Brentwood's Ward

by Michelle Griep

  Mary’s skirt swished behind her, a soothing rustle though slightly offset by the lingering limp in her gait. “I beg your pardon, miss, if I were too forward.”

  Emily waved her off. “No, Mary. Nothing of the sort.”

  Closing her eyes, she gave in to her maid’s tugs with the hairbrush. How to explain that for the past week, ever since the attack on their carriage, she couldn’t shake the feel of Nicholas’s strong arms holding her? Or the way he’d taken down every last man to get to her in spite of the threat to his own life? Would Mr. Henley have done the same? A sigh slipped past her lips. Henley couldn’t even take on one man in a coffee house.

  “Are you well, miss?”

  Her eyes popped open, and she blinked at herself in the mirror. Her skin was a shade paler, her cheeks a little sharper. Or mayhap the lamplight simply painted odd shadows and leeched her rosy color. “I am well. Why do you ask?”

  “You’ve been a mite quiet, as of late. Not that I think you’re a great talebearer to begin with. Still…” Mary’s hands twisted lengths of hair as she spoke. “You’ve hardly been out of the house.”

  “Mr. Brentwood’s been too preoccupied to escort me.”

  “He has been in and out a lot, hmm?” Two hairpins stuck out at the corner of Mary’s lips, adding a lispy quality to her voice. “But you’ve not taken any callers, either.”

  “Mr. Brentwood thinks it’s wise if I don’t receive anyone unless he’s in attendance.” She tilted her head to the right, allowing Mary to gather up some stray wisps.

  “Yes, well, it’s certainly not the preball flurry I expected.” Mary removed the last of the pins from her mouth and secured the bulk of Emily’s hair on top of her head. “No packages, appointments, or fittings. If I may be so bold, is something else amiss?”

  Emily grimaced, though if she was honest, it wasn’t only caused by Mary’s use of the curling iron too near her ear. Something was amiss. If she could verbalize it, she’d likely feel better, but slippery emotions she could barely hang on to—let alone name—dangled just beyond her reach. “I suppose that attack left a mark on me. A shadow, so to speak.”

  “It were dreadful, miss, that’s what.” Lowering the curling iron, Mary bent closer. “You don’t think that tonight, I mean…surely nothing more will happen….”

  Mary’s voice died out, yet the words floated in the air like unmoored phantoms. Emily shivered.

  In the looking glass, Mary’s gaze bored into hers. “Are you sure you’re up to this ball, miss?”

  Was she? What was wrong with her?

  Lifting her chin, she forced a smile. “I am confident Mr. Brentwood will have everything under control. He usually does.”

  Mary lifted a brow. “You speak of Mr. Brentwood as freely as you mention Mr. Henley.”

  “Which is none of your concern.” The harsh words slipped out before she could snatch them back.

  Mary straightened, lips pinched, and silently resumed curling loose tendrils of hair.

  Emily sighed. Truly, she’d not meant to be so severe. Mary’s observation simply rankled her in a way that rippled unease clear to her fingertips. Since the moment she’d met the man, her world had flipped topsy-turvy. Nicholas Brentwood vexed her to no end. He invaded her home, her time, her thoughts. No wonder she spoke of him as much as Mr. Henley.

  Mary’s fingers tugged a little harder than normal, prickling her scalp—and conscience. Just because she was unsettled didn’t mean she must snap at her maid.

  “Nice work, Mary.” She offered the girl a half smile as a peace offering. “Lovely work, truly. You are a magician when it comes to hair.”

  The tight lines around Mary’s mouth softened. She pulled on a spiral of hair, and a single stylish curl draped from the crown of Emily’s head, past her bare neck, and onto her shoulder. “There, miss. I shouldn’t be surprised if by tomorrow morning you don’t have several offers.”

  Emily reached for her perfume bottle. Mary’s expectation was a very real possibility—one she’d hoped for, planned for, anticipated as reality.

  So why did her stomach suddenly twist as tightly as the bun on her head?

  Dabbing on some lily-of-the-valley-scented oil, she tilted her head and listened. Doggie claws scratched at her chamber door. Poor pug. She’d neglected him as much as her callers. Once again, she met Mary’s eyes in the mirror. “Will you let in Alf?”

