by Grace Walton
Why on earth was she telling him this? She couldn't understand herself. Here she was unburdening her soul to a total stranger.
“Oh poppet,” he said and pulled her into a comforting embrace.
He was the same height and build as Dylan. But she was thankful there was none of Dylan's electricity reaching for her from this man. She felt only kindness and concern.
“I'm sorry. I'm so bloody sorry.” Connor didn't know of anything else to say. There was nothing left, no possible words of comfort. The woman in his arms loved his brother. He envied him. God only knew how much he envied him. They stood there. He not knowing what to say. She not needing any words just the hard tender strength of his arms. He was looking over her shoulder towards the door.
Connor wanted to make sure she wouldn't be able to see Dylan's face when he came upon them. His brother was not going to be in a pleasant frame of mind, to say the least. Dylan had been sliding into a morass of violence and mayhem for many years now. Connor and Griffin spoke of it many times. He hoped his older brother would be able to control his murderous instinct. But if Dylan couldn’t maintain control, Connor would not have Rory frightened. There were soft footfalls in the hall nearing the attic stairs.
“Dylan's coming poppet,” he whispered.
She moved closer to him. There was a fragile sort of dignity in the way she set her shoulders. If her heart was breaking, Connor thought, no one would ever know. The door flew open with such force Connor thought it might fly from its hinges.
The man standing in the doorway looked like an avenging angel. All he needed was a flaming sword and a glowing robe.
“I told you to leave her alone,” he growled. There was righteous murder in his eyes and a cold hard smile on his lips. “Take your sodding hands off of her Connor.”
“And if I don't?” Connor's voice was just as determined as his brother's. He respected Dylan's anger. He had to. But he wasn't frightened of his brother. As men, they were very evenly matched. Or so Connor had always believed.
Dylan prowled into the room like a stalking jungle cat. “Aurora, please go back downstairs.”
There was a restrained order in those mild civil words. Rory twisted out of Connor's arms and turned to face her fiancé. She’d never seen him so menacing. He was being perfectly polite, in fact, too polite. If he had been roaring and throwing wild punches, she would have been more comfortable. But this subdued mildness was infinitely more frightening.
“Dylan don't hurt him,” she pleaded for the man she now knew was called Connor.
To Dylan, she sounded precisely like a woman begging for the life of her lover. Silently cursing his brother for a reprobate and a lecher, Dylan stepped closer to the pair. Connor needed killing. Who better to do it than one of his own family Dylan decided. One of his hands clenched into a fist at his side.
“Aurora please, go back downstairs now,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Go on poppet.” Connor gave her a little push.
Dylan's eyes hardened to pewter at the endearment. And at the familiarity of his brother’s touch.
“My brother won't kill me.”
It was obvious Connor couldn't read minds. If he could, he wouldn't have been so sure of his continued lifespan.
“Your brother?”
Her startled gaze flew between the two towering men. She felt duped and betrayed. By both of them. She'd poured out her heart to this man. Now he turned out to be Dylan's brother. No wonder he'd seemed so familiar. He and Dylan were very alike. Their mannerisms and their arrogance were identical.
“Your brother?”
Connor nodded apologetically. Her hand lashed out and slapped his face, hard. “Kill him Dylan,” she ordered. She gathered her shimmering skirts and swept with terrible dignity out the open door.
“God knows, you are a lucky man.” Connor told his brother as he watched her graceful back descend the stairs. He propped his hands on his hips and ignored Dylan as he savored the sight of her swaying form. Which was his first mistake.
“That is debatable.” Dylan moved closer to his brother.
Connor let him. That was his second mistake. He was sure he could explain to Dylan that the whole thing had been an elaborate joke. Griffin always managed to carry this part off so well, Connor wished he was here.
Dylan was not in the mood to listen to explanations. His fist caught Connor right below his temple. It was the spot Dylan had picked while he had watched his brother holding Rory in his arms. It was a spot that if struck with sufficient force would do a great deal of damage with a relatively small amount of effort. That was important. He planned to rejoin the party and Rory as quickly as possible. Her explanations he would listen to, maybe.
