“Several. You do know the viscount started the fire?” Focusing on a Blue John vase atop the fireplace mantel beyond his shoulder, she relived the horror. The scorching heat and acrid smoke. The agony and the terror. She veered Bradford a sideways glance. “Giles told me he confronted him. Your uncle claimed he accidentally dropped a candle near the altar when he kneeled to pray.”
“That damn—” Nostrils flaring and jaw taut, Bradford smothered the vulgar curse.
He needn’t on her behalf, for she had condemned Herbert Kingsley to every kind of hell imaginable, particularly in those first horrendous weeks. She hadn’t forgiven him entirely either, perhaps never would be able to. Every glimpse of herself unclothed in a mirror reminded her of her parents’ needless deaths, Giles’s suffering, and the loss of Bradford’s love. She rolled a shoulder in an attempt at graciousness. “Perhaps he truly had sought God’s guidance.”
“What utter rot.” Bradford took a deep breath. “Forgive me, but my uncle hadn’t set foot in a church for decades, and if that spawn of Satan prayed, it wasn’t to God Almighty, I assure you.”
“I supposed as much.” Nodding, she blinked drowsily.
Sleep had eluded her these past weeks. Anxiety for Giles, apprehension about their finances, and dread of an inevitable marriage robbed her of slumber nightly. Though she needn’t worry about the latter two anymore, Giles’s condition still kept her tossing and turning. She yawned behind her hand, weary to her bones’ marrow. “I’ve always wondered why he hated us so.”
“That we’ll never know.” Bradford cupped her nape and rubbed her knotted neck muscles, the long strokes and gentle kneading bringing much-needed relief. “How does Giles fare? Any improvement?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Though, he’s no worse either.”
Bradford made a short sound in the back of his throat. “I had hoped for better news, for your sake.”
For the life of her, she couldn’t form a single protest at his impudence, or the impropriety of his caresses, but instead, closed her eyes and bowed her neck, breathing out a silent sigh. She’d missed his touch, and like a long-parched plant, soaked the sensation into every arid pore.
“That’s it. Relax. You deserve a modicum of respite. You’re half asleep on your feet.” He brushed her hair aside—tied back with a ribbon rather than knotted properly atop her head—
before setting both hands to massaging her neck and shoulders.
Could he feel the few irregular, hardened ridges through her dress’s thin fabric? The worst scars, the ribbons of unsightly, rigid flesh, marred her front and her upper arms. She sighed as errant flickers pulsed in places she had no business noticing with her dying brother lying beside her, and she shifted, edging away from Bradford.
Socrates raised his head and, citrine orbs barely open, eyed her disdainfully for disturbing his nap before yawning and resuming his slumber.
“When was Doctor Singleton last here?” Bradford’s voice, velvety and warm, hinted that touching her had affected him too.
Examining the bedside clock, she frowned.
Three o’clock already? Where had the day gone?
Her stomach rumbled and contracted. She’d forgotten to eat from the tray a servant had brought up hours ago. “He was here just after twelve, and said he would return this evening with different medication.”
Bradford pulled an armchair up beside the bed and, after flipping his tails out of the way, took a seat. He rummaged in his pocket, and his mouth edged upward as he removed a velvet case.
When she didn’t reach for it, he set the box on her thigh. “Here.”
“What is it?” A jolt of awareness spiraled outward. Philomena eyed the maroon square guardedly.
“A betrothal ring. It belonged to my grandmother, and Aunt Muriel was adamant you should have it.” He gave her another lopsided grin and arched a raven brow. “One does not tell the duchess no.”
Definitely not. Philomena’s mouth twitched into a nascent smile. “Yes, I gathered that, but she is a dear, if somewhat formidable.”
“If you don’t like the style, we can purchase another.” He patted his coat, his signet ring flashing in the candlelight. “I have the special license, too, and I have arranged for a cleric to perform the ceremony.” A grin lit his eyes, the same deep azure of the horizon at sunset. “I even found a suitable house to rent until we can find something permanent to purchase. It’s small but will suffice for now.”
