Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)
“Your memory of that time is, of course, spotty,” Charles continued, “and doubtless you’ve forgotten your drunken appearance at Tattersall’s. You informed all and sundry that Harry Merton was the depraved head of the Heavenly Host. I believe your accusations were extremely colorful, and most of them were, unfortunately, true. However, degenerate though he was, he did not eat cats and dogs, he didn’t commit treason, and he most assuredly not have sexual congress with his sister.”
“Jesus Christ,” Brandon said, shutting his eyes for a pained moment.
“Don’t compound things with blasphemy,” Charles snapped. “Of course people professed that they didn’t believe a word, but then, when so many of the grotesque things you were ranting about were proven true, no one was ever certain about Miss Bonham. She was ruined.”
Brandon opened his eyes. He managed a shrug. “For all I know it could have been true. I remember very little of that time, but enough re
mains that I know Harry Merton was capable of anything.”
Charles had puffed out his chest a bit, clearly knowing victory within his grasp. “A woman accused of such an abomination would, of course, be considered unmarriageable, and that’s your fault. Society wouldn’t mind if it was the truth, wouldn’t even mind gossip, but having it put out there so publicly makes her position untenable. She’s been living in seclusion ever since.”
“Why can’t she stay in seclusion? She has as little enthusiasm for this marriage as I do.” It was a last attempt at escape, and he knew it would fail.
“You know English laws of inheritance as well as I do. The estate was relatively simple—when Harry Merton died the title went back to the crown, and the estate will follow if Miss Bonham doesn’t marry by age twenty-five. She’ll be destitute, disgraced, with no hope of a decent marriage.”
Brandon tried one last time, knowing Charles was about to open the trap door beneath him. “I’m surprised you consider me a “decent” marriage prospect, Charles. This is not my concern. If you want I can settle any sum of money on her—hell, she can have it all. I just won’t marry her. That, or I have little doubt that Benedick could do something about her legal situation. You know how insidiously clever he can be.”
“You think money her will solve the problem? You think everyone wouldn’t find out, further blackening her reputation? You’re to blame for this, Brandon. Be a man and face your responsibilities. Stop shaming our parents.”
He heard the trap door squeak, and he knew he was lost. He could keep arguing, or he could accept the inevitable. He had destroyed so many things with his willful self-pity and nihilism, his weakness. Be a man, Charles said. This was one small way he could atone.
“And she wants this?” he said in a dead voice. “Even after she’s seen my face?”
Charles had the sense not to show his triumph. “She wants this.”
The trapdoor opened, and Brandon dropped through. “Then make the arrangements. I want to be back in Scotland by Easter.”
Chapter 10
Emma made the mistake of running. After the brief respite the rain was coming down more heavily, and she’d neglected to borrow a cape from the Dower House, but she paid it no mind, racing across the fields as fast as she could until her clumsy boots caught her up, and she went sprawling in the mud.
For a moment she lay there, her eyes closed, listening to the breath rasping in her lungs, the heart pounding against her breast. She could feel the icy rain pelting her, soaking through her layers of clothing, chilling her to the bone, and she knew she had to get up, brush herself off, keep moving, but she lay face down, wondering if she were ever going to be able to cry again.
It didn’t seem likely. Her eyes were hard and dry, her jaw set, and she rolled over onto her back, letting the rain pelt down on her body, rinsing some of the dirt from her face, filling her dry eyes with the water she couldn’t produce herself. It was dark overhead, angry gray-black clouds swirling above, and there was no way the storm was going to pass anytime soon. She had no choice but to drag herself to her feet and make her way homeward.
She started slow, sitting up first, staring down at her muddy self in disgust. She’d brought two dresses, one for day, one for evening, knowing that despite all her protests Melisande would have new clothes waiting for her. It was a true luxury to have so many dresses, and she always felt guilty for accepting them, but the ability to put on fresh clothes everyday was something that was worth a little guilt. Fortunately, Melisande understood her austere tastes and the dresses were elegant, classic, and demure, devoid of ornamentation and immodest lines. Ever since Brandon had arrived she’d taken to wearing her work clothes, shapeless and drab, rather than the prettier clothes that hung in the wardrobe, but that wouldn’t be possible tonight. This dress was a disaster, and the other one had a large rip under the arm. Dresses weren’t made for ladies to move their arms, to reach for things, to exert pressure, and she was forever pulling seams. The dresses Melisande ordered for her corrected that problem, but she couldn’t bring herself to wear them in the blood and sweat and even excrement that filled her days at Temple Hospital.
She slowly got to her feet, looking around her. She’d instinctively taken the short cut, but with the heavy rains she could barely see ten feet ahead, and the path was a trail of mud, slippery and dangerous.
She should go back—she knew it—and seek shelter at the Dovecote, in the arms of Mollie Biscuits and the others. They could make her laugh when everything was grim, they could remind her how lucky she was that she’d managed to climb out of the trap the others were still struggling with.
But the Dower House was out of sight, and she had no idea whether she was closer to the main house or the Dovecote. Starlings was a massive estate, and whoever had built the Dower House had clearly needed to keep his wife and his mother far apart, since they were situated at opposite ends of the demesnes. If she went back she might still have to face the others, people who had seen too much and doubtless surmised too much. With her appalling luck Brandon might still be there, waiting for the rain to let up.
Why hadn’t he stayed away? He should have made his escape—what had brought him back? She’d been sure she could simply let go of him, now that she’d seen him. She’d known he’d gone up to Scotland after the Heavenly Host was brought down, and she’d subtly managed to ferret out the information that he was healing, both body and soul, and getting stronger every day. She would be content picturing him up there among the crags and bluffs, the crabby old Noonan watching out for him.
But he’d come back, come back to a fiancée! Why had no one told her he was engaged, why had that girl burst into tears, what in God’s name was happening? Everything seemed unreal, as if the ground had shifted beneath her, and she needed time and quiet to sort things out.
If he was to be married then that should solve any problems she might have, not that she was admitting to any, mind you. She should be grateful for the arrival of Miss Bonham, but something felt faintly off about the whole thing, or maybe that was simply wishful thinking.
She was going to have to face all this when she got back to Starlings. Whether he had a fiancée or not couldn’t be of any possible consequence to her, but it mattered, even if she wished it didn’t. She would make Melisande clarify the situation, then head back to London, never to think of him again.
The sudden crack of thunder made her jump. God was calling her a liar, was He? She was made of sterner stuff than that, she thought, and plowed onward.
She was not, however, blessed with the ability to see through heavy sheets of rain. Water was running in rivulets across the ground, and there was no way she could simply sit down and wait, and enough of her country upbringing remained that she knew she couldn’t seek shelter under a tree when there was lightning about. All she could do was slog onward and hope for the best, something she had little talent for.
With the capriciousness of English weather, the rain stopped as suddenly as it had started, and she stumbled in surprise. She was by the footbridge that Rosie had mentioned, and as the heavy, roiling clouds parted, a shaft of sunlight speared down at her, turning the water drops into sparkling crystals on her clothes, on the trees, on the narrow bridge. She paused, looking up into the sky, and sure enough there was a double rainbow, the colors bright and clear. It almost looked as if it ended in the general area of the Dower House, and she felt herself begin to calm. . .
A heavy hand clamped on her shoulder, yanking her around to face him, and she felt panic sweep through her, certain that Brandon had caught up with her. The reality was marginally better.