For Connor suddenly, there was only soft blackness and falling. And the trip to the floor seemed to take an eternity. His last conscious thoughts were that his head was likely to hurt viciously when he eventually woke up, and that his big brother was taking this imaginary marriage far too seriously.
Dylan rubbed his stinging knuckles. He stepped calmly over his inert brother. He felt much better now, almost good enough to forgive Connor but not quite. He blew out the candle and quietly closed the attic door. Let Connor explain how he'd come to fall asleep in the Avansley's attic. A wicked smile lit Dylan's saturnine features.
Perhaps Irene Avansley would become enamored of his wayward brother. Perhaps she would find him and rescue him. Perhaps, the smile turned into a full-fledged malicious grin, I might steer her in the direction of the attic. He relished the thought.
His strides going down to the ballroom had a victorious jauntiness to them. No one would know he'd recently pummeled a man into oblivion. As he entered the room, he saw Lady Avansley leave. She was followed by a throng of eager men. He saw Rory in deep conversation with Bram Gottlieb near a table topped with a huge silver punch bowl.
As he watched, she tossed back the contents of a punch cup in one gulp. That was odd. At most balls, a punchbowl of something without spirits was maintained for the ladies. Assuming this was that bowl, why would she sling down an innocuous Orgeat?
As Dylan strolled through the dancers toward the pair, he noticed Rory's face was flushed. Her hair was slowly escaping its severe braids in favor of rebellious waves that framed her face. There was a restless animation in her face. She obviously wasn't drinking fruit juice. In fact, she looked like she might explode if given the proper stimulation. He had a feeling the drink in the cup could prove very stimulating.
Gottlieb stiffened as he watched the tall man approach. The one thing he did not want was a repeat of the threat St. John had issued earlier in the day. In the wagon behind the Lavender Rose, St. John had made it very clear he would only need the slightest excuse to kill Bram. And it would be impossible to avoid a duel, if St. John issued a challenge in public at the ball.
There were some things a man must never do. Backing down from a public challenge was very high on that list. He justified to himself that what he was about to do was not running away. He was not being a coward, Gottlieb told himself. He was merely allowing St. John to deal with Rory.
It wasn't his fault she was drinking that lethal punch. Well, maybe it was. He'd had it in his hand when she’d walked up. Being a gentleman, he’d automatically given it to her. But it wasn’t his fault. True, he’d not told her it was Chatham Artillery Punch. And she had taken an enormous gulp of the stuff as soon as the cup was in her hand. But it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t. It was time and past for her to learn to hold her liquor. Everybody drank. He was actually doing her a favor.
The justification sounded reasonable to Bram. Rory was St. John's problem. Let him try to calm her down or sober her up. Gottlieb went through this entire argument as he quickly backed away from the punch table. He disappeared into the crowd leaving Rory to face St. John alone.
Not that she was afraid of Dylan. At the moment, she wasn’t afraid of anything. In fact, she’d like to tell that rat weasel St. John a thing or two. She�
��d instruct him in the proper ways to treat a lady. Invincible, that's how she felt. She took another tiny sip from her silver punch cup. Her Orgeat tasted extremely potent, for some reason.
Dylan was stopped three times coming through the crowd. Each time he was pulled to one side Rory studied him. It would be so much easier to tell him off if he wasn't so big and handsome. There was no use wishing he was short and ugly. God had fashioned the man. And He’d done an outstanding job of it. She sighed as he started back toward her. It was a pity though, for in her experience, short, ugly men were so very easy to talk to.
“What are you drinking sweetheart?” His smile took every bit of sting out of the words.
She looked mutinously up at him. It was hard to stay angry at a man with a face and a body like a Roman statue. “It's Orgeat.” Pointing to the silver cups waiting on the white tablecloth by the huge silver basin Rory asked cheekily, “Want some?” Hearing herself, she frowned. She had not intended to be nice to the beast.
