Kathryn Smith (33 page)

Devlin was the first to depart, anxious to get home to Blythe. North followed shortly thereafter, even though it was obvious he wanted to stay and question Wynthrope, but he had a wife waiting for him as well, and Brahm’s continued presence finally forced him to go.

“What about Moira?” Brahm asked when they were alone—a state that didn’t fill Wynthrope with the same animosity as it used to, although he wasn’t ready to give up those old grudges just yet.

He sat down on the sofa. “What about her?”

Leaning on his cane for support, Brahm lowered himself into a chair, stretching his bad leg out before him. It must be paining him awfully. He favored it often. “It is obvious she cares for you.”

A rueful smile crossed Wynthrope’s lips. “You are wrong. She told me she was safer not having me in her life.”

“Of course she is.” He spoke as though Wynthrope was a simpleton for not seeing that himself. “There is nothing safe about love.”

Wynthrope scowled at his superior tone. “What would you know of love? You have never been in love in your life.”

“I was, once.” Brahm massaged his thigh. All that stand
ing must have tired his leg. “Or at least I think I was. She jilted me, remember?”

“You were a hopeless drunkard. I’m surprised you even remember her.” It was harsh, but true.

Brahm smiled sadly. “I have never forgotten. You will not forget either.”

No, he wouldn’t. He knew that. “I do not see that there is anything I can do.”

“Telling her the truth when this is all over might be a good start.” Using his cane for leverage, Brahm heaved himself to his feet once more. “And you might want to try giving her back her tiara when it has served its purpose. She might appreciate the gesture. Now be a good boy and help me down the stairs before I fall down them, will you?”

Wynthrope did just that. When he returned to the dimly lit confines of his rooms, he poured himself the drink he hadn’t allowed himself to have out of some foolish sense of respect for Brahm and stretched out on his sofa, glass in hand.

He felt good about confessing all to his brothers. It felt as though a huge weight had been lifted off him. He hoped their plan would work, and he could finally put his past where it belonged.

And maybe, just maybe, Moira would allow him to explain things. She might even eventually allow him to visit her again, maybe start to trust him. But if Brahm thought simply returning the tiara was going to make all of that happen, Wynthrope felt sorry for him. The poor bugger didn’t know
anything
about women.

W
ynthrope did not return to Moira’s house after the night he brought Nathaniel to her. Days had passed with no sign or word of him.

She shouldn’t be surprised, nor had she call to feel any disappointment. She had told him to stay away, and he was merely adhering to her wishes. She should be pleased, and she was—to an extent. Her life was much simpler and more predictable without him in it. She had much to do with the planning for Minnie’s engagement party, the last thing she needed was a man underfoot. Or rather another man underfoot. Nathaniel was still staying with her, but not for much longer it seemed. He was healing nicely, and Mr. Griggs said he should be able to go home in a day or two.

Moira would miss having him so close, but she would also appreciate having her quiet time back. Unfortunately, that time would no doubt be spent obsessing over Wynthrope
Ryland. She could only pray that these plaguing thoughts of him would go away eventually.

Or maybe the man causing them might return and confide in her the reason that he was a thief. Perhaps he would trust her with his past. Perhaps he would realize that while she had meant every word about being safer without him around, she still wanted him in her life.

Did that make her a fool? Probably, but there was a voice inside her head—or perhaps in her heart—that insisted that she had not been wrong about him in the beginning. There was no way he could have pretended all of it. They had shared wonderful moments together. They had laughed and talked and played chess. Surely it hadn’t all been a lie. She couldn’t have been so misguided. Some of what he revealed to her had to be real, and if that was so, then there was just as real a part of him that was the good man she had once believed him to be.

And good men did not use women and pretend to care for them. Good men did not steal—not without a reason.

So what was Wynthrope’s reason?

That was something she hoped to ascertain that evening. This was not a social event he would miss. There was a dinner party at Creed House to celebrate Devlin and Blythe’s impending parenthood.

Moira had been surprised to get an invitation to the party, especially since she and Blythe had known each other but a brief time. During their short acquaintance, Moira had come to like the statuesque woman very much. Apparently the feeling was mutual.

That was why she and Minnie were snuggled beneath thick fur robes, their feet resting on heated bricks as the carriage jostled along the uneven cobblestones. They were on their way to Creed House for the party. In anticipation of the event, Moira had taken extra care with her appearance—
and
not
because she wanted to look good for Wynthrope’s benefit. She wanted to be in her best looks to prove to him that she had not fallen into complete disarray since learning the awful truth about him.

Her scalp hurt from the elaborate hairstyle, which felt as though it might be in danger of toppling over at any moment. Sapphires dangled from her ears and adorned her neck. Her gown was a soft, warm cream brocade that pushed her bosom up until she actually looked impressive in that area.