  As Mary disappeared from the glass, Emily leaned closer. Her hair gleamed golden, done up in a simple pearl coronet. Nothing like the tiara, but…She turned her face slightly. Yes, some pink glowed on her cheeks, and the chocolate brown of her eyes, if not as stunning a color as Bella’s blues, were at least shiny and bright. Perhaps an offer or two would roll in tomorrow morning. What would Nicholas say to that?

  What would she?

  After a few yips and scurry of paws, Alf jumped up on her lap. She scooped him aloft, rescuing herself from questions she couldn’t answer and saving her skirt from his toenails. “Little scamp!”

  Tongue lolling, Alf cocked his wrinkly face at her, and she smiled. “But I can never stay cross with you.”

  “I’m waiting, Miss Payne.” Nicholas’s voice bellowed up from downstairs and through the open door.

  “You’re as ready as you’ll ever be, miss.” Mary held out her hands for the pup.

  After transferring Alf, Emily stood and tugged up her gloves as high as the fabric would stretch then lifted her arms. “Nothing’s showing?”

  Mary pitched her head right then left. “Not that I can see, miss. No one but Mr. Brentwood will know of your scratches.”

  Emily rolled her eyes. “They’re hardly scratches, Mary. More like ugly gouges.”

  “Yet they are completely hidden.”

  “Miss Payne!” Nicholas sounded as if he ordered a squad of soldiers to battle.

  Emily lowered her arms and gave one last pat to the wrinkles on her skirt Alf’s paws had inflicted. “I suppose I’d better hurry along. I’m sure Mr. Brentwood’s mood is foul enough from having to wear new evening clothes.”

  Mary smiled. “That were a fine battle, I hear tell.”

  Emily returned a grin. “I suppose it wasn’t fair to force the issue with Mrs. Hunt in the room to back me up, hmm?”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  Emily nodded. Though Mary wasn’t a thing like Wren, she’d earned a place in her heart all the same.

  “Miss Payne!”

  “Oh, bother.” Emily scooted to the door then paused and looked over her shoulder. “Don’t wait up on my account, Mary. I’ll wake you when I return.”

  “As you wish. Enjoy the evening, miss.”

  Emily rushed down the hallway and, as she neared the landing, heard the distinct sound of footsteps pacing a route at the bottom of the stairs. From the sitting room, the last chimes of the hour vibrated through the air. La, was it already nine o’clock? Had it really taken her that long to get ready?

  She lifted her skirts and hastened down the stairs.

  At the last step, she paused, her jaw agape. Who was this man in her foyer? In her life? Suddenly she wasn’t so sure she had the courage to take the arm of such an imposing gentleman and head out into the night.

  For a gentleman he was. Nicholas Brentwood’s severe appearance had been subdued into that of an aristocrat. Not that he was foppish. In fact, he could hardly be accused of frill or fanciness at all. Rather, an aura of elegant power cloaked him as neatly as the plain black tailcoat stretching across his shoulders. Beneath, he wore a dark waistcoat, highlighted with fine silver embroidery—his one concession to extravagance. A white shirt contrasted in stark defiance, made all the more stunning by the silk neck cloth he’d secured around his neck with a single pearl pin. His fitted trousers—black, of course—ran the length of his long legs down to plain but shined leather shoes. Though he’d shunned the traditional light-colored pantaloons and stockings preferred by most men, the way his clothing rode the lines of his body, convention be hanged.
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  His gaze traveled over her, softer than a summer breeze skimming past leaves, and when his green eyes finally settled on hers, she caught her breath. Stillness spread out from him. Time slowed. Space and air and life—everything stopped for the briefest of moments. Silence breathed with him, as did she, for he commanded it without a word.

  Then just as suddenly, all shifted back into a normal cadence.

  Her mouth curved into a smile. Whatever had passed between them was intoxicating. Forbidden. Impossible, really…yet wholly and completely heady.

  As she descended the last step, she mulled over Mary’s parting admonition and decided to take her advice. No matter the outcome of what the morrow may bring, she would enjoy this evening.

  Very much.

  Nicholas snapped shut his watch and tucked it back into his pocket. He needn’t have looked. The chiming of the sitting-room clock verified what he already knew. They were late. Not that he cared a fig about some silly ball, but regardless of the occasion, tardiness grated on him like skidding bare-fleshed on gravel.

