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5
What an evening.
Bram tossed his cloak to a waiting footman and proceeded directly to his study and his well-stocked sideboard, relieved to finally be home. Not only had he had to contend with Lady Carrington, who he’d agreed to escort weeks ago and instantly regretted the offer, but he’d very nearly kissed Miss Richardson against a poorly painted still life of pears.
She’d been so utterly delicious, standing there in the muted light of the hall, chin lifted, gorgeous mouth slightly parted. Her disappointment at not being kissed had been so evident, Bram had nearly capitulated. Then a horrified scream had filled the hallway.
The party, from that point forward, had all the makings of a Shakespearean tragedy.
Miss Richardson had gasped, covered her mouth, and gazed with determined panic down the hall from whence the scream had come. Worry had transformed her lovely features.
“Theodosia,”she’d whispered.
His lovely, plump little baker had pushed away from him without another thought, marching back to the drawing room to find Lady Richardson. Miss Richardson had whispered in her mother’s ear, causing Lady Richardson to tilt slightly before nodding with resignation. A short time later, Lady Blythe, like an enormous, blustering canary, had burst into the drawing room, whispering of ruination and the bold behavior of Theodosia Barrington with a shocking lack of discretion.
Lady Richardson had been sent for, her daughter trailing in her wake. When the Duke of Averell had appeared, strolling into Blythe’s home, grim-faced and shooting an icy glance to the remaining guests, Bram had thought it best to take his leave.
Lady Theodosia Barrington,beautiful half-blind young lady, had been ruined in Blythe’s study, butnotby Lord Blythe. The Marquess of Haven was the culprit, eliciting a round of shocked murmurs from Lady Blythe’s guests.
Bram wasn’t surprised because he’d been at the Duke of Granby’s house party. Theodosia had been so enamored of Blythe, she’d never noticed the large, slightly predatory male stalking her like a giant housecat following behind a mouse. Or possibly she couldn’t see Haven. Theodosia really needed to wear spectacles.
Oddly enough, Miss Richardson could also be accused of not seeing what was in front of her, namely Bram. Lady Carrington, for all her pouting and batting of eyes, had noticed to whom Bram’s attention had wandered. She had asked Lord Rivercrest, a recent widower, for a ride home with Bram’s blessing.
Is this the price for the custard recipe?
It wasn’t Lady Blythe’s scream that had stopped Bram from kissing Miss Richardson, but her question. Did shereallythink Bram was the sort of man who would require a kiss in return for a custard recipe?
He really must remedy her opinion of him.
Pouring himself a brandy, Bram flopped down in a chair before the fire. Watkins, his butler, ever attentive, appeared at the door. Taking a careful sip of the brandy, he let the warmth sink into his bones before craning his neck over the edge of the chair.
“Retire for the evening, Watkins.”
A disgruntled noise came from the butler.
“I insist. I’ve no need of anything further.” Bram rarely needed anything further. A houseful of servants for only one person, even if that person was an earl, often seemed extravagant to him. Privacy, the sort accorded to eccentrics and the like, Bram found much more desirable. The same had not been true for his second wife, Lizabet. She had adored being waited on hand and foot as if she were the queen or some other member of royalty.
His sister reminded Bram often that he was a titled lord and not some hermit living on a distant estate in the countryside. If it made him feel better, Margarite said, he was providing employment to those who needed it. Watkins, for example, was older than Bram and unlikely to find another position should he be dismissed. Margarite made a valid point, but Bram still missed the simplicity of his life before his father became the Earl of Torrington.
Bram’s eyes flickered over the thick packet from his solicitor. A detailed report on the search for an heir to replace Stanwell, a search which now stretched across the ocean to America. He doubted the team of men his solicitor had looking under every rock and tree would uncover another distant relation. The search was futile and a grand waste of money.
The other papers contained in the packet were far more important.
Another sip of brandy slid between his lips.
Bram hadn’t been a husband for a long time. Neither of his marriages had been satisfying, to either party, only brief. His first marriage had been over before it had actually begun, his wife dying of a fever barely three months after they’d wed. But it was his second marriage, to Lizabet, which had truly soured him on taking another wife. His union with Lizabet had been fraught with lies, disappointment, horrible arguments, and poor behavior. Bram had been madly in lust, though he’d mistaken it for love. Lizabet had demanded Bram dance attendance on her, and foolishly, he had. She’d been the most sought-after young lady that season, lauded for her beauty, her wit, and her intelligence. Bram had courted her with extravagant gifts. Carriage rides. He’d become the best patron of every flower vendor in London. When he’d realized Lizabet wasn’t a virgin on their wedding night, Bram had been surprised but accepting. But when she’d told him casually over a glass of sherry that she was with child barely a month after they’d wed, their relationship had become openly hostile, mainly because Bram had known it was too soon for the child to be his.
After that, Lizabet made no effort to hide her lovers from Bram or to justify her behavior. She left London shortly after their discussion for a holiday in the country. Lizabet, always dramatic, had claimed that Bram was nothing more than a rake who had tossed her aside once she became with child. A convenient tale which added to his mildly tattered reputation.
When the news reached him that Lizabet had died, her lover at her side, or at least one of them, Bram had felt nothing but immense relief that the marriage was over. He promised himself he would never, ever wed or go to such lengths for a woman again.
The memory of Lizabet no longer stung the way it once had, but the echo of their brief relationship had colored Bram’s existence for many years.
Bram’s gaze landed on the papers from his solicitor once more. His grip tightened on his brandy. And here he was, about to be foolish again.
A cold nose pressed into his hand followed by a small whimper.
“Ah, I wondered where you were, Bijou. You’re usually waiting up for me.” His hand fell to the dog’s head, sinking his fingers into the thick comfort of her fur. Bijou was of no discernable breed, just a large, black shaggy dog who preferred chicken over any other treat he gave her. She had been a puppy when he found her, ribs sticking out, limping along the side of the street as he left his club. Something in Bram’s heart had ached at the sight of the half-starved animal. He couldn’t leave her to die or be hit by a carriage.