He had a license as well? Her heart somersaulted. And found a place for them to live? Happiness embraced her. He meant to honor what he said in the arbor? Giddiness capered atop her ribs. She couldn’t have known. He hadn’t spoken of it.
He hadn’t mentioned love either.
Doubt poked its beastly head up, quashing her internal celebration.
Did Bradford want to marry her, or did guilt and obligation compel him?
Her joy plunged to her scuffed half-boots, and lay there wallowing pathetically. He mustn’t marry her out of duty or a misplaced sense of honor and forgo his chance at love. She must tell him, make him understand that it was all right if he didn’t wed her. She would be fine.
Turning, she faced him square on.
“Bradford, you don’t have to marry me. I know I’m not your first choice, and now that Giles is ...” She blinked away the fresh sting of tears and swallowed past the lump clogging her throat. “Well, not meeting anyone on the field of honor anytime soon, there’s really no need to bother to see this through to the end. I do thank you for the noble gesture, nonetheless.”
Though curiosity screeched in umbrage at being denied a glimpse of the ring, she placed the unopened jewelry box in his palm. Better not to know, for all that stood between her disintegrating into a weeping ninny was an eyelash’s width of pride.
Bradford stared at the case for a long moment before lifting his thick-lashed eyes to hers, and her heart gave a painful flip. Love shouldn’t be simultaneously agonizing and glorious.
Unblinking, he looked at her.
She could get lost in those beautiful pools. He’d always had the most vivid eyes, and his lashes caused many a lady to jealously gnash her teeth.
“Philomena, I know we haven’t seen each other in almost seven years, and much has happened in our lives to change us. But, these last days, I thought ... had begun to believe ...” He pointed his attention ceilingward and puffed out a short breath. “Isn’t there even a spark of what we once had?”
“I ... I don’t know. Yes. Maybe. Probably.”
Liar. You know blasted well there is.
Pressing her fingertips to her temples, she strove to order her scattered thoughts. “It’s more complicated than that. I’m not sure we can simply resume where we left off.”
She could, but could he?
Did he love her?
“I truly did not know you lived.” He took her hand and entwined their fingers like he used to. So natural and comfortable. “I was almost grateful Father decided to drag us off to the Caribbean, because it meant escaping England and the memories of you. They haunted me, tortured me, nearly driving me mad.”
“You truly grieved for me?” Searching his striking face, the planes harsh with remembered sorrow, her resolve slipped.
Shutting his eyes, he compressed his lips and gave a terse nod. “For months. Years.” His deep voice rumbled, and he opened his eyes, a glint of moisture confirming his words. Pressing her hand to his firm lips, he murmured against her palm, “I wanted to die.”
Needing to comfort him, Philomena brushed a lone droplet from the corner of his eye and offered a tremulous smile as she caressed his cheek. “Hurts bloody awful, doesn’t it?”
“Most excruciating thing I’ve ever endured.” Bradford bent nearer, until inches separated their mouths, the smoldering smile on his lips only slightly less heated than the scorching luster in his eye.
Sliding her hand to the back of his head, Philomena smiled. She spread her fingers in his silky hair and pulled h
im closer. “Me too.”
His lips settled on hers, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him. This kiss, each nibble and touch of their tongues, spoke of sorrow and forgiveness and pledged healing and hope. Their mouths meshed, she scooted onto his firm lap and gave herself over to the experience, reveling in the momentary joy.
A pillow softly smacked her.
Chapter Six
After wresting her mouth from Bradford’s, Philomena leapt to her feet. “Giles, you’re awake!”
“A man cannot even die in peace. He must rouse to defend his sister’s honor.”
Heat swept up the angles of her cheeks at being caught kissing Bradford again, but she returned Giles’s feeble grin.
“How long have I been out?”
Philomena grasped his hand, her mouth quivering. “Ten days. I feared you’d never waken.”
Giles’s turbid gaze locked on Bradford. His focus sank lower, to the jewelry box still clasped in Bradford’s hand. “You said you had retained a cleric?”
Hands on her hips and lips pursed, Philomena angled her head. “Just how much of our conversation did you eavesdrop on? And why didn’t you tell me ... us,” she spared Bradford a swift glance, “you were awake?”
