Kathryn Smith (4 page)

Gentle hands stroked her hair. “Do what’s best for you, dearest. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Rachel’s throat constricted painfully as tears filled her eyes. Part of her wanted to accept her mother’s offer, but then she thought of all the bruises, all the insults and broken bones this woman had endured in order to give her a comfortable life, and her rage gave her strength.

“Yes, I do,” she replied, pulling free of the warm embrace with a sniff. “And I will until you’re free of that man.”

Marion did not respond, but her smile was one of sad gratitude. She squeezed Rachel’s hand and slowly drifted toward the door. Rachel watched, her heart breaking, as her mother took every painful step with quiet dignity.

Left alone again, Rachel was immediately filled with that
old familiar sense of guilt that these talks with her mother always inspired.

How could she not feel somewhat responsible for her mother’s fate? Had it not been for her, her mother might have been able to make it on her own. She could have started a new life somewhere, but that had been impossible with a child to support. She had sold herself to Henry Westhaver, just as Rachel was now being sold to Viscount Charlton.

Well, there was one subtle difference between Rachel and her mother. Rachel would allow no man to degrade her as Sir Henry had degraded her mother. The first man who ever struck her would soon find himself regretting it—if he lived that long.

She wagered the Earl of Braven had never struck a woman. His hands were warm and gentle, not brutal like Sir Henry’s or cold and damp like Charlton’s. If only Sir Henry would find someone like that to be her husband. Even if he could find someone like Brave willing to have her, it would be too kind of Sir Henry to sell her to someone even remotely close to her own age, let alone someone handsome and kind. No, he wanted her to suffer.

She would not give him the satisfaction. She would persevere. She would take her mother away from him and she would do everything within her power to give her the life she deserved.

She slid off the bed and went to the window. Her gaze traveled the moonlit length of the well-groomed grounds to the edge of the garden. Her stepfather’s house and garden were among the finest in the county. Sir Henry believed in keeping up appearances—or at least some appearances.

Sir Henry believed money spent on Rachel and her mother to be a waste. He’d much rather spend it on horses he rarely rode, but could show off to his cronies as having cost him “a fair portion.” He also liked to gamble, drink, and keep
himself in the pink of fashion while Rachel and her mother remodeled old dresses until the fabric was too thin to wear.

In a few more months, she would never have to look at Sir Henry’s ugly face again. She would never have to look at those awful meticulous grounds again.

Her gaze moved westward. There, beyond a great copse of evergreens she could barely make out the shadowy smoke drifting from the chimneys at Wyck’s End.

Rachel placed one hand against the pane, conscious of the cold glass against her palm. It was almost as though she could just reach out and touch his house, and touch him in the process.

If she closed her eyes she could see him standing before her in his drawing room. His dark, honey-streaked hair damp and wild around his head, his eyes so dark and intense beneath straight brows—and his mouth, so somber in a face that had no business being as enticing as it was.

The heat of his hands had warmed not only her skin but her blood as well. How grateful she was that when his fingers touched her foot he mistook her gasp of sensual shock as maidenly reserve!

She had wanted him to touch her, had wanted to feel his fingers stroke the ticklish valley behind her knee, the tender flesh of her inner thigh and more, so much more. The wanton in her had wanted to throw off the constrictive blankets and let him have his way with her.

No man had ever affected her in such a manner. She had always prided herself on the fact that she’d never lost her reason where the opposite sex was concerned. But now she knew what Sabine had meant when she had told her that one day she would “burn” for a man.

The Earl of Braven had lit a torch inside her.

Briefly, she wondered if the Earl of Braven was looking for a wife.

What am I thinking?

Giving herself a mental shake, Rachel opened her eyes. Even if he was looking for a wife, he could certainly do better than Henry Westhaver’s stepdaughter.

Her gaze dropped for an instant to the bodice of the exquisite silk gown she wore. It wasn’t the cost of the gown that made her smile. It wasn’t the fact that her bosom threatened to spill out of it either. It was the fact that the gown provided a reason to see him again.