It wasn’t on purpose that the dress accented her cleavage. It was because she had gained weight since purchasing the gown. She had bought it before meeting Wynthrope. Since then she had ceased worrying about how thin she looked and concentrated on how she felt. If she was hungry she ate. No more of this starving herself to be thin—not when she was obviously the only one who found any fault with her appearance. And even she had to admit, she liked having a more impressive bosom.

“What are you going to do if he speaks to you?” Minnie asked, her voice muffled by the fur robe tucked around her.

Moira smiled dolefully. “I do not imagine he will, but if he does, I suppose I will simply speak back.”

“Are you going to speak to him then?”

She shrugged and picked a bit of loose fur from her lip. The blasted robe was shedding. “Perhaps. It would be the polite thing to do. I would hate to ruin Lord Creed’s party by being cold to his brother.” She didn’t want to admit to Minnie that she was considering taking Nathaniel’s advice and cornering Wynthrope. Not that Nathaniel had suggested she trap him, but the sentiment had been the same.

She had to know the truth. Not until then could she decide what she wanted to do. Not until then would she know if he truly had feelings for her, or if it had been nothing more than greed and a bit of lust that had driven him to her bed.

Her nerves were nowhere near as distressed as she believed they ought to be. In fact, she was strangely calm about seeing Wynthrope. It would be such a relief to get an answer from him. Either he wanted her or he didn’t. Either he was willing to confide and trust in her or he wasn’t. And if he didn’t want her, then she was done mooning over him like a stupid girl. She would put herself to the task of recovering from her broken heart and moving forward with her life. She did not expect it to happen overnight, but it would happen. If Nathaniel could develop feelings for someone after losing the love of his life, then certainly Moira could as well.

Good Lord, she didn’t actually consider Wynthrope the love of her life, did she? She had loved him, of that she was certain, but she had loved the man he pretended to be. She had to find out who he really was before she could sort out her feelings.

Who was she fooling with this sorting-out-her-feelings nonsense? She loved him. Whether it was truly him or not, she loved him. She loved him as surely as she drew breath.

Which made what she was about to do all the more frightening. Tonight she planned to ascertain whether her feelings were returned.

Creed House—or Creed Manor as some called it—was a lovely whitewashed stone manor idyllically situated in Grosvenor Square. Lamps lit the way up the drive, and more lamps illuminated the front of the house so guests could see their way up the steps in the dark. Moira and Minnie ascended the smooth stone steps to the large, carved doors. Moira rapped with the heavy brass knocker, and one of the doors opened, revealing an older man of medium height and build who was almost completely bald.

“Lady Aubourn and Miss Banning?” he inquired pleasantly.

Moira smiled. “Yes.”

He stood back so they might enter. “Welcome to Creed House, ladies. May I take your cloaks?”

With their outerwear removed and entrusted to the butler, who then passed the clothing to a footman, Moira and Minnie followed the butler through the great hall, which was decorated entirely in black and white. The floor was like a huge marble chess board. Even the statues lining the perimeter of the room resembled chess pieces. No wonder Wynthrope loved the game if this was the kind of environment in which he had been raised.

A door off the hall led to a corridor. Moira’s gaze drifted from left to right as she walked, glancing at the many portraits lining the walls. Ryland ancestors, no doubt, judging from the countless lopsided smiles depicted. Oddly enough, it seemed a trait predominant in the males rather than the females. Ryland women obviously were not as arrogant as their male counterparts. Either that or they were simply more adept at concealing it.

They stopped two doors from the end of the corridor. The butler announced them and held the door for them to enter. Brahm was there to greet them the minute they stepped inside.

“My dear Lady Aubourn and Miss Banning.” He took both their hands and kissed them both on the cheek. Minnie blushed prettily at the attention. What woman wouldn’t? Viscount Creed was an extraordinarily handsome man. While Devlin had a melancholy kind of appeal and North a rugged look, Brahm was possibly the smoothest-looking of all the brothers. He was certainly the most chiseled, and he was the most at home in elegant surroundings.

Of course, none of them could hold a candle to Wynthrope—not as far as Moira was concerned. His beauty was cynical yet vulnerable. An angel cast out of heaven. Sometimes aloof and cold, other times unrestrained and joyous.

And obviously absent, she noticed as she glanced around the room, smiling and greeting the others present. Wynthrope was nowhere to be seen, and her heart sank a little. Was he simply tardy, or had he decided to take her words to heart and avoid the gathering—and consequently her—altogether?

Well, she wasn’t going to let it ruin her evening. Tonight was about celebrating Blythe and Devlin, not pining for a man who might or might not be worthy of it. At least that was her resolution of the moment. It could change at any second.

