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Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

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She had slowly turned to stone at his abrupt words. Stone, with a ripped-up, bleeding heart inside. “I thought I explained to you, Lord Brandon, that I was no longer for sale.”

She saw him blink, but instead of offense she saw a flash of humor. “Oh, I had no intention of paying you, Mrs. Cadbury.” He returned tit for tat. “I rather thought you might like it.”

Her expression could be withering indeed, and she gave him the full benefit of it. “Clearly you rate your attractions a bit too highly, my lord. If performing such services are not worth the money that’s usually offered then I would hardly be tempted to perform them for free.”

She could have remained cold and offended and walled off, except that he smiled at her, and for the first time she saw a glimpse of the old Brandon, the wounded soul who had made light of his grievous injuries, the young man who teased and enchanted her. “Now that’s definitely going too far, sweet Emma,” he said. “’Lord Brandon’ is bad enough, ‘my lord’ is impossibly stuffy. And I could most definitely change your mind,” he added softly, and his low voice beneath the hum of conversation made her flesh heat. “Have you forgotten this afternoon so quickly?”

It was instinctive, a bad move, but she didn’t stop to think, she simply kicked him, hard, under the table, and then let out a little yelp of pain. He was wearing riding boots, the bastard, and her soft slippers only did damage to her own foot.

He made a soft, disapproving noise, his eyes still alight with mischief. “Temper, Emma,” he chided. “You don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.”

“What wrong idea?” she whispered fiercely. “That I kicked you? I don’t care who knows it—my mere existence is already considered highly inappropriate. I could hardly make things worse with my behavior.”

There was a faint softening in his expression, and it was even more painful than his mockery. “Emma. . .” he began gently, but she interrupted him.

“Say one more word to me, Lord Brandon, and I will spill my water in your lap.”

His humor was back. “A cooling off might prove beneficial.” He glanced down at his lap, and before she could stop herself she did the same. Oh, he was a gorgeous man, with those narrow hips, long legs, his. . .

She jerked her eyes away, then reached out and picked up her water, contemplating it meaningfully. “Your supposed injury isn’t going to pass muster if you keep finding yourself in that condition,” she said dryly.

She heard his soft laugh. “Don’t worry—it only happens when I’m around you,” and in the next minute he was deep in conversation with the matron on his left, dismissing her.

The rest of the meal passed in a painful blur. He never addressed another word to her, nor glanced her way as far as she could tell, though it seemed to her fanciful mind that she could feel his eyes on her. Every now and then she stole a glance at Frances Bonham, trying to imagine her with Brandon. Trying to imagine her in bed with him, beneath his large, strong body, taking him inside her, reveling in the act.

No, that was unlikely. Miss Bonham was small and slight and easily frightened—she would not be eager for bedsport. Brandon would force himself on her on their wedding night, but at least then he’d probably leave her alone.

It didn’t matter that she couldn’t really see Brandon forcing anyone. In fact, she couldn’t even imagine that he’d ever had the need to. With his deep, rich voice, his gorgeous eyes, his strength and power he probably had wo

men throwing themselves at him. His ruined beauty would be an aphrodisiac to a discerning woman—she imagined he’d been simply too pretty before he’d gone to war. She knew men—it had once been her business—and she knew he’d be a good lover, a generous one, the kind of man who found little pleasure if his partner didn’t. During the years she’d spent on her back she’d never run into that sort of customer, but the other girls had, or so they swore, and indeed, a number of them had tried to stop charging their favorites.

Emma rubbed her head. It was throbbing, though whether from the blow or something else she wasn’t quite sure, and she wanted to go back to bed and bury herself in the covers. She’d had such hopes for this week—a quiet time with Melisande’s family, playing with the children, walking in the woods for exercise, taking Benedick’s favorite, smelly old spaniel with her for company. Instead she’d found rain and Brandon Rohan, and Brandon was definitely the worse of those two trials. She’d be better off in the city.

Melisande wouldn’t fight her any longer. At least this would put paid to any fantasies her best friend might harbor. A man would never cry off from an engagement, particularly not a good man, and she was convinced that beneath everything Brandon was a very good man.

There was no doubt in Emma’s mind that Miss Bonham would accept him. She had always been an expert of eliciting gossip—it was an important part of her former trade. She knew all about the young woman’s reputation, about her brother, she even knew about the legalities that tied up her inheritance. Men talked to their whores, and women talked among themselves. No, Frances Bonham had come here, accepted him, despite being completely spineless and terrified.

Emma immediately felt wicked. Despite Miss Bonham’s very rational fear of Brandon, she had accepted his haphazard suit. She was braver than she seemed. She wouldn’t cast him off lightly, and she didn’t to be judged.

Emma barely touched her food, pushing it around on her plate with desultory disinterest. Usually she was blessed with a healthy appetite, particularly in London when she was working. Missing a meal or two would do her no harm.

She looked up suddenly, and her eyes met Melisande’s speaking ones across the table. The men on either side of her had broken protocol in the face of her abstraction—Brandon listening with polite interest as the matron described her eligible daughters, and the elderly knight next to her attentive to the woman who’d accompanied Frances Bonham, who presumably was accompanying her into her marriage as well. It left Emma in a quiet sort of bubble, free to observe, free to feel sorry for herself, she thought with a fair amount of mockery. Melisande’s bright blue eyes were troubled, and there was a tightness to her usually full mouth that signaled her distress as they looked at each other across the table.

Abruptly Melisande rose, causing a flurry of scraping chairs and clanking silverware. By rights she should have waited until the last course was removed, and normally the husband would then dismiss his wife and her female friends so they could smoke cigars and drink port and crack nuts.

Emma was fond of walnuts and white port, and she found the scent of cigar smoke oddly comforting, but no lady was allowed in the sacrosanct dining room once they’d been dismissed. It was different when it came to whores, and she’d worked two such gatherings in the past. Her own memories were far from pleasant, but there’d been something enticing about the ritual, at least, until she and her friends were put into play.

She shuddered. “We’ll have dessert in the salon,” Melisande was saying, her lush mouth tight with anger. “You gentlemen may enjoy your various indulgences. . .” and to Emma’s horror she cast a fulminating gaze at Brandon. To Emma’s relief the man beside her either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

Trying to extricate herself from between the two gentlemen, she momentarily found herself trapped. The knight was stolid and unmoving, his back to her as he conversed with Miss Bonham’s friend, but Brandon Rohan was standing, looking down at her, making no effort to pull out her chair or guide her from the table as the other gentlemen did.

She knew the rules of society—her family had been seemingly proper, and the rituals of the upper class had been simple to assimilate. Brandon was flaunting the rules, his big body trapping her.

She knew how to behave, but she also knew that at least half of polite society didn’t feel similarly obligated when it came to her. Melisande’s house had usually been a safe place, and if, for a scant moment, she considered whether Brandon was treating her as the vicar and his ilk did, she dismissed it. Brandon didn’t a damn who she was or what she had been, which was both a relief and . . . something else she refused to name.

She looked at him, wondered if kicking him at this vantage point would have any more effect. Probably not. “If you please, Lord Brandon,” she said in a cool voice.

He still didn’t move, looking at her, his expression totally unreadable, and he gave that cynical half smile, and shrugged. “Of course, Mrs. Cadbury,” he said, pulling the heavy chair out of her way so she could join the other ladies. She moved quickly, her skirts brushing against his long legs, and to her shock she felt his fingers close around her wrist, just for a moment, slowing her pace, and she felt his thumb stroke the inside of her wrist, where her blood was hammering wildly. “That’s better,” he murmured, and releasing her, he turned away.



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