And she would see him again.

Brave hadn’t planned to attend the ball that evening at Lord Westwood’s estate. He hadn’t been out in society much in the last two years, and he wished he hadn’t decided to come out this night. The lights, the crush of hot bodies pressed together, mingling sweat and perfume until the smell became overpowering, was more than he could stomach. It was like being locked in a whore’s closet and twice as suffocating.

It wasn’t that his shoulder still bothered him. He rather liked the dull ache in his muscles. He had earned it.

And it wasn’t that he didn’t like people or felt the society beneath him. He just didn’t want to have to answer questions as to why he kept to himself, or what had happened to change him from social animal to near recluse. And then there might actually be someone who would bring up “that poor girl’s death,” and then see the guilt on his face. He didn’t want to lie any more than he wanted to tell the truth.

He also didn’t relish the idea of being looked at like a prime cut of meat at market. Every mama present was eyeing him as a potential son-in-law. There was no way he could convince them he didn’t want to marry—that he could
never
marry.

If anyone knew of his involvement in Miranda’s death, no one would want him anywhere near their daughters. Or
hardly anyone. There was always someone who cared more about money and titles than blood and responsibility and madness—oh yes,
temporary
madness. Perhaps he should tell them that his friends and family had begged him to seek the care of a physician for the sake of his sanity. And maybe he should tell them how little help that physician had been able to give him.

But
that
was something he didn’t want to admit.

And he certainly didn’t want to admit that his reason for accepting this invitation had anything to do with the hope of seeing Rachel Ashton again. For the past three days he’d played their dramatic meeting over and over in his head until he knew every detail by heart. He didn’t know how, he only knew that deep, deep inside saving Rachel Ashton had made a difference.

The thought of what would have happened if he hadn’t come along filled him with panic. She would have died, alone and scared.

Had Miranda been scared?

“Champagne, Lord Braven?”

Automatically, Brave accepted the glass offered him. “Thank you, Lady Westwood.” He smiled down at the plump matron. “You look lovely this evening.”

The elderly woman seemed not to notice that his smile was broken, and tapped him lightly on the arm with her fan. “You’re a sweet boy to say so.” She gazed up at him with a shrewd yet pleasant expression. “Why aren’t you dancing?”

Because the last time I danced was with Miranda.
“I would be honored to take a turn with you if you wish it.”

Lady Westwood unfurled her Chinese silk fan and waved it violently in front of her face. Brave had to take a step to the right just to avoid being stabbed by the lacquered sticks. He watched as the brightly colored feathers in her hair bobbed in the breeze she created. It was as though they longed to fly again but couldn’t because they were fastened to a woman instead of a bird.

“Oh Lord, bless you.” She sighed. “My husband, however, does not approve of the waltz, the prudish old buzzard.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “Why would you dance with an old thing like me when there are younger and prettier partners to be found?”

He decided to be equally as blunt. “Perhaps because I can be reasonably certain
your
mama won’t take it as an intention of marriage.”

Lady Westwood grinned. “So that’s why you’ve been hiding in the corner all evening! I might have known they’d be on you like flies on sugar.” She patted his hand in a maternal gesture. “Drink your champagne, dear boy. That will give you strength.”

Brave stared at the glass of sparkling liquid. His mouth watered for a taste of the tart sweetness its scent promised. Surely one little glass of champagne couldn’t hurt, could it? One glass wouldn’t make him lose control.

Cautiously, he lifted the glass to his lips, offered up a brief prayer that he wouldn’t humiliate himself in any way, and drank. It was cool and crisp against his tongue, filling his mouth with a most delightful sensation. He managed to stop himself before he drained the glass in one gulp.

No demons came screaming from the balcony to carry away his soul following his rash action. And it certainly didn’t make him want to drink until he couldn’t think.

“There now!” Lady Westwood cried. “Don’t you feel better? Now, let’s see if we can find you a decent dance partner.”

Brave’s fingers tightened around his glass. “No. Lady Westwood, I beg of you—”

“Sssht! Here she comes.”