“I'll just finish yours.”
The cup was out of her hand. He drained it. He set it back on the table before she knew what had happened.
“This is one of our waltzes I believe.” He held out his hand.
Suddenly, they were on the dance floor with a few other brave couples preparing to scandalize the company at large. But she couldn't worry about that now because the Roman statue was asking her something.
“What’s in that devil's brew?” He settled her into the slow whirling motion of the dance.
“The Orgeat? Just the usual, I imagine. Lemonade, almonds, sugar, and water,” she responded enunciating each word carefully. For some reason, her tongue weighed at least two stone.
“That wasn’t Orgeat.”
“It wasn’t?” she asked owlishly. She thought for a moment. “It must be Chatham Artillery Punch. No wonder it tasted so horrid. I wonder why Bram would give it to me? He knows I detest the stuff.”
“Yes, I’ll take that up with him later.”
“Don’t you murder him too.”
“I haven’t murdered anyone,” he said and sighed.
It was true. He’d been very careful over the years to restrain the dark and efficient way he dispatched criminals. He always let his opponent make the first aggressive move. He’d never instigated a fight in order to carry out an execution. He’d killed. But he’d never murdered. He wouldn’t let that aspect of his job for Arthur Bassett become an addiction. No one knew, of course. No one knew of the many nights he woke up in a sweating terror. No one knew of his murderous soul shattering nightmares.
She patted his hand and smiled up at him. “Good, that’s good. Gray told me Chatham Artillery Punch is made of whatever was left in the bottles, plus sugar and lemons.” She decided right then and there she really just loved this dance. No matter what the old society tabbies said about it being a scandal. The waltz was like flying. She loved it. As long as Dylan didn't let her fall, the polished dance floor seemed a long way down.
“How many bottles?”
She giggled softly at his ridiculous question. “All of them, of course.”
“Rory let's go in to supper.” It wasn't a suggestion.
She was vaguely aware the music had stopped, and he was taking her to a room where a lavish buffet was laid out. People were sitting at tables in small paired groups. Several of these groups waved an invitation to them. Dylan steered her away from them to a secluded alcove. He sat her in the corner next to the wall.
“Stay here,” he said and left.
She could remember she had been very mad at him. But she couldn't recall exactly what it was that had made her so furious. While she was pondering this, he returned with two plates piled with food. The one he set in front of her seemed to be filled with bread. There were rolls in various sizes and tiny slices of dark loaves. There were even cunning little biscuits.
A footman came to their table bearing a tray with crystal fluted glasses. Dylan took one, but asked for coffee to be brought to Rory. The footman was too well trained to show any surprise at the odd request. He merely bowed and went off in search of hot coffee.
“Dylan this plate only has bread.” She was irritated, and the blasted plate seemed to be lurching from side to side. Or maybe that was her head.
“I know, sweetheart.”
It sounded like she was being patronized. And she didn't like it, not one bit. “Why do you have all that delicious looking food and all I have is bread?”
“Because,” Rory watched him take a leisurely bite of a heavenly smelling crab cake. “You need to sober up.”
“I beg your pardon?” The attempt at a set-down was impaired by the slight slurring of her words. The footman appeared at her elbow. He deposited a dainty cup of steaming black coffee in front of her plate.
“If you eat your bread and butter and drink your coffee, then you may beg my pardon.”
She was hungry. She eyed the plate. Manners forbade a lady from going to the buffet table by herself, so she had to be satisfied with the bread and butter. After two rolls lavishly spread with butter, and half a cup of black Rory felt more herself. She even ventured into conversation.
“I like your brother.”
His only response was a lifted eyebrow.
“I mean, if one overlooks the fact that he’s a rake and a scoundrel.” She swallowed a rather dry mouthful of the roll. “I’m glad you didn’t kill him.” She was feeling an uneasy regret over the way she’d ordered the big blonde man’s death so cavalierly. She hadn’t meant it, of course. And she knew Dylan would never stoop quite so low as to murder his own kin. She prayed he wouldn’t.
