Baby Alexandra slept through the christening in her mother’s arms, her sweet, pink face serene in the sleep that always came at inconvenient times and never when her mother was exhausted. Emma’s hands itched to hold her, but she remained decorously still beside the baptismal font as the old vicar droned on and on about smiting the devil and watching over this precious child. Emma doubted that she and the vicar had the same view of the devil, since he seemed to think she was Old Nick’s incarnation, but she would defend this baby with her life, as well as Alexandra’s brother Gabriel who now sat in the front pew, restless on a mild Saturday afternoon.
She would get a chance to hold the baby soon enough, once Alexandra awoke and started to shriek, probably the moment the vicar poured cool water on her little forehead. It would serve the disapproving old man right.
Not that he disapproved of the baby or her parents, or even any member of the notorious Rohan family—he wasn’t a complete fool when it came to who provided his living. But Emma was a different matter. High spirits in an aristocrat equaled degradation in a middle-class girl, and the old man clearly knew her history.
Too damned bad. If she tried to cower away from anyone who knew her past she would spend her entire life running away, and she’d already wasted too much time as it was.
No, she’d made herself a good life, a happy life. She had Melisande’s children to dote on, she had the Dovecote, she had her work. She had far more than she ever thought she might have, and she was foolish to long for more. She shifted slightly in her too-tight shoes, the only pair she owned that weren’t stained with blood or the filthy Thames, and smiled at the sleeping baby.
The sound of the heavy wooden door opening was enough to pull her attention away, and she looked up, through the mottled shadows. Everyone turned to see a tall, strong figure standing in the doorway, the bright daylight surrounding him. He looked like a fallen angel, and Emma’s breath suddenly caught in her throat as he started down the aisle toward them, not rushing, moving with a kind of casual grace that belied the faintest of limps. Her skin began to prickle.
“Brandon!” Viscount Rohan called out, his voice filled with joy, his face taut with emotion. He moved swiftly down the aisle to meet the newcomer halfway and pull him into a rough embrace.
Emma instinctively ducked her head. She was wearing one of the new poke bonnets with a wide brim, and if she kept her head lowered he’d have a hard time seeing her face, and she could fade into the background. She edged behind Mel
isande surreptitiously, trying not to draw attention to herself.
She didn’t want him to see her face, to even notice her presence. She’d let go of the ridiculous fantasy of Brandon Rohan long ago, and she was the better for it. He had been the only person on this earth who’d made her vulnerable, and she would rather abandon all pride and hide than risk her heart.
The elderly vicar had taken a step back to allow the family reunion, and the christening guests buzzed excitedly. The dark exploits of Brandon Rohan and the Heavenly Host had never been adequately covered up, and they would find a great deal to gossip about.
And then, amidst the flurry of embraces and excited laughter came the words she most dreaded. “Emma, allow me to introduce my brother-in-law Lord Brandon Rohan to you,” Melisande said, socially correct when she cared to be. “Brandon, this is my very dearest friend, Mrs. Emma Cadbury.”
Emma nodded her bowed head, keeping her eyes lowered. She didn’t want to see the strong, muscular body that had replaced his skeletal, broken one. In truth, she didn’t want to look at him at all—she was much better off with him living four hundred miles away in the Highlands of Scotland.
A large hand reached out to touch hers, and lightning sizzled through her arm. He had removed his riding gloves, and she could feel his strength in the hand that had once been thin and weak. “Mrs. Cadbury,” he murmured, and she knew that voice so well. It was cool now, though, different from the faintly humorous one when he’d lain in hospital, his body ruined but his spirit intact.
The monsters of the Heavenly Host, that decadent group of so-called gentlemen, had put paid to that, until he’d ended up.. .
She wasn’t going to think of that. She dipped a slight curtsey, keeping her head down. She didn’t want to look at him—this was hard enough. She’d managed to forget about him—at least, almost everything about him, but if she saw him she’d be vulnerable once more, and she couldn’t afford any weakness.
“Lord Rohan,” she murmured, making her voice a little more raspy than normal. She didn’t want to do anything to jog his memory, to look at her closely. He’d probably thought she was a figment of his imagination, the so-called Harpy who’d bullied him into taking his medicine, who’d dressed his wounds, and teased him back to life.
The woman who had saved his life the night he decided to hang himself.
“If we may continue with the baptism.. .” the vicar was saying in a disapproving voice.
“Stand with Emma,” Melisande said helpfully. “She’s Alexandra’s other godparent.”
Without a word Brandon took his place by her side, and she cast a covert glance at him from beneath lowered lids. He was much taller than she remembered, but then, she’d never stood beside him. His injuries had kept him bedridden for the short period she’d taken care of him. One look told her he was wearing his dark hair in a long, unfashionable queue, a second was that he was very much bigger than she was. Scotland had been good to him. Despite the ruin of his face and leg, the ruin of his life, he’d managed to pull himself back from the brink of utter disaster and become the man he should be. That knowledge filled her with joy, something she would celebrate more fully when she was safely alone. He was going to be fine. She’d always known it, but having the proof standing beside her almost banished her complicated emotions.
Keeping her eyes down, she observed what she could see of his body. His legs were impossibly long, and he didn’t use a cane. That in itself was astonishing when she remembered the wounds she’d bandaged, but in that quiet time in the hospital she had learned one thing—he was as stubborn as she was. She wouldn’t put anything past his abilities.
She could see his ungloved hand resting lightly at his side. He had beautiful hands—she’d always loved them. Long fingers, elegant and strong, and suddenly she remembered something else.
Brandon Rohan had made her feel things she’d thought she was incapable of feeling. After years in the trade, servicing men for their pleasure, she had been sure she could never bear to have a man’s hands on her again.
But he had touched her, and she’d wanted more.
Now fate had thrown them together once more, and her normal courage failed her. She wouldn’t panic—she simply had to get through the christening and the festivities afterwards and hope he didn’t pay any attention to her. Tomorrow morning she’d come up with some excuse to head back to London rather than spend the next five days avoiding him. In truth, she had good reason to go. The sudden rise in attacks on what people thought of as “the poor unfortunates” meant she had more work, given that Mr. Fenrush and his coterie refused to waste their time with undesirables. She’d already spent two days at the large Dower House that served as the rural Dovecote, the term some wag had come up with for Melisande’s home for women wishing to change their lives, and for the time being there was nothing else to do. The newcomers to Rippington, the London Gaggle, had settled in nicely, though Mollie Biscuits and Long Polly still complained loudly. Emma would have been worried if they hadn’t.
It was ridiculous to think that Brandon might recognize her. When he’d come back from the Afghan War he’d been concussed, his memory hazy, all his energy concentrated on staying alive. That time in the charity hospital would hardly have lingered, particularly once he got his memory back. Touching her would have meant nothing to him.
She managed to stand very still—her time in the operating room had taught her that particular skill, and when the moment came to pledge herself to her tiny goddaughter she stepped forward and spoke in a low voice, ignoring him.
He did the same, treating her with the courtesy of a stranger, and when Alexandra awoke screaming with the first drops of baptismal water on her tiny face he laughed, and Emma couldn’t resist stealing a glance as she accepted the squalling baby from the priest.
She hadn’t remembered his smile. He was a handsome man even when he was tormented, darkly brooding, lost in the hell of the Heavenly Host’s domain. He was breathtaking when he smiled.