The very thought should have been amusing, but Brandon didn’t feel like smiling. He knew he deserved a horsewhipping, and he knew just the man who’d do it. All he had to do was tell Benedick what he’d done and his brother would t
ake him out to the stable for a lesson that was long overdue. The last time Benedick had done that, Brandon had been sixteen and he and a group of his friends had trampled a farmer’s field in an excess of ale-infused high spirits. The next time he’d tried Brandon had fought back.
This time he wouldn’t. He’d take his punishment like a man who deserved it, because he did. If Benedick proved reluctant he could always ask his brother-in-law Lucien, better known at The Scorpion. Lucien had never needed encouragement to rain down fire and brimstone.
He glanced at Noonan’s pugnacious scowl. “Someone will see to it soon enough. I expect my brother will be the first in line. Are the horses ready? Mine seemed to be favoring her right hock.” He couldn’t refer to her by name. For one thing, Noonan probably knew very well that Mrs. Cadbury was Emma, and for another, he didn’t want to remind himself.
“You’ve got that right,” Noonan said. “She’s got something going on. I’m thinking it might be better if you didn’t ride her today till I have a chance to poultice it.”
He almost shut his eyes in desperation. As if things weren’t bad enough, he would now need to be in close quarters with Emma, the real Emma, for hours as they completed their journey. He glanced at the carriage. It was one of Benedick’s infernal inventions—a little heavier than the popular landaus of the day, with a collapsible roof that nevertheless allowed for long-distance travel and room for only one on the box. That roof might collapse beneath his weight if he tried to sit up there as on a stagecoach, and the perch in back, made for a stable lad, was ridiculous. He had no choice.
“I’ll use yours then,” he said somewhat desperately.
Noonan laughed in his face. “Meggie’s not up to your weight, and even if she was I’m not letting you get your hands on her. You’ll ride in the carriage and try and undo some of the damage you’ve done. You’ll be nice to the girl. It don’t matter where she came from or what she’s done—she’s a sweet young lady and she doesn’t deserve the likes of you acting like a spoiled brat.”
Brandon kept his face stoic. Noonan had clearly seen far too much over the last few days. “What if the best thing for her is my absence?”
“She’ll have that as soon as we get to the city. In the meantime you have some making up to do.”
He supposed he could always order Noonan to give him his horse, but Noonan would probably laugh in his face. Besides, he’d been a total ass already—he didn’t have to compound it.
“Are we almost ready then?” he said, hoping he’d have a little while longer in the cold air, but Noonan simply nodded. It would take but a moment to bring his mare out and tie her to the carriage, and it was too cold to leave the horses standing around for long. Looking toward the door to the cozy inn, Brandon straightened his back and moved forward.
He almost hoped she wasn’t down yet, and he could send Bosomworth up with a message, but when he stepped inside the warmth of the taproom she was sitting at one table, drinking a cup of tea. She looked like a little girl, her feet neatly together, her dark hair two smooth wings on either side of her perfect face. She was utterly still, looking up at him when he came into the room.
“You’re ready?” he said roughly, unable to think of anything else to say. He was going to have to find some way to apologize, but everything that came to mind would only make things worse.
“I am,” she said, her voice as expressionless as her face. “Did you require breakfast, my lord? I’m certain Mrs. Bosomworth would be happy to make you some of her delicious gammon and eggs.”
“Have you eaten?” he said warily.
“Yes,” she said, and he knew it was a lie. She was too pale, too fragile looking to have eaten a substantial meal, and he wanted to curse. He didn’t. From now on he had to treat her like a perfect lady in a belated attempt to . . . he wasn’t sure. Redeeming himself seemed an unlikely goal. At least he could refrain from behaving like a wounded child again. Though once he’d put his hands on her there had been nothing childlike about their encounter.
He growled, low in his throat, as he felt his cock began to stir. Last night was over, he reminded himself, pulling his greatcoat in front of him. The best thing he could do to atone was to keep his distance and having wood in his pants was going to make things difficult.
She rose, graceful, and started toward the door, and without thinking he was there ahead of her, holding it for her. The look she gave him should have shriveled his erection, but his member was perverse enough to grow harder. “After you, my lord,” she said coldly, and he remembered that he’d barged ahead of her when they’d arrived.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered. “I’ll be right behind you.” Of course, that probably wasn’t much comfort.
But Emma was having none of it. “It’s a matter of precedence, my lord. You are my better in every sense of the word—you’re titled, wealthy, a war hero, and a man. A woman like me is of little consequence. I’ll follow you.”
He wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt such shame in his entire life. He looked at her, and knew she wasn’t going to move until he did, so he shrugged and went through the door.
She was carrying her bag, and he reached for it automatically when she jerked it away from him. “Do not trouble yourself.”
He had to stop himself from yanking it back. He didn’t move, knowing that if he let down the stairs for the coach or opened the door she’d refuse to precede him, and that would annoy him no end, so he waited until a repentant Tillerson got her settled before approaching the coach.
“I’m afraid you have company for the last bit of our journey, Mrs. Cadbury. My horse seems to have gone lame.” He was almost amused as he saw her lurch forward, as if to escape, but he was standing in the door and there would be no way past him, so she sank bank in defeat.
“My condolences,” she said in cool voice, taking the leather satchel she’d left in the coach into her lap. A moment later she’d pulled out a heavy tome with the disconcerting title of The London Guide to Severing Limbs and ignored him as he heaved himself up into the carriage, dropping onto the seat opposite her.
It was going to be like that, was it? He slouched down, tilting his hat over his head, his greatcoat still clutched around his waist. Fine with me.
He was exhausted. Yesterday’s endless ride should have been enough to have sent him into a sound sleep and last night’s debacle could have been avoided. But no, since he’d recognized Emma, sleep had been almost impossible.
He’d ended up sleeping for a few hours in the bed that smelled of sex and flowers, and he hated himself for that. He could have started to mend things as she lay beside him, perhaps even finished taking care of her the way he’d wanted to, had her gasping and writhing in his arms. Instead he’d fallen asleep, and she’d run. Damn his soul to hell.
He should talk to her. Somehow make peace with her. He just couldn’t summon up the requisite repentance. Oh, he was sorry he’d made such a mess of things, sorry he’d hurt her. But he couldn’t regret those moments in the bed with her.