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15
Bram looked down at his hands, the knuckles cracked and bleeding from the previous day at Hagerty’s. Thankfully, his gloves would hide the worst of it.
Leaving Rosalind in the park the other day, still flushed from her climax and spitting her objection to him, had left Bram feeling raw and broken. He’d gone home and, no matter that it was midmorning, had proceeded to work his way through an excellent bottle of scotch.
Bram prided himself on being able to maintain his charming demeanor even through the worst circumstances, but the thread had snapped. His emotions had threatened to boil over. The remainder of the day, as Watkins had hovered over him like a worried mother and Bijou had watched him with mournful eyes, Bram had considered why he refused to simply walk away from Rosalind.
One thing was certain—he had never felt for either of his wives what he did for her. Bram couldn’t even describe thisyearningfor Rosalind. It was beyond his ability to do so.
More than desire. More than companionship. More than a shared happiness over warm kitchens and the ability to make a proper trifle.
He had his friends. His family. His hobbies. A warm bed partner when he wished it. If something was missing from his life, or if there were times when he felt his solitude more acutely than others, Bram reminded himself he was luckier than most. His life was peaceful. Content. He was wealthy. Titled. There were worse ways to spend the remainder of his days. And if he felt lonely, well, he had Bijou. Until he’d seen Rosalind standing before the window at Thrumbadge’s, digging through books on the wild goose chase he’d sent her on, Bram hadn’t understood he wasn’t completely happy.
“Are you sure, my lord, that you shouldn’t stay at home this evening?” Bram’s valet, Johnson, moved around him like a small planet orbiting the sun, brushing off a bit of lint here and there. The valet was staring pointedly at Bram’s eye.
“I’m expected,” he answered. “My eye isn’t so bad.” There was nothing to be done about the slight puffiness around his left eye or the small bit of purplish bruise beneath it. The very edge of his lip was cut but barely noticeable. There was a slight chance no one at Lady Richardson’s dinner table would notice his injuries. Margarite and Hertfort, both of whom knew of Bram’s affinity for taking out his frustrations in the boxing ring, would know exactly what had happened, but aside from shooting him looks of disapproval, they were unlikely to comment.
Bram left Johnson and made his way downstairs, strangely light of heart considering the marks O’Leary had left on him. It was the knowledge he would soon see Rosalind, Bram guessed. He missed her even when she was disparaging him. Especially then.
Stung by a bee?
Bram stepped into his carriage for the short ride to Lady Richardson’s, settling back against the leather.
Possibly.But a bee wouldn’t have caused a bruise. Bram drummed his fingers against one thigh.
Fell off my horse?
Bram was an excellent horseman. He hadn’t lost his seat since he was little more than a boy. No one would believe that. Margarite might even laugh out loud if Bram gave that as the reason for his swollen eye.
Tripped over Bijou?
Hmm. That seemed acceptable. Made him look like a bloody idiot, but he doubted anyone would question him further. Bijou was always underfoot. He carefully touched the area around his eye, wincing slightly.
Watkins had helped him ice the area rather well, but the puffiness and the bruise remained. His butler had had the audacity to suggest he was getting too old to be visiting Hagerty’s.
Bram had replied that Watkins might be getting too old to bebutlering.
They had parted ways, an uneasy peace between them, but Bram stood a good chance of being locked out of his own house tonight, and no lamp left burning.
A short time later, he was shown into the foyer of Lady Richardson’s home, the butler, Jacobson, making every effort not to look at or even notice Bram’s injury. He failed miserably.
“Lord Torrington.” Jacobson announced his arrival as they reached the drawing room.
His Grace, the Duke of Averell stood off to the side, surveying Bram with a raised brow before greeting him. The duke and he were acquainted, though not as well as he’d led Rosalind to believe. He wasn’t sure whether Rosalind would ask the duke to intercede on her behalf and break the betrothal to Bram, which is why he’d visited Averell himself. He needn’t have bothered. Lady Richardson had already paid a call on her relation to inform him Rosalind would be wedding the Earl of Torrington. She must also have related other pertinent facts because Averell had also been aware that Rosalind had been compromised and that she had discreetly gone into trade with a baker.
Bram made a note to never, in the future, underestimate Lady Richardson.
After the duke’s greeting, Torrington was introduced to the Duchess of Averell, a tiny, dark-haired thing, rumored to be a brilliant pianist who had Averell wrapped around her pinky finger. Averell did not stray, so the rumor was likely true, much to the dismay of London’s female population.
The stunning older woman in a wealth of pewter gray was the Dowager Duchess of Averell. Bram had made her acquaintance previously at some function or another before the death of her husband. Next to her, back ramrod straight, hands perfectly clasped in her lap, perched a slender young lady. She was introduced to Bram as Miss Olivia Nelson, ward of the dowager. Miss Nelson was the granddaughter of the Earl of Daring. How she had come to be raised by the Barringtons and not her grandfather was a source of speculation in London society because Daring’s dislike of the Barringtons, particularly the dowager duchess, was well known.
The only person left in the room awaiting an introduction was the young lady with the bold, assured gaze. Lady Phaedra Barrington. There was gossip she liked to accompany the duke to Elysium in the absence of his brother Leo Murphy, which would be horribly scandalous if it were true. A bet had been made in Elysium’s Red Book about what sort of disaster the youngest Barrington would drag her family into. Some of the choices included ruination, the wearing of men’s clothing in public, dueling—because the gossips said Lady Phaedra had taken up fencing—or general misadventure of some sort.
Bram voted for general misadventure. Lady Phaedra didn’t have the look of someone who would settle for anything ordinary. If the duke was wise, he’d wed his youngest sister off as soon as she made her debut, though given what he’d heard of her personality, Bram wasn’t sure what sort of gentleman would take on Lady Phaedra.
Rosalind, his brazen baker, was not present in the drawing room. Perhaps she’d fled after all. He thought it likely she’d go to France if she ran away, though she didn’t speak the language. She would look for another copy of the cookbook and find some corner in which to make her pastries.
He greeted his sister Margarite with a peck on the cheek, ignoring her pointed frown at the condition of his eye. Bram waited for Rosalind to appear, half-listening to his brother-in-law. Hertfort was pontificating on the bill he was sponsoring in Parliament.
