Benedick caught Melisande’s arm before she could reach Emma, and he shook his head, frowning at her. What in Christ’s name was going on with them, Brandon thought. He had enough frustration on his own without some new disaster involving his brother.
Emma wanted to run, he knew that as well as he knew his own name, even if her expression remained politely blank. He didn’t blame her—if he could get his horse out of Benedick’s clutches he would take off like a bat out of hell. He could even offer Emma a ride to escape whatever she was trying to avoid, and the two of them would head to Scotland, with Noonan barely able to catch up.
But he wouldn’t do any such thing. He had too much to atone for, so many things that he couldn’t do anything about. He could do something about Frances, and he would do his duty.
Emma straightened her shoulders and smiled politely. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen a real smile from her, one that reached her eyes and her heart. He had the odd sense that she had smiled at least once, but that was impossible. He would have remembered.
“I’m feeling well, my lady,” she said formally. “I wouldn’t have come down if I weren’t up to it.”
“Perhaps we might change the seating, and you could sit by me. . .”
“My dear,” Benedick murmured, and Melisande seemed to come to her senses.
“I’m fine,” Emma said meaningfully.
“Of course you are,” Benedick said, releasing Melisande and moving to take Emma’s arm. “Don’t mind my wife—she has her moments of extreme silliness.” He brought her over to Brandon’s side. “You’ll take care of Mrs. Cadbury, won’t you, Brandon? She’s not the frail flower my wife seems to think she is, but if she seems ill you might see her out and find a maid to assist her.”
Emma was stoic once more. “What a huge fuss over nothing. Good evening, Mr. Roha
n.”
Brandon looked at her. He almost missed her calling him Lord Brandon, simply because she did it to annoy him. “Good evening, Mrs. Cadbury,” he replied, helping her to the chair before taking the seat beside her.
Everyone at the table had been watching this little drama with avid eyes, including, he noticed, his fiancée. Conversation immediately began again, but rules were rules and Frances was following her hostess’s lead and making desultory conversation with the elderly knight on her right. Halfway through the meal the very polite guests would then turn and talk to the person on the other side, rather like a stately court dance his parents might have been involved in.
Then Frances had left his mind completely. He was damned if he was going to wait until the fish or roast course to talk to Emma. “What’s going on?” he demanded in a whisper. The lady on his other side, Mrs. Beauchamp, had a consuming passion for rolls, and the wise server had put three on her plate. She was busy ripping small pieces off them and slathering them with butter—she wouldn’t want to be interrupted with polite conversation.
Emma’s face was expressionless. “The weather is positively dreadful, is it not? It is a great deal too bad that you missed getting out while the sun shone.”
Considering that those who’d been out had found the mangled body of the murdered maid, that was less than felicitous, and there was a troubled murmur around the table. She flushed for a moment, realizing her mistake.
“The company in the house was more appealing,” he said in the same polite voice.
“I’m so glad,” she murmured, and there was just a trace of malice in her rich, sweet voice. He liked it. She was angry with him over those kisses. That made two of them—it had been incredibly foolish of him. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.
He watched her clever gray eyes sweep the table, linger for a moment on Benedick’s taut expression, then at Melisande’s clear misery, and then light on Miss Bonham, who looked only half as terrified as she had earlier. Emma turned back to look up at him, her beautiful gray eyes serene. “I gather we are to wish you happy,” she said softly. “Will you be taking your bride to Scotland?”
Emma had known the minute she’d walked into the room. It had started as a sinking dread, and Melisande’s less than subtle behavior made it more and more clear. Despite Melisande’s certainty, Brandon Rohan, Lord Brandon, was indeed going to marry Miss Frances Bonham, half-sister of the late Harry Merton. Which was lovely, absolutely right, he’d do well with a sweet, unquestioning young virgin to adore him, once she got over that look of cornered prey in her unremarkable eyes.
Which begged the question—why did Emma suddenly want to throw up?
Brandon was frowning at her simple words, not looking the slightest bit gratified. In fact, he had barely glanced at his new fiancée once since Emma had entered the room.
Emma was concentrating on her water, the voices surrounding her, when she realized he hadn’t said a word. She was used to being rebuffed, but not even this new Brandon would behave so badly. She lifted her gaze to glance at him.
“I doubt it,” he said, and he gave his future bride the briefest of glances before turning back to Emma. “She seems much too civilized a creature for the wilds of the Scottish Highlands.”
At that moment Emma wanted to use Benedick’s vile curse herself. “Then London will have the pleasure of your company? Or will you reside in the countryside?”
Another moment of silence, and she realized she’d been far too inquisitive. There was a fine line between polite conversation and rampant curiosity, and she was stomping all over it. She should have said nothing—what business was it of hers where Brandon Rohan chose to live—but she had a desperate need to know, in order to fortify herself if she was doomed to run into him.
Doomed. Such a dramatic word, she chided herself, glancing up at him. When had she become so infantile?
Brandon was as good as she was at hiding his thoughts. “I will arrange for Miss Bonham to live wherever she chooses, be it London society or a quiet country estate. I intend to return to Scotland posthaste, which I expect will make my wife extremely happy. Would you care to come with me?”
The question was added so casually that for a moment Emma didn’t understand him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I asked if you wanted to come with me. To Scotland. To stay,” he clarified. “It’s cold and rainy and miserable a great deal of the time, and I live in the moldering ruins of a gatekeeper’s cottage, but we manage to keep warm and Noonan does all the housework. He’s not a half-bad cook.”