“One cannot eavesdrop on a conversation taking place over one’s deathbed.” Giles’s lips bent into a tired smile. “As for not telling you I’d awoken, I found the conversation most fascinating, and truthfully, it took too much effort to open my eyes or speak.”
“I do hope you don’t intend to call me out again.” Bradford winked and patted Giles’s shoulder.
“If I weren’t so relieved, Giles Joseph Pomfrett, I would ring you a peal, you sneak.” Philomena smiled through her tears and kissed his cheek. She’d never thought to hear his voice or see the playful gleam in his eye again.
Dark circles ringing his bleary eyes, he struggled into a sitting position, his gaze wavering between her and Bradford. “You still love each other?”
“I ...” She sent Bradford a helpless glance. Why must that be one of the first things Giles asked upon waking?
“I love her. I always have.” Bradford’s voice entwined around her heart. “Even more so these past few days as we’ve become reacquainted—not that we needed to. We resumed right where we left off, didn’t we, Phil?”
She took the hand he extended, the answering warmth in his eyes turning her knees to custard. “Yes, and I do love him. But I think you suspected that, brother dearest.”
The tiniest twinkle glinted in Giles’s eyes. “I but hoped and played the hand as if you did. I nearly danced a jig when I came upon Kingsley kissing you in the arbor. Quite opportune, I must say.”
“That was well done of you, Giles.” Bradford brushed a tendril from Philomena’s cheek that had escaped her ribbon when they kissed. “And that’s why I asked Reverend Archer to pay a call at four o’clock to discuss the ceremony. Quite by chance, I met the man of God at a dinner party when I first returned to London, and when I came upon him today after obtaining the marriage license, I asked him to officiate.”
“Yes, that was fortuitous.” Moments ago, she’d been moping about because there’d been no mention of marriage, and now she was aflutter at the suddenness of Bradford’s arrangements.
He gave Philomena an apologetic smile. “Forgive me for not discussing this with you, but the Archbishop just returned to London last evening, and I honestly didn’t expect to encounter Reverend Archer today. Things just fell into place, and I snatched the opportunity while it was available.”
“Phil, Kingsley has the license, and you love each other. Why not simply marry when the rector arrives?” Giles’s question sent her pulse stampeding uncomfortably.
Four o’clock today?
She would have preferred a bit more notice to prepare.
“I cannot be married in this old rag. I must change, and arrange my hair.” Glancing downward, Philomena grasped her dress and grimaced. Chagrined, she darted Bradford a hesitant glance and sighed. “You must think me vain and silly.”
He cupped her chin. “What’s wrong with wanting our wedding to be as special as we can make it?”
“I cannot suitably express my gratitude or what a balm to my soul it is to know Philomena is provided for after I’m gone.” Giles extended a trembling hand, which Bradford promptly clasped. “I can rest peacefully now.”
Philomena’s heart gave a queer leap. His words rang with a resignation and finality she’d not heard before. “Giles, don’t talk like that. You may still grow stronger.”
“Bradford.” A scratching at the door preceded the Duchess of Daventry sailing into the room, followed by Olivia and a twitchy little man of the cloth. “Reverend Archer requests a word with you.”
“You’re early, Reverend.” Bradford beamed, nonetheless.
“Yes, your lordship, if you please.” The reverend ducked his head and wrung his hands, moisture edging his upper lip. “Perhaps we could step into the corridor?”
Olivia sped to Philomena’s side and, after embracing her, hugged Bradford. “I’m so happy for you both. Brady has often teased me about my doldrums over Allen, but do believe me when I tell you, Philomena, he was much changed after the fire.” Bestowing a bright smile on Giles, Olivia touched his shoulder. “And I’m so grateful you’ve roused, Mr. Pomfrett. I will pray for your continued recovery.”
The strain of so many gathered in Giles’s sick room concerned Philomena. She would wait until the doctor examined him before she allowed the dash of hope that had taken root to grow and bloom. Too soon for celebrating, just yet. Nonetheless, his awakening in time for the ceremony was a profound blessing.
