Undressed (Undone by Love) (6 page)

“Subtlety is not your strong suit, is it, Jane?” he said under his breath, leaning toward his sister
. She only grinned in reply. “A wasted effort,” he added. In truth, his blood began to stir at the thought of finding himself alone in Brenna’s company once more, and he cursed himself such weakness.

What else would the naive girl say, furthering his erotic visions of her—visions that he must banish from his mind or he’d go mad
? Never in his life had he entertained such impure thoughts about an innocent—an innocent who would return to Scotland come autumn, he reminded himself. Who did not need the blight of his association, besides. And who was in no way the kind of woman he should marry. If she’d even have him; her talk of returning to Scotland and her life there made it seem unlikely.

Bloody hell, he was losing his mind
. Little more than a sennight ago he’d thought himself in love with Honoria, eager to ask for her hand. And now here he was, sniffing around this enigmatic Scotswoman like a hound. And further ruining her prospects in the process. Maybe he
was
a reprobate after all.

For several minutes, they walked in silence
. Finally Colin chanced a look at Brenna’s face, cast into shadows by the brim of her straw bonnet. The exertion had brought a flush to her cheeks, staining them the faintest petal pink. Her eyes shone, round and wide under a thick fringe of lashes. A smile danced on her lips, dimpling one cheek in a delightful fashion. He supposed her features were what one would consider rather ordinary, except for her brilliantly hued eyes. Surely the fashionable set would scoff at the freckles that dotted her nose. Yet there was no denying that her face delighted him in every way. True, she was not a dazzling beauty, not what the
ton
would call an
Incomparable
. But she was exceptionally pretty nonetheless, in a simple, fresh-faced way. Her countenance bespoke of intelligence and sensibility; how, he could not exactly say. Yet it did. And it was damn bloody appealing, too.

“Are ye finished, Mr. Rosemoor?” she asked, her eyes never veering from the path ahead, the smile never leaving her lips
.

He started in surprise, drawn from his ruminations
. “Am I finished what?”

“Why, examining me, of course.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”  Had he been so obvious? Even if he had, most English misses would not have dared to comment on it.

“Hmm, if you say so.”

“Yes, well...ahem. I say, you must have left many broken hearts behind in Scotland.”

“Nay, sir, none at all,” she answered honestly, all coyness gone
.

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“’Tis true, I’m afraid. I hadn’t the time for such things as flirtations. I was busy running an estate, ye know.” 

“Still, most women think of marriage
. Far more than they should, from what I’ve gathered listening to my sisters talk.”

“Oh, one day, when the time comes, I’ll take a husband
. There are several men I respect in Lochaber, men I’ve known all my life who would be pleased to add Glenbroch to their holdings. Men who work their own land, Mr. Rosemoor, as I do. We haven’t had the time or leisure to devote to the frivolities of courtship, as the English are so fond of.”  Her tone was light, playful, even as she scolded him. “But someday...”  She shrugged. “How about ye, Mr. Rosemoor? Surely ye have broken many a heart in your time.”

“Spend an afternoon in any Mayfair drawing room and you’ll hear tales that I have broken dozens.”  He shook his head
. “I should be so lucky. The truth is, most ladies see me as the brotherly type—the type they dance with and confide in while the true objects of their affection, the very rakes and rogues they protest about, look on.”

“But why, then, do they tell tales about ye that aren’t true?”

“Because the
ton
prefers a scandal to the truth any day. They delight in them; they revel in spreading lies and untruths amongst themselves. It gives them something to do. And at the present, I’m their favorite scandal. I should be honored, really.”

She shook her head
. “Truly, I’ll never understand the English.”

“Are the English really so very different from the Scots?”

“Perhaps such intrigues play out in Edinburgh. I wouldna know. But the people of Lochaber—
my
people—are a more industrious lot. We have far better ways to occupy our time and our minds.”

“I’m not entirely sure I believe you
. Human nature is universal, after all.”

“’Tis true, but only idleness and lack of meaningful occupation can nurture such tendencies, I think
. And in my opinion, the English are far too idle. At least, those who reside in Mayfair are.”

“Those like me, you mean?”

“Nay, I didna mean...that is, I’m sure ye...well...”  She’d never appeared so discomposed. “Ye must forgive me, Mr. Rosemoor. I spoke without thought.”

“Don’t apologize, Lady Brenna
. You speak the truth. Would you like to hear how I put my time to use whilst in Town? I rise after ten, some days as late as noon. I read my papers over my coffee, allow my valet to help me dress, spend the afternoon at my club—or at least I did until my membership was revoked.”  His breathing became fast as his anger mounted, and he reached up to loosen his cravat.

“At five, I might take a ride down Rotten Row, just to be fashionable
. My evenings are spent solely in the pursuit of pleasure, attending balls and soirees, routs and musicales, perhaps the opera or theater. And then I might end the night in one gaming hell or another, enjoying a hand or two of cards and a bottle of brandy—well, more like gin these days—before retiring to my lodgings. And if I’m lucky, I might wake in the morning to find some unknown woman in my bed and no idea how she came to be there.”

