Page 57 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

“I don’t want to see you again, Bramwell, and you may tell George to expect the same treatment. Stay away from us. I want none of you, and we certainly have no interest in your money.”

He looked at Bunty, saw her eyes shining with admiration, and with belief in him.

“We don’t need it,” he added.

She smiled at him and squeezed his hand.

Bramwell sent him a look of pure loathing, one hand clutching a handkerchief to his nose, which was bleeding profusely. Middleton, efficient as ever, had hailed a hackney and helped Bramwell inside. He hesitated before moving back to Ludo.

“Come and see me, my lord. As soon as you may. It’s important.”

Ludo opened his mouth to say he wouldn’t go anywhere near anyone associated with his family, but Middleton put a hand out, holding Ludo’s arm for a moment. From neat, balding, precise Middleton, this was so extraordinary that Ludo could only stare.

“Please,” he said urgently, and then hurried back to the hackney and got in.

Ludo was silent as they walked back home, and Bunty did not press him, aware that he needed a little quiet to gather himself. She held tight to his arm, though, so he knew she was with him, supporting him. Once again, she remembered the look on his face when he’d seen his oldest brother. He’d gone the most startling shade of white, his big frame rigid with tension. She’d known then, or at least she suspected she knew what kind of man Bramwell Courtenay, the Earl of Edgmond, was. He was the kind to inflict harm on those weaker than him and take pleasure in it. She could see it at once in those callous eyes, as lacking in feeling as a dead fish. It was in the cruelty of his thin lips, just as much as in his vile words and insinuations. It was in the way she had felt Ludo react, an instinct born of years of abuse at the hands of an older brother.

She imagined Ludo as a boy, all glorious tumbling black curls and big blue eyes, and then two brothers in Bramwell’s mould, and….

And the Marquess of Farringdon. Everyone knew of him. Everyone knew of the marquess and his cruelty, his vicious temper and his pride. How must a man like that have felt to have discovered himself a cuckold?

Oh, Ludo.

Her heart broke and she held tighter to his arm. It had been such a shock to see his fear. Ludo was so large, so vital and strong, so powerful. She’d read of his brawling, read of his skill in the boxing ring. One of Jackson’s favourites, he was a natural. All that beautiful strength that he had given her so wholeheartedly and with such tenderness, had been driven away with a few words from a man who must have tormented his childhood. She wanted to go back to Bramwell now, this instant, and… and….

Bunty sucked in a breath, startled by the violence of her own thoughts, the anger and the need for retribution. She had never in her life wanted to hurt someone, but… but Bramwell had hurt Ludo. Bramwell had been his big brother, a role that ought to at least be one of camaraderie, if not of protection. And instead….

“Bunty?”

Bunty blinked, looking up at Ludo’s appalled face, only then realising her eyes were wet with tears.

“Oh, God, Bunty, I’m so sorry. I should not have let him speak to you so. I… I should have—”

She reached up and pressed a finger to his lips. “You did. You were admirable. I’m so proud of you. Now do open the door and let us go inside. The snow is falling heavier, I think.”

Bunty watched as he fumbled for the key, letting them in. He seemed a little lost, uncertain, and she took off his overcoat, guided him to a chair and made him sit down as she stoked the fire back to life and put a kettle on for tea. She hung up wet things and pulled off his boots as the kettle sang. Calmed by routine, she poured tea, putting a cup into his hand, dosed heavily with sugar.

He sipped and she watched him come back to himself. To her. Taking his empty cup, she put it down and sat in his lap. He sighed and wrapped his arms around her, laying his head against her shoulder as she stroked his hair, curling now, damp from the snow despite his hat.

“Tell me,” she said.

He did, haltingly at first, and then a tumble of words like water rushing over a cliff’s edge, eager for the fall, eager to rid himself of the memories and let them flow away.

Bunty heard it, all of it, stoic, not weeping, though she wanted to. She wanted to sob and rage and howl with fury, but she held it back, certain he would not want that. She held him, though, kissed him when she could no longer bear not to, smothered her anger and turned it into a caress. It was at once just as she had imagined, and far worse. When he was done, she did not move, aware that he was calm now, not wanting to disturb his tranquillity by doing or saying the wrong thing.

“It wasn’t all bad,” he said, squeezing her fingers.

She blinked hard as his face blurred, touched that he would want to reassure her, when he was the one who had lived it.

“Whilst my mother lived, I was protected and cosseted and loved. I do remember that. She told me about my real father.”

“The Italian count?”

He nodded.

“She would not run off with him because she did not want you to endure the scandal, yet she named you Ludovic? Like your father, Ludovico?” She tried to keep the censure from her voice, but failed.

He shrugged, his big shoulders rolling. “At first, she thought she’d got away with it, I think. I think she believed it would be her private joke. Yet it wasn’t long before it became clear I was not like my brothers, and the rumours flew. She believed she’d been discreet, yet someone knew. Someone always knows. She took me away then, ran away, more like.”