  And he had the scars to prove it.

  Finally, silk swished behind him. The pad of slippers on tread turned him around. High time she quit her dilly-dallying and—

  He froze. A jolt of heat hit him square in the chest. The only words that came to mind were fear not.

  For an angel stood in front of him.

  Emily paused on the last step, wide-eyed, lips parted. Lamplight brushed a soft glow over her shape. Warmth radiated from her, golden and brilliant—as if all the stars in the universe met and mingled in one focused point, igniting the space between them with risky possibility.

  His gaze traveled the length of her, memorizing every line and curve, each delicate fold and shimmer of her gown. Then slowly, like a man gazing at a lover as he’s led to a noose, he lifted his eyes to her face, for indeed, she held his heart in her hands. She could snuff the life from him if she knew.

  Her cheeks wore the first blush of a spring rose. Her eyes gleamed with amber fire. His fingers longed to reach out and discover if her skin was as soft as it promised.

  She descended the last step, her sweet lily scent pulling him toward her. The sweeping arc of her lips mesmerized…so full, so red. His heart beat a primal rhythm, wild and deep. Three paces, that’s all, just three and he could wrap his arms around her slim waist, lower his mouth to hers, and—

  A shudder ran through him, settling low in his belly. If he didn’t contain this here, now, the evening would end with regret.

  He scowled and wheeled around. “About time you deigned to make an appearance, Miss Payne. I’ve been waiting the better part of an hour. Does it really take that long to make yourself presentable?”

  “Well!” She huffed behind him. “Good evening to you, too, Mr. Brentwood.”

  He grabbed her pelisse from the coat tree near the door and held it out. “We’re late, thanks to you. Don’t expect me to be pleasant about it.” He suppressed a cringe as his own harsh tone boxed his ears, but better to anger her. Better she keep her distance.

  Better he keep his. Oh God, help me, please.

  She frowned up at him. “A real gentleman would have first remarked on my gown or my hair before laying blame, if indeed he blamed at all.”

  Turning, she allowed him to guide in one arm after the other into the sleeves of her wrap. Her movement enticed. Her nearness stole his breath more effectively than the ridiculous neck cloth choking his throat. He stepped back and wrenched open the door with more force than necessary, welcoming the slap of cool night air against his face.

  “A true lady would value punctuality, and furthermore”—he offered his arm—“whatever gave you the idea that I was a gentleman?”

  “My mistake.” She lifted her chin and bypassed him without a look.

  Good. At such a rate, hopefully she wouldn’t notice the absence of Wilkes—her usual driver. The man now gripping the reins sported a shock of red hair beneath a felt hat. His jacket bulged with a brace of loaded pistols. And a seasoned driver would’ve set the wheel brake instead of allowing the horses to jitter the carriage back and forth.

  Nicholas locked eyes with Flannery, sitting in the driver’s seat, a second before assisting Emily into the coach, then he swung up behind her.

  Emily sat center on the seat, the farthest point from either window. Smart girl. He sat opposite her, his back covering the fine line in the seat cushion where he’d modified a small hidey-hole to store extra firearms.

  Her hands gripped the seat’s edge as the carriage lurched into motion, and she turned her face from him. He bit back a smile. Her anger was a useful tool. Freed of the burden of conversation, he listened for the rush of feet, hooves, wheels, anything that suggested an imminent attack.

  The ride, however, was uneventful—and that set his teeth on edge. It’d been nearly a week since Nash’s ambush. Why nothing more? Nicholas’s jaw ached from clenching it, and he rubbed his chin. Even bribing his best informants, he’d gained no new knowledge about Nash nor uncovered anything about her father’s death. Though at first he’d been reluctant to follow Ford’s advice to keep Emily in the dark about the man’s demise, the magistrate’s wisdom had finally sunk in. Grief was hard enough borne without the closure of all the whys, whens, and hows. And so he’d pursued every possible lead, wearing down precious boot leather in the process. The only certainty he’d gained was further confirmation that his sister hadn’t much longer to live.