He heard her shocked gasp at his vulgar words, yet he continued on
. “That, my dear, is how I spend my days in Town. Lovely, isn’t it? Have you a better example of idleness to offer?”

Only then did he notice that they’d stopped strolling and stood facing each other by the banks of the canal
. He reached a hand up to his temple, disgusted that his hand shook as he did so. “You must forgive me, Lady Brenna. I had no right to speak to you in such a manner.”

“Nay, Mr. Rosemoor
. I deserved the comeuppance. Who am I to preach to ye? Ye must think me a self-righteous shrew.”

“No, not a shrew.”  He reached for her hand
. “Not at all.”

“I shouldna have spoken so carelessly
. ‘Tis just that I forget...that is, ye seem so verra different from the rest, from Hugh and the other gentlemen I’ve become acquainted with.”  She swept her gaze from the top of his beaver hat to the tips of his boots. “Despite your appearance, that is.”  At last, a tentative smile reappeared on her lovely face.

At once the tension in his body seemed to dissipate
. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And whatever does that mean?” he asked, releasing her hand.

“Well, look at ye
. Not a crease in your trousers. Your neck cloth is knotted into...Well, I canna even describe it, but it looks as if it took hours to accomplish.”  She lowered her gaze to his feet. “Your boots are like a looking glass, so polished are they. And truly, no man in Lochaber would take his afternoon exercise in both waistcoat and coat, not on a day as fine and warm as this.”

“Is that so?” he countered
. “And have you taken a look at your own attire?”

She glanced down at her dress, skimming her hands across the folds of the skirts
. “I know. ‘Tis silly, isna it? A ‘walking dress’ they call it. There are morning dresses, walking dresses, riding habits... a different gown for every purpose. This one
is
bonny, though.”

“It is,” he murmured
. “Made more so by its wearer.”

She did not heed the compliment
. “And to think, I used to believe that simple woolens were all one needed.”

“I must say, I’m glad you changed your mind on that count.”  Again, he reached for her hand, grasping her gloved one in his, stroking her palm with his thumb through the kidskin
.

She kept her gaze on their joined hands, as if mesmerized, but said nothing.

“Brenna?”  Her given name slipped easily off his tongue. The sounds of the park receded, becoming nothing but a hum in the distance. He was conscious of nothing save the sight of her tongue, darting out to wet her lips. Then her gaze rose and met his, and the breath seemed to leave his body in a rush.

“Yes, Colin?” she asked, her voice low and husky
.

“There you are.”

Colin spun toward his sister’s voice, dropping Brenna’s hand as he did so. He swallowed hard as Jane approached, smiling broadly, with Lady Wellesley by her side.

“I wanted to introduce Bren—Lady Margaret to Lady Wellesley,” Jane said gaily, though he saw her eyes dart suspiciously from Brenna to him and back to Brenna again
.

What had they seen
? Or worse yet, heard? He wanted to kiss Brenna. More than anything, he wanted to take her in his arms, right there by the canal, and kiss her till her legs went weak, till she clung to him in desperation, calling out his name over and over again.

He forced himself to look at her, standing there demurely, clasping her hands in front of herself while Jane made the introductions
. She looked like an angel, as unspoiled and untouched as any woman he’d ever met. God’s teeth, he
was
a rogue. He would be the ruin of her yet.

“If you’ll pardon me, ladies.”  Without another word, he turned and walked away, wishing to put as much distance between himself and Brenna as possible, yet wanting more than anything to remain by her side forever
.

Chapter
6

“Ye wished to see me?” Brenna asked, stepping into the salon. Her mother sat in a stuffed chintz chair before the fire, her father standing behind his wife with one hand resting upon her shoulder. Brenna’s palms suddenly felt damp, and she wiped them across her skirts as her heart fluttered in anticipation. Why ever had they summoned her? Had she done something to displease them?

“Please have a seat, my dear.”  Her father motioned toward the sofa directly across from them.

Brenna nodded and took a seat, clasping her hands in her lap. She waited expectantly as her mother glanced up at her father.

“Ahem
. Well, then. Yes. Your mother tells me that you spent the day at St. James’s Park with Miss Jane Rosemoor.”

“’Tis true
. I like her verra much, sir.”

“Yes, yes
. Capital. But she also tells me that Miss Rosemoor’s brother, Mr. Colin Rosemoor, joined you on this outing, taking refreshments with you and squiring you about the promenades and such.”

“Aye, he did.”  Her hands grew suddenly cold
. “We were introduced at Lady Brandon’s soiree.”  It wasn’t entirely true, as they were never formally introduced. But she thought it wise not to mention the true nature of their initial encounters, either here at home or in Lady Brandon’s garden. She somehow doubted either would be deemed appropriate.

“Well, my dear, first impressions are often misleading
. I’m afraid he is not the gentleman he may seem to be. Young Rosemoor has always had a bit of a wild, reckless streak in him, but now he’s gone too far.”