Her grace regarded the cleric with thinly disguised curiosity but turned her attention to Giles. “I’m so pleased to see you awake, Mr. Pomfrett. You shall have the pleasure of witnessing your sister’s nuptials, though I do believe we should make the ceremony as short as possible so as to not exhaust you.”
“Er, well, Your Grace, there is a small matter I need to discuss with his lordship first.” The cleric’s nervous gaze darted here and there, and perspiration ran in thick rivets down his beet-red face. As quickly as he sopped the moisture with his soggy kerchief, more appeared.
Goodness, he appeared unwell or on the brink of apoplexy.
“Have your say, good sir, so that we might be about marrying.” Bradford encircled Philomena’s waist with one arm. “I’ve waited nearly seven years to marry this minx, and don’t want to wait another day.”
“You are going to have to wait, my lord.” Reverend Archer clasped his hands, his head bobbing like a pigeon.
Bradford stiffened and leveled him an acerbic stare. “And why is that?”
Every eye in the room fixed on the clergyman.
He licked his lips and tugged on his ear. “Someone has come forth with an objection to the marriage.”
Her ocean-blue eyes rounded, Olivia grasped Philomena’s hand. “I am so sorry, Philomena.”
Henderson and Underhill had wasted no time in spreading the news of Bradford’s betrothal claim, it seemed. And someone, though God only knew who, didn’t want Bradford and her to wed. Well, actually, she could think of several hungry-eyed women who wouldn’t be pleased, but none had legal reason to protest the joining.
She pressed two fingers between her eyebrows where a steady cadence thrummed.
“Who dares?” Her grace narrowed her eyes to incensed slits and shook her finger in the reverend’s face, causing the man to blanch and stumble backward. “I’ll see they are banned from every respectable assembly. They won’t be able to nibble Sally Lunn’s cake with anyone of refinement by the time I’m finished. They’ll be buying their vegetables from the slop yard.”
Bradford maintained a visage of calm, though anger tempered his speech. “What’s this about? Unless they are here to state their objection during the ceremony, they can caterwaul and complain from the rooftops and it will do no good.”
“Your uncle enter
ed into a contract with Lord Southwark, agreeing his daughter would be the next Viscountess Kingsley.” After taking a deep breath, the cleric hurried on, running his words together. “The-late-viscount-accepted-the marriage-settlement-and-the–terms-stipulated-the joining-occur-before-Parliament’s-dissolution.”
Her grace released a snort worthy of an incensed bull. “Figures. Raynott Southwark’s a covetous, ambitious fribble. And that bland-eyed daughter of his has more hair than wit.” The duchess made a circular gesture near her temple. “She’s not all there in the attic. Simple-minded, the unfortunate dear.”
The poor girl was a slow top, but this had nothing to do with Bradford and Philomena’s wedding.
“Easily remedied.” Bradford flashed a reassuring smile, completely unaffected by the reverend’s announcement. “I shall return the settlement since my cousins are deceased. However, as my future brother-in-law’s health is extremely delicate, we’ll proceed with the nuptials as planned.”
Philomena released her pent-up breath. A simple misunderstanding brought about by the prior viscount’s untimely death. In truth, she wouldn’t object to a short courting period, a few weeks delay to further reacquaint herself with the man she had pledged to marry, but Giles’s health made that impossible.
“Yes, it is my brother’s express wish that Bradford and I marry as quickly as possible.” She couldn’t bring herself to say because Giles might not live to see the deed done if they delayed.
“I’m dying, Reverend, and would see my sister wed before I leave this world.” Giles wearily shut his eyes, and poignant silence reigned for a long moment.
“I understand, and you have my utmost sympathy, but the matter isn’t so easily rectified.” The reverend fussed with his collar, his face glowing. How was it possible for a human to turn the same hue as a parrot’s plumage? “The contract doesn’t specify or identify which viscount Lady Victoria is to marry.”
Philomena exchanged a baffled glance with Olivia. Why did the man persist? He obviously knew Bradford wasn’t party to any of these legalities, and what difference did it make whether the agreement identified the viscount? Everyone knew it couldn’t be Bradford. He’d been out of the country until just over a fortnight ago and was last in line to inherit, to boot.
Her Scandalous Wish (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 3) Page 6
