Benedick had already started down the stairs, reaching them midway and taking his brother’s other arm. There was a sweet smell clinging to him, mixing with the unmistakable smell of alcohol, and he wondered what the hell his baby brother had gotten into. “Wouldn’t approve of what, old boy?” he asked easily, looking at the blood. It was dried, and there was no head wound, which was a relief. And then he looked down at Brandon’s hand, the one which had seen war and despair, that had meted out death with grim certainty. There was a deep gash in his palm, still oozing blood.
Brandon followed his gaze, oddly alert despite the whiskey he could smell on him. “Don’t look so worried,” he said in an irritable voice. “Did it myself. ”
“Why?”
“None of your damned business, that’s why,” Brandon replied. He paused, looking around him, his eyes going out of focus. “I need my room,” he said abruptly.
“Are you going to be unwell, sir?” Richmond inquired anxiously. “I could bring you a basin. ”
“No Rohan would cast up his accounts—we come from a long line of degenerates—” And then he’d proceeded to get violently ill al
l over Benedick.
Which was enough to put anyone off the idea of sleeping. They’d managed to get Brandon’s nearly unconscious form into his bedroom, and he’d left him in Richmond’s care, not bothering with instructions to clean him up and bandage the hand. Richmond had taken care of him very well over the years—he didn’t need his master telling him his business.
Fortunately the noise had already roused a number of the staff, and it didn’t take long to get a hot bath to wash off Brandon’s excesses. By the time he’d finished it was already growing light outside, and he gave up the thought of sleep entirely.
It was just as well. Lack of sleep sharpened his intellect and destroyed any semblance of courtesy. He’d doubtless be such a bear that sweet Charity would develop a total disgust of him, and look elsewhere for a confederate. He would be better off investigating Brandon’s possible connection to the Heavenly Host on his own, without having to worry about anyone else.
Not that it was in his nature to worry about anyone, with the possible exception of his siblings. And Brandon had managed to get himself into a totally disreputable state while he was nowhere near the Elsmeres or any of the other possible members he’d talked with the night before, which made the connection less likely.
Today should put an end to any speculation. He would give Lady Carstairs such a disgust of him that she would refuse to even speak to him in the future, which would be better for both of them. Because she’d kissed him back. Inexpertly, to be sure, but she’d responded, and the sweetness of her momentary, unexpected response had been…distracting. And he’d already been distracted enough from his main goal.
No, today would put an end to it. Thank God.
It was a good thing she managed very well on only a few hours of sleep, Melisande thought over her second cup of strong tea. Because last night had been distressing, indeed.
It had started with Viscount Rohan, of course. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of his body pressed against hers, between her legs, the same and yet so different from the two other men who had once lain there. Of course last night they’d both been fully clothed, so she’d been able to notice things without being in a high state of anxiety over the indignities that were about to follow. She could feel the hardness of his chest against her breasts, the heavy rhythm of his heart. The hand that had held her wrists over her head, the other hand sliding up her leg, unfastening her garter with the practiced ease of a rake.
Author: Anne Stuart
She hadn’t wanted him to stop. That was the miserable, unacceptable truth, but she’d always prided herself on facing it, no matter how unpleasant. If they’d been somewhere else, if he’d been someone else, she would have succumbed faster than a leaf falls from a tree in autumn. His kiss, his vile, tonguing kiss, had been revelatory. Because she’d liked it. She could have gone on kissing him all night.
Not that he would have kissed her all night. She knew perfectly well that men kissed simply in order to inflict more indignities upon a woman, and that once they were done the best one could hope for was an affectionate pat on the cheek before the sod would roll over and fall asleep, dismissing her and her feelings from his consciousness….
She stopped herself, taking a deep breath. If she liked his kisses, more than she’d ever liked kisses before, did that mean she would also like what normally followed? She had the horrid suspicion that she might.
Which led her to an obvious conclusion. Celibacy might not be the best answer for every woman.
Oh, to be sure, someone like Benedick Rohan was the worst kind of choice a woman could make. Fortunately he was totally beyond her touch if she had any illusions in that direction. Her background was respectable but undistinguished, he was the scion of an old, if notorious, family. He would be a marquess eventually, and he would choose a very young virgin to be his marchioness, not a widow who was long in the tooth and most likely barren. Viscount Rohan was busy looking among the most beautiful of this year’s crop of marriageable ladies, and he didn’t have to consider fortune among his requirements. He could simply take the prettiest, most amenable one with a snap of the fingers, and she, and her parents, would come willingly. If she hadn’t distracted him with her charges’ problems, he probably would have already announced his engagement.
But she was hardly going to settle for a fortune hunter like Wilfred, if she did decide to marry again. Nor an old man like Thomas, no matter how dearly he’d loved her. No, she would want someone strong and young and yes, handsome. Someone to adore her, to devote himself to bringing her pleasure with the same kind of dedication Rohan brought to kissing. Was it too much to ask for?
Of course, men, even charming men, could turn into brutes. But surely not all of them? She needed to keep an open mind. She might have been hasty in dismissing the entire male gender. Perhaps there might be children in her future after all.
Emma Cadbury appeared in the door, worry creasing her beautiful face. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down opposite Melisande, managing a distracted smile. “That’s a very pretty riding habit,” she observed.
“It’s seven years out-of-date,” Melisande said, kicking at the long skirt. “Which is one reason why it’s a little too…a little too…”
“Attractive? Flattering?” Emma supplied dryly. “I don’t understand why you refuse to wear clothes that show your figure. The habit looks lovely on you—it brings out the blue in your eyes. There’s no reason why you can’t enjoy pretty clothes, Melisande. ”
“I don’t want to attract unwanted male attention. ”
“What about wanted male attention?”
Melisande flushed, hoping Emma couldn’t read her recent thoughts. “Is there such a thing?”
“Yes,” Emma said firmly. “And I suspect you’re beginning to realize it. You still haven’t told me how last evening went. ”