Undressed (Undone by Love)

by Kristina Cook

  “She’s your wife, Colin. Your wife!”

  “And I do not deserve her.” Bloody hell, he could no longer hide the shameful tears.

  “How can you say such a thing? You, the most honorable man I know, the kindest, the gentlest, most protective of brothers.”

  “You needn’t bother saying things you don’t mean simply to placate me, Jane. I’m a grown man. A viscount now, for God’s sake. And look at me.” He spread his arms wide. “Just look at what a mess I’ve made of myself.”

  Jane shook her head so vigorously that one chestnut lock escaped its binding and fell across her flushed cheek. “I see a man who’s suffered ill fortune, who’s been falsely accused and maligned. Yet through it all, you’ve maintained your dignity, your honor. You’ve married an exceptional woman—a woman who loves you, Colin.”

  “She doesn’t love me.”

  “Of course she does. Are you really so blind?”

  “She might have loved me once, but no more.”

  “Balderdash. Surely you’ve not done anything quite so egregious as to—”

  “But I have.” He rose on unsteady legs, despising his weakness. “If you only knew what I’ve done....” He shook his head.

  “Tell me, Colin,” Jane urged, her voice soft. She clasped both his hands in her own warm ones. “Tell me just what you’ve done, and let me be the judge.”

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. “The night I was tossed from White’s, I’d won a parcel of land in Scotland from the Marquess of Hampton. Land that borders Brenna’s Castle Glenbroch, it turns out.”

  “That would seem quite fortuitous, then.”

  “No, hear me out. I promised Brenna, long before we wed, that the land would remain safe, that I’d never clear it. I gave her my word as a gentleman, and she passed on my assurances to Hampton’s tenants.”

  Jane’s eyes widened in horror. “No, Colin. No. Please say you did not.”

  “Clear it? No. I hadn’t the chance. Just after father died, I managed to find myself gambling in the back room of some seedy East End establishment. Lost an appalling amount of money that night, and then, when I was all but done up, it seems I offered up the land in Scotland. I don’t even remember doing it, I was so foxed.”

  “And you lost it,” Jane hissed, dropping his hands. “You lost it, didn’t you?”

  “It would seem so. As I said, I have no memory of it, none whatsoever.”

  “You stupid, stupid fool.” Jane pounded one fist on the desk.

  “I appreciate the sentiment, Jane. Harold Mifflin is now the rightful owner of the property, and he’ll no doubt clear it. Right under Brenna’s nose. She’ll never forgive me, never trust me again. And who could blame her?”

  Jane sighed heavily. “But you love her.”

  “Of course I bloody love her.”

  “And she loves you, I’m sure of it. You must go to her, beg for her forgiveness. Grovel if you must.”

  “No.”

  “God’s teeth, Colin, she might very well be carrying your child, your heir. Did you ever think of that?”

  No. No, he hadn’t. It was unlikely at best, as there had been only that once. “No, but it’s very unlikely. Despite what it seemed, I can assure you we did not get a head start on...er, on such matters. I can’t believe I’m discussing this with you.”

  “It would seem I’m all you have right now, Colin. You’ve acted abominably, it’s true. Still, I cannot help but love you.”

  He rose, enfolding his sister in his embrace. “You’re a generous woman, Jane Rosemoor. Kind and giving, and I would not trade you for the world.” He nearly choked on the words.

  “Nor I you, Colin,” Jane said, her voice muffled against his coat. “But I beg of you, give Brenna a chance. Let her decide if you are worthy of her love.”

  “Jane?” a voice called from the hall.

  Lucy. Jane stepped away from Colin, wiping her eyes with the back of one hand. “In here,” she called out cheerily.

  Colin reached down to straighten his waistcoat just as Lucy strode into the room, Mandeville behind her.

  “Oh, Colin, I’m so relieved you’re here.” A smile spread across Lucy’s face, lighting her emerald eyes. “Have you heard?”

  “Heard what?” Jane asked, mercifully allowing Colin to remain silent while he attempted to rein in his emotions.

  “Tell him, Henry. Oh, it’s marvelous news, simply marvelous.”

