Even so, he was sure who was approaching the library in the dead of night. He knew with an absolute certainty that it was the woman who’d been preying on his mind since he first saw her.
Perhaps the mysterious Mrs. Emma Cadbury was simply another trick of fate, something to tempt him that he couldn’t touch. He had no right to be around any woman, and he knew it, but. for some reason he really, really wanted to touch her.
He didn’t move, not even when the door was pushed open and she stepped inside.
The only light in the room was the glow of the fire. It was so dark he couldn’t see her clearly—just the outline of her body in. . . Damn it, she was only wearing her night rail, with a warm shawl wrapped around her. It didn’t disguise the curves that he’d somehow known were lurking behind her drab and baggy clothes, and he cursed mentally. He was already having enough trouble keeping his mind dutifully chaste.
She went straight to the fire, kneeling in front of it, and the coals illuminated her face. Her hair was down around her shoulders, a cascade of dark curls that were a far cry from the severe, tightly braided coiffure she’d sported earlier. He’d seen she was beautiful beneath her frumpy armor, but she was more than that, she was absolutely breathtaking, and she clearly didn’t want anyone to know.
He’d never known a woman who didn’t use her looks and her femininity to her best advantage, and this one was more blessed than anyone he could remember. She looked pensive, staring into the fire. She wasn’t a girl—she might very well be as old as he was, even older. It didn’t matter. She’d be exquisite at any age. She sat back on her heels and surveyed the wall of leather-bound books. She still hadn’t sensed he was in the shadows, watching her, which surprised him. He’d known she was near before he’d even seen her.
He didn’t dare move from his place in the darkness, his legs propped on Benedick’s desk. He was content just to watch her, the way she moved, the shifting emotions on her face, as she made herself comfortable, when suddenly that lovely body stiffened, and she slowly turned her head until she was looking directly at him as he lounged, unnoticed.
“Do you make a habit of spying on women?” she said in a cool voice, the same cool voice she’d used off and on with him the entire day. She had no reason for hostility, and it made him even more curious.
He didn’t bother taking his feet off the desk—for one thing it was relieving the pressure and pain in his knee, for another he didn’t want to appear discomfited by her presence. “I was here first,” he pointed out. “You invaded my privacy. I’m hardly the one to blame.” Which was untrue—a gentleman would have immediately made himself known, but he no longer had any interest in being a gentleman. That ship had sailed many years ago.
He could see it quite clearly in her mesmerizing eyes. The fight-or-flight response was something he’d grown used to in the army, had felt it himself on numerous occasions, but he’d never been smart enough to run. Too much pride, he supposed.
Emma Cadbury looked as if she suffered from the same defect of character. He didn’t bother looking away, giving his curiosity full reign. “Have we met before?” he said suddenly.
She didn’t move. “I cannot imagine any occasion in which we might have done,” she said in her clipped voice.
He tilted his head to one side, surveying her. “No, I can’t imagine it either. You’re not precisely forgettable, you know. There’s just something about you that feels familiar. Even your name strikes a bell.”
Her face tightened so slightly that someone with duller eyesight might not have noticed, but that was one thing that hadn’t changed despite all the damage his body had suffered. “You’re mistaken.” Her voice was as tight as her expression. “I’m an old friend of your sister-in-law, but I seldom attend social gatherings. The only reason I’m here this time is because I’m Alexandra’s godmother. As you saw with Mr. Trowbridge I’m not particularly welcome in society, and I prefer to keep to myself.” There was just the faintest flush on her high cheekbones, and he wondered if it came from the fire or her own words.
“Why?” he said softly.
He’d managed to startle her. “Why what?”
He swung his legs off the desk and set them on the floor, managing to keep a grimace of pain off his face. “Why aren’t you welcome in society, why did the vicar feel he could accost you like that?”
She rose with that almost unnatural grace, clearly sensing he was more a danger with his feet on the floor. “Because, Lord Brandon, I was a whore.”
Chapter 5
Emma wasn’t certain what she expected from Brandon Rohan. Immediate contempt was the most likely response, or an insulting demand for sexual favors. In truth, she was hoping for one or the other, something that would wipe any lingering emotions forever. All he had to do was look at her with disdain and she’d be done.
Brandon Rohan simply raised an eyebrow. “I don’t actually use my title,” he said casually.
She did her best not to gape at him, too startled to say anything more. Then she rallied. “Why not? Why don’t you use the advantages you’ve been given?”
The faint twist of his mouth could almost be called a smile. “Why don’t you use your beauty—it’s just as valuable a commodity, perhaps more so than a courtesy title. Oh, that’s right, you did, but apparently you don’t any longer, which begs the question, why did you offer up that particular bit of information?”
He still wasn’t looking at her with any sort of distaste, merely bland curiosity. It unnerved her, when he already set her off balance. “Someone would have told you, sooner or later,” she muttered, feeling graceless and not caring.
“I’d be forced to hit them if they did,” he said. “And I’m afraid telling me makes no difference—I’ll still have to hit them, and that complicates things, since I’ve been expressly forbidden to pound on the vicar, due to his position and his scrawny appearance. However, I expect my brother would forgive me if he knew about the man’s behavior.”
He sounded as if he was discussing dealing with a runaway pig, and her temper began to stir. He was turning a source of pain and shame into an inconvenience. “You’ve been out of society for a long time, Lord Brandon,” she said, liking the formality of his title. It kept him one more step away from her. “Selling one’s body is not an act that is overlooked among ‘good’ people.”
“People do what they have to do,” he said, unmoved. “I presume you didn’t enter the profession on a whim.”
“No,” she muttered. She wasn’t going to make excuses for herself—be damned to them all. The only one who knew her history was Melisande, and it broke her best friend’s heart. She certainly didn’t want this man’s pity. “Am I supposed to be grateful that you’re noble enough to forgive my transgressions?” she said sharply.
His lids were half lowered on his ice-blue eyes. Not that she could see their color in the darkness, but she remembered that brilliant blue—for some damnable reason it still haunted her dreams. “You didn’t transgress against me,” he said mildly. “It’s none of my business.”
She’d worked herself up into such a state that his words deflated her. She was left with nothing to say, and she stared at him, at the beauty and ruin of his face, silent.