“Should I have?”
“No,” Rory said and shook her head. She regretted it immediately. The room was just beginning to settle down. Her quick reckless movement set it lurching up and down again. “It was really all your fault. If you hadn't crept off with the spider, none of this would have happened.”
His amused drawl cut her off. “The what?”
“Lady Avansley.” She had the grace to blush. “I wouldn't have been following you. And then I couldn't decide what to do. And then the Viking was there. And then I drank the blasted punch. I’ve never had Chatham Artillery Punch, not once.” She rolled her head back so she could look at him.
“The Viking?” He didn't like the sound of that.
“Your brother,” she said. Why was she telling him all this? He was a thoughtless randy beast. He didn’t deserve to know her thoughts and feelings. It was very embarrassing. “In any event, Connor suggested that what was good for the gander was good for the goose. That’s me. I’m the goose.”
“Yes, you are a goose, an adorable, thoroughly sotted goose.” His lopsided smile made her swallow hard.
“So we went off to hide in the attic. He said it would only take you five minutes to find us.” She stopped. She took a long breath. Maybe now was a good time to hush up and eat some more bread. Rory watched him watching her.
He sat back in the straight chair. He stretched his long legs well under the small table. He grasped the crystal flute by its rim. The sparkling liquid moved in lazy shimmering circles inside the glass. She found herself mesmerized by the motion.
“You were hiding in the attic with Connor,” he prompted.
“Yes, well you got there. Then you told me to leave. Which was incredibly bad form. But I’ve come to expect nothing less from you.” She picked up the coffee cup.
“So nothing happened.” There was a starkness to his words.
“Did anything happen when you were in the anteroom with Lady Avansley?” She was getting a little tired of the inquisition. Her muddled head was clearing. Her natural spirit reasserted itself.
“Touche,” Dylan said. He drained the glass and placed the empty flute on the table. “Rory remember our conversation about men who try to lure women into indiscretions?”
She pushed her plate away and sat back herself. “You're not saying your brother would take advantage of me?”
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“In a heartbeat.”
“But he said I never had to be afraid of him,” Rory argued.
“What did he do to you?” Dylan knew why men said such things to women. It was to lull them into a false sense of security. He’d used the trick more times than he could count. Curse Connor.
“Nothing,” she pleaded with him to believe her. “On my honor, he did nothing.”
“Then why were you afraid?” There was a relentless quality to his answer.
“I wasn't.” The room had stopped moving. But now her temples were beginning to throb. “He’d just finished saying you would kill him if you found us together in a bedchamber,”
“The boy’s smarter than I ever gave him credit for.” The clipped words interrupted her explanation.
“He’s not a boy. He’s a man.”
“Noticed that, did you? I believe I will revisit this whole episode with him, soon.”
She rolled her eyes. “Connor decided we should go to the attic. But he was concerned I would be afraid of the dark. He took me in his arms, to comfort me.”
“I’ll kill him.” He started to rise.
Irene Avansley chose that moment to slide up to their table. A hostess's first duty was to her guests. Were they comfortable and enjoying themselves in her home? Did they need anything to make their evening more pleasant? Irene planned to take full advantage of these duties to get to know the delicious Lord St. John better. Things happened around him, interesting things.
He was a fascinating man. At least, that's what her uncle's wife thought. She’d been so impressed she’d risked scandal by leaving the dance floor and disappearing with St. John for an inordinate amount of time. When Lady Avansley finally reappeared, she was alone and angry, very angry. In the space of a few minutes, she fled the ballroom claiming a sick headache.
Then there was Aurora Windsor. She had marched down the stairs and anchored herself to one corner of the punch table. Some of the dowagers made wagers on whether she’d discovered her fiancé in a lover's tryst. Why else would the chit be acting so strangely? It was a well-known fact the girl never drank. It was just another peculiarity about the Windsor chit, and there were many. Now she was tossing away enough Chatham Artillery Punch to down a dragoon.