  Mandeville nodded. “I’ve just come from White’s where I spoke at length to Mr. Montgomery. Some interesting facts have come to light, it would seem.”

  “Go on,” Jane urged, settling into the wide wing chair Colin had only recently vacated.

  Mandeville continued. “It would seem a waiter came forward just last night and confessed his involvement in a scheme perpetrated by Thomas Sinclair. Said he was paid to plant a card in your pocket, if I remember correctly, by none other than Sinclair. Apparently he had sufficient evidence in the form of payments made to him to convince Mr. Montgomery that he spoke the truth.

  “Being a gentleman’s gentleman, Mr. Montgomery went to Sinclair at once with the evidence. Sinclair, of course, refused to take the blame alone. He claimed Hugh Ballard to be the mastermind behind the plan, even going so far as to assert he’d been threatened with physical harm had he not complied with Ballard’s demands.”

  “I cannot believe it,” Jane exclaimed, her eyes shining brightly.

  Colin only nodded, though his heart began to accelerate.

  “Tell the rest, Henry,” Lucy prodded.

  Mandeville straightened his cravat. “Thoroughly annoyed that such a deception had played out in White’s hallowed halls, Mr. Montgomery called upon the Duke of Glastonbury at once, informing the man that he had, in fact, not been cheated by you, but that Sinclair and Ballard had been the perpetrators of mischief. Suffice it to say, Sinclair and Ballard have both been permanently removed from White’s, and you, Rosemoor, have been reinstated. The Duke of Glastonbury wasted no time in publicly declaring his disdain for Ballard and Sinclair, and, as we speak, the news is now making its way around Mayfair.”

  “You’ve been cleared,” Lucy said, clapping her hands together delightedly.

  Colin let out his breath in a rush. Dear God, could it really be true? “Why would this waiter come forward now, after all this time?”

  Mandeville shrugged. “Seems he’d required further payment from Sinclair in order to keep his silence, and Sinclair eventually got tired of paying. Figured no one would take the word of a mere waiter over his, anyway, so he cut the man off. Clearly, Sinclair underestimated Mr. Montgomery. Who, by the way, has requested that I pass on his deepest apologies and who will no doubt be calling upon you shortly. He’s prepared to make a public acknowledgment of your innocence.”

  Jane turned toward Coline, nearly grinning. “It’s just as Colin said it was, and now everyone will know the truth. I must go tell Mother at once.”

  So it was true. He’d been entirely cleared. Sinclair and Ballard had been exposed. He’d expected to feel joyous at this moment—relieved, vindicated. Instead, he felt nothing. Numb.

  Chapter 23

  Colin sat, in his shirtsleeves, slumped in the leather chair behind his desk, staring unseeing at the walls of his study. Mr. Montgomery had come and gone, and he was now officially reinstated at White’s. Yet the pleasure of his vindication was fleeting. What was he to do now?

  Pretend the events of the past few months had never transpired? Return to the life he left behind? No, it would never do. He was not the same man he had been then. The very idea of whiling away his days at his club no longer appealed to him. Without the distraction offered by drinking and gaming, how would he spend his days while awaiting his wife’s return? He could, of course, heed Jane’s advice and go after her—demand that she accompany him home. Only she was quite likely to refuse him, and he was far too big a coward to face that certainty at the present.

  With a heavy sigh of defeat, he dropped hi
s head into his hands. Damn it all to hell, he had been cleared, his honor restored. His life was finally turning about. He was a peer of the realm now, his finances solvent. He had property, prestige. A name without blight. A wife he adored.

  Yet she despised him, he reminded himself. With good reason.

  “Lord Rosemoor?”

  Colin looked up in surprise at the butler standing in the doorway, a white card in his outstretched hand.

  “Pardon me, Lord Rosemoor, but you have a visitor.”

  Colin nearly looked over his own shoulder, expecting his father to be there, before it dawned on him that he was Lord Rosemoor now.

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Penwick. A visitor, you say?”

  “Indeed. A Mr. Randolph Lyttle-Brown.”

  Lyttle-Brown? What the deuce could he want with him? For a moment he thought to refuse him an audience. Yet curiosity got the best of him, and he found himself shrugging into his coat and following Penwick across the entry hall and into the sitting room.

