes on his back and the hostility he’d wrapped around himself like a cloak.
Adelaide stood with Isobel and George on the front steps of their home and watched her brother climb from Connor’s carriage.
He looked terrible, far worse than he had the last time she’d seen him. Adelaide didn’t understand it. How could her brother have grown more gaunt, look even more haunted? Angry and indignant, she understood. Wolfgang had never responded well to having his wishes denied. But the family’s new circumstances, his new circumstances, ought to have provided him with some peace of mind. He was free of prison, debt, and Sir Robert.
Why did he look like a man still caged?
She scowled at him as he strode away from the carriage without a word to the driver. Angry and insulted or not, he should have passed on his thanks to the driver for the lend of Connor’s vehicle. Lord knew, he’d not pay his thanks in person or think to send a note.
Reaching the steps, he greeted Isobel with an embrace and George with a bright smile and his favorite game of tickle the infant. For Adelaide, he had only a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and the words, “I’ll speak with you in the parlor.”
Hoping to get over and done with whatever unpleasant business he had in mind, Adelaide followed her brother inside and watched as he took in his home with a slow sweep of his eyes, before marching into the parlor, where he opened a cupboard in search of brandy. He made no comment on how much further the house had deteriorated during his absence. Not a single word was spoken about the missing furniture and decor.
“If you are looking for Father’s decanter,” Adelaide said evenly, annoyed by his lack of interest in the family home, “it was sold two months ago.”
Wolfgang swore lightly and tapped the cupboard shut with his finger. “Never mind, I’ll drink the swill at the tavern. We need to discuss what’s to be done next.”
“About what?”
“Your engagement.” He caught his hands behind his back. “I’ve given this some thought and I have decided it would be best if you broke it by letter. No need to bring an ugly scene—”
“Break it?” she interrupted. “Why ever would I do such a thing?”
“Because you’ve no reason to keep it.” He spoke as if the answer were obvious and she a trifle dense for not having figured it out on her own. “Our debts are paid, Adelaide. We’ve the inheritance, and the money Mr. Brice—”
“The inheritance is nearly gone. And that is quite besides the matter. I did not engage myself to Mr. Brice for his fortune.” She would marry him for his fortune, which was entirely different. The latter was a reasonably acceptable means of providing for one’s family. The former spoke of thievery and deceit. “What you are suggesting is wrong in every sense of the word. I’ll not do it.”
“It’s done all the time. Ladies break engagements left and right these days—”
“They don’t take money, Wolfgang. An engagement is not something one can let out for a fee and then insist on having back.”
He made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Well, what do you suggest? You can’t mean to go through with the marriage. You’re the grandniece of a count. You can’t go about marrying just anyone.”
“Our great-great- great-uncle by marriage was a count, Wolfgang. That means nothing. And I do mean to go through with it. I am happy to go through with it.” She reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose. Lord, how he exhausted her. “Mr. Brice has the means and desire to provide for this family. Your family,” she emphasized, dropping her hand. “We were but a few short months from the poorhouse. Does that mean nothing to you?”
“Sir Robert would never let it happen.” Growing visibly agitated, Wolfgang began to pace in front of the fireplace. “Christ, what a mess you’ve created. He’ll not let this slight go lightly, you know. But if you were to make a gesture now, he might—”
“Sir Robert? You’re angry because I . . . ?” She shook her head slowly, shocked by the words, appalled at his callousness. “How can you champion him now?” she asked on a horrified whisper. The bruise on her cheek had not yet fully healed, and already her brother was willing to forgive and forget. “How can you defend him after everything that has happened?”
Wolfgang sighed heavily. “I am not defending him. He should not have raised his hand to you. It was wrong of him to do so.” He spoke as if being forced to recite a technicality. As if Sir Robert had done nothing more nefarious than steal a bite from their larder. And wasn’t she being awfully silly to make such a racket over the matter?
Shock drained away to be replaced by a wave of cold anger. “That you would brush aside the insult so easily speaks worse of you than—”
“Do you think you’ll receive better from Brice?” His voice dripped with scorn. “He’s a bastard, Adelaide.”
“Mr. Brice is . . .” She wanted to say he was good and honorable, but that didn’t make any sense. He’d lied to her, compromised her on purpose. It was difficult to argue the good and honorable in that. “He is the acknowledged son of a baronet, the man who paid your debts, and the man who will be my husband. You will show respect.”
Wolfgang’s lips thinned into a pale line. “I’ll pay him back, but that’s all I’ll do.”
She almost laughed at the outlandish statement. It was just like Wolfgang to make such an impossible promise.
“Oh, do let me know when hell has frozen over,” she drawled. “Until then, for the sake of your family, and the coin for that brandy you’re wanting, you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head. Am I understood?”
She didn’t expect to be understood and wasn’t the least surprised when Wolfgang leveled a long, ugly glare at her, then exited the room without another word.
Adelaide avoided Wolfgang for the next twenty-four hours, a remarkably simple exercise, as he’d taken himself off to the tavern moments after their argument and had not returned home again until dawn.
Now it was nearing four in the afternoon, he was still in bed, and she was taking a few moments to tend the hydrangea she’d nearly flattened, and trying very hard not to worry herself over where Wolfgang had gotten the money for drink.
Isobel, like as not. He’d probably told her he meant to buy new clothes or have a pint in celebration. Fortunately, Isobel was susceptible to the pleas of a sibling, but she was neither a fool nor particularly generous. She’d not have given Wolfgang more than a few shillings. Which he’d no doubt succeeded in turning into a hundred pounds of debt in the course of an hour.
“You don’t have to do that now.” Connor’s gruff voice fell on her back. “We’ll hire a gardener.”
Straightening with a small start, she turned and saw he was standing directly behind her, holding a thick stack of papers on top of a large tome. His approach had been muffled by the hum of a light breeze.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bri
ce.” She peeled off her gloves and smiled. “I like to garden, you’ll recall.”
“So you’ve said.” He frowned a little. “I assumed that meant cutting flowers and . . . what have you.”
“I enjoy all aspects.” Even the repetitive work of weeding was rewarding. She tilted her head at him, wondering if the sight of his future wife digging in the dirt had somehow offended him. “Does that bother you?”
“No.” His face cleared and he gave a quick shake of his head as if dismissing the idea. “Not if gives you pleasure.” He shifted the papers in his arms and handed her the tome. “Here, I’ve brought you something.”
Happy with his quick acceptance of her hobby—and, naturally, with his offer of a gift—she took the book with a smile.
“What is it? . . . An atlas?” She turned it over in her hand, studying the fine leather binding. It was a thoughtful, if somewhat odd present. “This was very kind of you. Thank you.”
“The atlas is not the surprise. It’s a tool. I want you to decide where you would like to go on our tour of Europe.” He reached over and tapped the book. “A bridal tour. That’s the surprise.”
Stunned, she looked at him, the atlas, then him again. “Really? Do you mean it? We can go anywhere I like?”
“Everywhere you like. Make a list.”
She laughed, delighted with the suggestion. She’d made a hundred lists in the past. With pen and paper, when she’d still had the funds for them, then mental lists later—one for bills, one for debts, one for supplies she couldn’t buy, another for repairs she couldn’t afford. Not for the life of her could she remember the last time she’d made a list for fun.
Everywhere she’d wanted to go. The possibilities were limitless. Well, not entirely limitless. She couldn’t take a full year as her parents had done. There was George to consider, and heaven knew, her brother couldn’t be left unsupervised for so long a time. But she could take a month or two, perhaps even three. Three months of travel to any place she liked. She could scarce believe it.
An Unexpected Gentleman (The Haverston Family Trilogy Book 2) Page 19