  And that chilled him more thoroughly than Emily’s silence. If he didn’t conclude this case soon and obtain the rest of his payment from Payne’s estate, he’d never move Jenny to the country in time. Tucking his chin, he breathed out another “God, please.”

  The carriage stopped. He descended. This time when he offered his hand, Emily’s fingers rested atop his. Music spilled out the open foyer door, growing louder as they gained the marble stairs facing a towering estate on the western edge of London. So many torches and outdoor lanterns burned on the front lawn, the sun need never make an appearance on this street.

  Two footmen in crushed velvet livery flanked the entrance. One held out a white glove for the engraved invitation Emily produced from her beaded reticule. With his free hand, the dandy servant extracted a monocle tethered to a golden chain and lifted it to his eye. Either the Garveys were particularly discriminating, or they simply wanted to make a show of their highly trained, man-sized monkeys.

  Once inside, Nicholas paused. His gaze darted from the crowd on the stairway, to the people clogging the corridors, to the sitting room on the right filled with giggling girls and their matrons, then beyond to the open veranda doors. He let out a long, slow breath. No wonder Nash had bided his time. Guarding Emily in this throng would be impossible. If he was going to strike, this would be the perfect place.

  Especially when she loosed her fingers from his arm and shot forward, vanishing into a swirl of taffetas and satins and shiny brass buttons.

  Nicholas slipped sideways through the crowd after her. A search of the first floor earned him nothing but a few sneers from uppity fops afraid he was closing in on their territory, and several unabashed ogles from ill-chaperoned women. What kind of looks was Emily attracting without him at her side? He took the stairs two at a time, dodging couples and servants alike.

  By the time he spotted her laughing with Bella near a punch table on the far side of a dance floor, he couldn’t decide if he should throttle her or blend into the crowd undetected to watch the beguiling way her dimples deepened when she smiled.

  Across the room, her gaze shot to his.

  He wove past spectators, keeping a wide berth from the dancers at center, until he closed in on Emily and her friend. “Good evening, Miss Grayson.” He tipped his head to the pert little redhead then turned on Emily. “Miss Payne, I’ll thank you to consider that I am not as familiar with this household as you appear to be.”

  “Ah yes, my apologies.” She dazzled a grin at him. “I forgot that a gentleman wo
uld’ve known his way about.”

  “Touché.” He quirked half a grin in return. “Shall we start over? Completely, that is.”

  He bent at the waist, first to her then to her friend. “Good evening, Miss Payne. Good evening, Miss Grayson.”

  Bella’s brow crinkled. “But you already—”

  Emily cut her off with a sweep of her hand. “Don’t mind him. My cousin is in a rather ill humor tonight.”

  “As will you soon be.” Bella set down her punch glass and leaned toward Emily. “Don’t look now, but here comes Mr. Shadwell.”

  A ripple teased the fabric of Emily’s skirt from bodice to floor. Either she’d just clenched every muscle or she’d repositioned her feet for a good sprint. Nicholas snuck a glance over his shoulder and suddenly understood why.

  Plowing through the last square of a cotillion, a red-nosed man, with a belly that further attested to his love of spirits, headed straight for them. Mr. Shadwell gave a cursory nod at Nicholas and Bella then bowed low before Emily, grabbed her hand, and planted a kiss upon her glove.

  Nicholas smirked. She’d had the nerve to suggest he didn’t behave in a gentleman-like fashion?

  “Miss Payne, how delightful!” Shadwell straightened, wobbling slightly—as would anyone so off center with a belly like his. “I’ve been waiting with bated breath for a glimpse of your beauty tonight.”

  Baited was right. A distinct waft of anchovy pate filled the air. Nicholas cocked his head, curious to see how Emily would handle this affront.

  She edged closer to him, away from Shadwell, though she did greet the man. “Mr. Shadwell.”

  Shadwell smiled. “I insist that the next dance belong to no one but me, my dear.”

  Emily grabbed Nicholas’s arm. “So sorry. I’m afraid I’ve already promised the next dance. Am I not right, Mr. Brentwood?”

  Her eyes sought his, her brown gaze pleading. He studied her closely. Was she holding her breath?

  He opened his mouth, but the yes that came out wasn’t his.

  Behind him, a voice curled over his shoulder like smoke. “The lady is right.”