  Mr. Lyttle-Brown had helped himself to a glass of port and stood leaning against the sideboard with glass in hand when Colin entered.

  “Ah, Mr. Rosemoor. How very good to see you. I must apologize for our last meeting. Shameful business what Sinclair and Ballard did to you. Shameful, indeed.”

  “Quite so,” Colin agreed coldly.

  “I vow, I never truly believed it of you.” He took a hearty swig of port, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Not Colin Rosemoor, I said, on more than one occasion.”

  “Is that so?” Colin asked. “Interesting, as my memory of our last meeting would prove otherwise. I distinctly remember you forbidding me from keeping your daughter’s company ever again.”

  Lyttle-Brown waved one hand in dismissal. “Oh, that. You must understand, I had my daughter’s reputation to think of, and with what they were saying about you...” He shook his head as he stroked his whiskers. “My only daughter, you know. A true gem.”

  “Ah, yes,” Colin said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “A diamond of the first water.”

  “I’m glad you think so, son. Oh, but you must excuse me. I should no doubt call you ‘sir’ now that you have been made a viscount, shouldn’t I?”

  Colin shrugged, remaining silent and fixing the man with a glare. He didn’t care what he called him. He only wished he’d state his business and be on his way.

  Lyttle-Brown cleared his throat. “Ahem, yes. Well. You must see what a bind I’m in now, my precious daughter promised to Hugh Ballard. Falsely impugning a gentleman’s honor.” He shook his head. “He’s done up for certain, never to be trusted again. I’ve come to you with a proposition, one that I hope you will consider.”

  “Pray, go on,” Colin bit out.

  “I’ve heard rumors that your wife has abandoned you.”

  A flush climbed up Colin’s neck. “Abandoned me? Is that what they are saying? That she abandoned me?”

  “You’ll pardon me if I’ve been misinformed. I heard it from Lady Brandon not two days ago. Anyway, I spoke with my solicitors at length this morning, and they tell me there might be a loophole in which to extricate yourself. Your wife signed your marriage license as ‘Brenna Maclachlan,’ did she not? Brenna Maclachlan of Glenbroch, Scotland.”

  “That’s how she wished to sign it. She was raised at Glenbroch. A Maclachlan all her life.” Even as Colin said the words, an uncomfortable sensation washed over him. Had this been a calculated move on Brenna’s part? So that she could legally end their marriage if she so desired?

  “Yes, yes,” Lyttle-Brown said, waving one hand. “I see why she would wish to do so, though I do not understand why you would allow it. By the laws of England, she is Margaret Danville of Sussex, is she not? You will have no resistance to a legal annulment, and you’ve every right to seek one. Annul your marriage and marry Honoria. Take her to Gretna Green and be done with it as hastily as possible. I will pay you handsomely. Triple her original dowry, plus I will settle all of your debts.”

  Colin blanched. “Good God, man. Are you that desperate to rid yourself of your daughter?”

  “I am that eager to see her married well,” Lyttle-Brown corrected. “She is distraught—terribly distraught—with her current situation and is angry that I forced it upon her. It’s you she wants—you she wanted all along. Besides, I’m well aware you could use the funds, despite your recent inheritance. Rid yourself of this so-called wife, this barbaric Scotswoman who left you mere days after your wedding. Marry Honoria, a fine, gently bred English girl, a favorite of the ton. It will be as if this whole dreadful business with Ballard and Sinclair never happened, and you will have exactly what you desired all along. Say you’ll at least consider it.”

  Colin stared blankly at the man standing before him. An annulment? Blast it, but the man was correct. There were grounds for an annulment, if the courts decided she had signed a false name and place of residence. The thought had never before crossed his mind.

  “Well?” Lyttle-Brown prodded. “What say you?”

  “Leave me.” Colin took a step back from the man, unable to say any more. He needed time—time to sort out his thoughts, to decide what course his life might take.

  “Of course, you’ll need some time. A day or two, no more. I’d like this settled as soon as possible.”

  “Leave!” Colin shouted, pointing toward the door.

  With a nod, Lyttle-Brown set down his glass. “I’ll expect to hear from you shortly,” he said, then bowed sharply before taking his leave.