Following her stare, Brave almost groaned out loud. Duped. He had been neatly and utterly ensnared. Gliding across the floor toward them in a decidedly ungraceful manner was Lady Westwood’s only granddaughter.

“Et tu, Brute?”
he demanded with a wince.

The old woman stared up at him with eyes that seemed to peer into the very soul of him. He started at the pleading in their faded depths.

“She was a failure this Season, Lord Braven,” she whispered quickly. “Too shy to do anything more than fade farther into the woodwork every time someone even looked at her.” She turned her head to watch the young woman approach. “I daresay a turn about the floor with a handsome, sought-after earl who rarely comes out into society would do wonders for her popularity and confidence.”

It was the love in her voice that was Brave’s undoing. That and the picture of a shy young girl standing alone, waiting for someone to ask her to dance. He knew how it felt to be rejected and how easy it was to withdraw into oneself. He also knew of the bitterness it could breed.

“I would be honored,” he replied softly, just as the girl reached them.

Lady Westwood did not reply, but seized his hand and squeezed.

Introductions were made, and Brave requested the honor of being Lady Victoria’s next dance partner.

“That is, if you are not already spoken for?” he inquired with what he hoped was a charming smile.

Blushing furiously, the young woman smiled, her pale lashes fluttering. “I would be honored, Lord Braven.”

Brave couldn’t remember the last time he felt so good about himself. The smile on his partner’s cherubic face warmed his heart. She was surprisingly light on her feet, and he found himself enjoying the dance—and the disdain of many of the mamas present. No doubt they were incensed that he had asked the local wallflower to dance over their more-deserving daughters. And as long as he kept Lady Victoria talking, he couldn’t think about the past.

It wasn’t until much later, as the Allemande ended and he
escorted a giggling Lady Victoria back to her grandmother, that Brave realized Rachel Ashton had arrived.

She stood, silent and vibrant in a simple gown of muted violet, near, but not part of, a gaggle of laughing pastel-clad young women, seemingly oblivious to their mirth. There was little doubt in Brave’s mind that Rachel herself was what the girls were giggling at. Her gown was obviously old and outdated, her hairstyle too simple to have been created by an experienced abigail. William Ashton would roll over in his grave if he knew his daughter was at an assembly dressed like someone’s poor relative.

It was common in the country to invite every young person of good birth to such a gathering, as young people were often scarce. Rachel’s father had been well thought of in the community, and even though Sir Henry wasn’t, his title made it difficult to totally ignore him or his family.

Despite the fact that she was sorely out of place, Rachel held herself as elegantly as a queen. And she was watching him so intently that his mouth went dry. Her expression was unreadable, but something in her eyes called out to him. All his instincts told him to turn around and walk away from her, but he could no more do that than pretend he hadn’t hoped she would appear.

Vaguely aware of the curious gazes following him, Brave moved toward her. One by one, the young ladies around her caught notice of his approach and began nudging and whispering to each other.

He was not so daft that he didn’t realize they were all hoping to be the one who had caught his attention. In the country a young man with a good fortune was considered a prime catch, and a young earl with a large fortune was open game. They’d been stalking him all evening.

Like ducks bobbing on a pond, the curtsies began, each delving deeper than the one before in an effort to garner his notice. Brave smiled blindly at them all, his gaze darting
back to the woman who had bewitched him simply by allowing him to save her life. A woman so proud that she would risk ridicule rather than stay at home, where others believed she belonged.

“Miss Ashton,” he said, surprising himself with the confident tone of his voice. He bowed and took her hand. “How lovely it is to see you again.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Brave watched as half a dozen mouths dropped open. He smiled.

Rachel curtsied. “Lord Braven. It is indeed a pleasure to find you here at our little assembly. Are you enjoying yourself?” Her voice was steady, her tone polite, but Brave detected the slightest hint of a tremor in her honey-smooth voice. Obviously it was harder for her to face the gossipmongers than he initially believed.