She went to Devlin and Blythe, offering both of them her sincere best wishes. She even hugged them, a task not quite so comfortable considering her cheek was flattened against Devlin’s chest. One of the buttons on his coat threatened to leave a mark if he held her any tighter. Good Lord but he was a strong man. So big and dangerous. Blythe didn’t seem to mind.

They were going to have giants for children. Poor Blythe. Good thing she was a strapping woman.

She wandered toward the group that contained North and Octavia, Miles and Varya, and Brahm. The topic of conversation was whether North and Octavia had any plans to start a family of their own.

“Soon,” Octavia responded, flashing her husband a warm smile. “I do not wish to be one of those women who is married for years and does not have children.” It was then that Octavia noticed Moira, and her face turned a mortified shade of pink.

Moira chuckled. “Oh my friend, you do not think I would take offense to that, do you?” To be sure, the remark had stung, but not because Moira was insulted, more because she had been denied a basic right of womanhood by marrying Tony—something she hadn’t considered at the time.

Her friend was obviously pained. “I would hope you did not, Moira.”

She waved Octavia’s concern away. “I never had children because I never had children.” That was an easy enough answer. One could not conceive a child without having marital relations.

Octavia patted her hand. “You might remarry yet.”

Moira considered the idea. Marrying again, yes, that might be nice, having someone to spend her days and nights with. As for children, she never really gave them much thought. However, if she did wed again, she would marry for love and nothing else. Life was too short to make the same mistakes twice.

Good Lord, she didn’t actually believe marrying Tony had been a mistake, did she? No, maybe she regretted some aspects of her marriage, but the fact that it got her away from her parents would always be something she was thankful for.

Her parents. Just the thought of them made her stomach cramp. They would be coming for Minnie’s betrothal party. For the first time since Tony’s death, Moira would have to face her mother again.

At that moment, as though reading her thoughts, North thrust a glass of champagne at her. “Here, Moira. We are going to drink to Devlin and Blythe.”

Moira thanked him and took the sparkling glass. Brahm, she noticed, was drinking something other than champagne. Cider, if her nose didn’t deceive her—the kind without much kick.

“You are not toasting anyone without me,” came a voice from behind her—a voice that sent a tremor down her spine that was both delicious and awful.

He had arrived.

She turned, sucking in a breath at the sight of him. He looked a little tired, but other than that, he was a vision of male perfection in austere evening wear, his jaw freshly shaven, his hair neatly combed.

Grinning with genuine pleasure, he greeted Devlin and Blythe, embracing his sister-in-law and kissing her cheek. He took the glass of champagne North offered and then he turned.

And saw her. His grin, she noticed, faded a bit, but did not disappear. Either he was a good actor or he was actually somewhat pleased to see her. God knew she was somewhat pleased to see him, if the trembling in her knees was any indication. Damn his eyes, but he had a lot of nerve staring at her so boldly. Of course she was staring back.

Their eye contact was broken by the sound of Brahm’s voice. He allowed Miles to make the first toast as Blythe’s brother, and then Brahm toasted Devlin. North and Wynthrope followed suit, each recounting some personal story about Devlin as a child.

“To my gigantic little brother,” Wynthrope finished his salute with a smile. “Someday I hope to be half the man he is.”

It was a touching sentiment, until North spoke. “You already are half the man he is, in height.”

Laughter filled the room, and as the guests closed in around the beaming couple of honor, Moira took the opportunity to work her way closer to Wynthrope. She had no idea what to say after telling him to go away, but she would have to think of something.

“Good evening.” Not terribly original, but not awful either.

He seemed surprised by her greeting. “Yes, it is.”

Lowering her head, Moira worried her lower lip with her teeth for a moment before raising her gaze to his. “I wanted to apologize for some of the things I said the last time we met.”

He shook his head. “Don’t. You were right when you said your life was better without me in it.”

She winced as her words were tossed back at her. “I never said better.”

He shrugged, and took a sip of champagne. “Safer then. You were right. You need to stay away from me for a while.”

His words might have hurt more if she hadn’t caught the edge in his voice. He wasn’t just telling her to stay away, he was asking her to—pleading even. “Wynthrope, what are you planning?”

He didn’t look at her, but gazed toward his family instead. “I cannot tell you.”

Moira’s chest constricted. “You still do not trust me.”

Wynthrope glanced down into his champagne. “I do not.”

“I see.” She was cold, so very cold. Numb, actually. She couldn’t feel her fingers around the stem of her glass.

“No you don’t.” His voice was a harsh whisper as he turned his whole body to face her. “I cannot tell because I cannot trust you not to do something foolish like try to help, or, God forbid, save me.”

Save
him? Dear Lord, what was he planning to do? “I would not—”

“Yes you would, because you are just that kind of woman.” He downed the rest of his champagne with one swallow. “You are too good. The best thing you can do to help me right now is to stay away.”