  Blast the man. Colin struck his palm against the sideboard. A barbarian, he’d called Brenna, while his own daughter was a gem—a gently bred English girl, exactly the type Colin had always pictured by his side. Everything he’d ever desired, Lyttle-Brown had said. His honor restored, his coffers full, acceptance into the most hallowed social circles in Mayfair. A viscountess adored by one and all. Yes, that had been what he’d always wanted, hadn’t it? Perhaps Lyttle-Brown had the right of it.

  His chest tight with anger, he made his way back to his study, slamming the door behind him. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he paced a circuit before the cold fireplace. Back and forth he strode, thinking of nothing save the fact that Brenna had left him. Left him. He had all but begged her to stay, and she had left, anyway.

  At once his gaze fell upon a large, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper, leaning against the wall behind his desk. What the devil?

  He bent down to retrieve it, his brows drawing together as he noted his name written on a white card attached to the parcel. Jane’s neat, precise hand. Ripping the card from the paper, he turned it over in his palm. Nothing. He shrugged. Picking up the parcel, he measured its weight with his hands. Light. It felt like a canvas. He set it back down on the desk and stared at it for several seconds, oddly fearful of what the paper might hide.

  Unable to bear the suspense, he at last nodded to himself. Tentatively, he reached for one edge of the paper and pulled. White canvas peeked out, exposed at the corner. Had Jane bought him a painting? Curious. And more curious still, why did he feel as if his life hung in the balance as he exposed it? Shrugging away the sense of unease, he reached down and ripped away the paper in one long stroke.

  He gasped, unable to do anything but stare at the sight before him. Brenna. His heart began to race; his palms dampened. He blinked several times, the image swimming in and out of focus before his very eyes. A painting of Brenna, and a remarkable likeness at that. She reclined in a white wrought-iron chair, surrounded by greenery, a deep-blue flower tucked behind one ear. A faint smile tipped the corners of her mouth—a mysterious smile. Her eyes, the color of the sea, appeared sleepy, bored, perhaps. The pose was languorous, alluring, her expression nothing if not sensual. Bloody hell, but she was beautiful. Much more so than Honoria, despite her classic pert, blond looks. Truly, there was no comparison as far as he was concerned.

  Barbaric? No. Rough around the edges, perhaps. Intelligent. Capable. Accomplished in
ways that went far beyond the talents suited to the drawing room alone. Brenna was far more loyal, more civilized than those of the ton—those who changed their allegiance on the whim of gossip, who cared more for appearance than for substance, who would betray a friend or sister to satisfy their own desires.

  Yes, perhaps a woman like Honoria would once have satisfied him, would have represented everything he’d ever wanted in life. But that was the old Colin. The Colin who drank too much, who gambled too recklessly, lived too carelessly. Then Brenna had come into his life and set his very existence on end. She’d made him want to be a better man, a stronger man. A man of substance.

  Almost reverently, he picked up the painting and set it on the mantel, then took several steps backward, his gaze never leaving the image of her face. He realized at once he would do anything to earn her love. It mattered not where they lived, Scotland or England. As long as they were together, he could be that man he aspired to be.

  His eyes filled with tears, and yet he felt no shame for them, not this time. He would set things to rights with his wife—now. Not tomorrow, not in a fortnight. On this very day he’d begin to right the wrongs. He knew what he had to do. Mandeville would no doubt aid him in any way he could. Hell, Mandeville owed him. Colin had helped Mandeville and Lucy find their happy ending—now Mandeville would return the favor.

  Taking one last, longing look at the painting, he nodded to himself, then turned and headed for the door, smiling broadly. First things first. There was a deed to some property in Scotland to buy back. Oh, it would no doubt cost him dearly. He’d sell off every last thing he owned if it came to that. But the end result would surely be worth it. She was worth it.

  There were no guarantees, of course. He’d be forced to risk his heart once more. God only knew she had every reason to reject him—again. To flay open his heart and trample it. But for once in his life he’d do something utterly brave, completely courageous.

  He reached for his tall beaver hat and tipped it onto his head, then let himself out onto the walk where the sun shone down brightly upon him. This time Colin Rosemoor would win his fair maiden. He’d make damn sure of it.