“Much too far,” her mother interjected, her mouth set in a hard line
. “Despite his fine family and advantageous connections, he has—”

“But none of it is true.”  Brenna rose, her hands balled into fists by her sides
. “Mr. Rosemoor is an honorable man.”

“Says who?” her mother asked
. “Miss Rosemoor? Of course she would take up for her brother.”

“Nay, Miss Rosemoor has said nothing about her brother
. But Colin has said—”

“
Colin
?” her father barked, his face reddening. “Has he trifled with you, Margaret?”

Her mother leaned back in her chair, rapidly fanning her face
. “Dear Lord above. I need my vinaigrette!”

“Nay, sir
. Of course he has not trifled with me. He is a gentleman in every respect.”

“A gentleman
? Bah.”  Her mother sat upright, her fan suddenly stilled in her lap. “Did he tell you that he has been cast from White’s? That he was caught red-handed, fleecing the Duke of Glastonbury out of a fair amount of blunt? That he’s no longer received in any respectable drawing room in all of London?”

“Yes, but—”

“There are no buts, Margaret,” her mother interrupted. “What about that business last week in Covent Garden? Did he tell you about that? About Lord Mandeville dragging Mr. Rosemoor out of some seedy public house just before he’d compromised the barkeep’s wife? It is only thanks to Mandeville’s interference that Mr. Rosemoor did not have to face the man the next morning in the meadow over a brace of pistols. I’m sure he did not tell you about that now, did he?”

Brenna shook her head, bewildered, as she sank back onto the sofa
. It couldna be true.
Could it
? With a sinking heart, she realized just how much she hoped it wasn’t. Why did the thought of him with another woman make her stomach pitch? After all, she’d only just met him. It wasn’t as if she’d developed an attachment to him, not in so short a time.
Had she
? It didn’t matter if she had; the attachment would end now, before it was too late. Before she made a fool of herself. “Nay, he did not tell me about that,” she said at last, willing her churning emotions to abate and her voice to steady.   

“Colin Rosemoor is a liar and a cheat, a man without honor
. In short, a rogue.”  Her father shook his head. “I do not know what games the scoundrel is playing, insinuating himself into your life and encouraging you to address him so intimately—”

“I assume her dowry has something to do with it,” her mother put in, her lips curled into an unbecoming scowl
. “He is far enough under the hatches, from what I hear.”

Her father nodded in agreement, his face now a mottled red
. “Likely so. By all accounts, he’s nearly done up. His entire fortune, squandered on drink and debauchery.”

Brenna inhaled sharply
. Nearly done up? Was it really so bad as that? Could his attentions truly have been nothing more than an attempt to secure her dowry? A heated flush began to climb her neck as she cursed her own naïveté. No, her mind countered. It couldna be true. Surely there was some other explanation.

“You shall cease all association with him at once,” her father’s voice boomed
. “Have I made myself clear on that count, Margaret?”

She could not do what he asked of her
. Could she? Had she so thoroughly misjudged Colin Rosemoor?

“Answer your father, Margaret,” her mother demanded
.

“I...I suppose so,” she stammered, realizing that she had no choice, not while she remained under their roof and their protection
. “But what of Miss Rosemoor? Surely she canna be held responsible for her brother’s misbehavior.”

Her mother glanced at her father, who nodded
. “Miss Rosemoor is a particular favorite amongst the
ton
, and I cannot imagine that her position in society will be affected overmuch. Yes, you may continue your acquaintance with her, so long as you avoid her brother at all costs.”  Her mother eyed her sharply. “Have I your word?”

Brenna knew she must comply with her parents’ wishes
. Even so, she had to swallow an uncomfortable lump in her throat before replying. “Yes, Lady Danv—Mama, I meant.” 

Her father clapped his hands together, clearly pleased to be done with the discourse
. His anger seemed to ebb away all at once, as if the strain of such strong emotion had drained him. “Yes, then, very good. Capital. You’ll excuse me, my dears. I’ll just be in my study.”  With a tight smile, he strode over to Brenna and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, then took his leave.

Her mother rose before her, gesturing for Brenna to follow suit
. “Now, Margaret, you must begin to prepare for dinner. Your brother has asked a guest to join us, and you must look your loveliest.”  She paused to eye Brenna sharply. “Perhaps the sapphire silk gown will do nicely.”

“And who is this guest that I must dress so elegantly for?”

“Lord Thomas Sinclair, second son of the Duke of Eston. A very well-bred young man, and Hugh finds him most agreeable. Fifteen thousand pounds a year, Hugh says, and not a farthing less.”  She reached for Brenna’s hand with a smile. “Lord Thomas is eager to make your acquaintance.”

“I suppose we shan’t disappoint him, then,” Brenna muttered
. With a heavy heart, she set off to find her maid.

Far too many hours later, Brenna stepped out of the sapphire silk gown with a huff.

“Careful, miss. You’ll tear the hem, you will, stomping about like that.”  With a scowl, Celeste gathered up the soft blue folds and gently shook them out.

Brenna strode to the vanity and, still inwardly fuming, began to pull the seed-pearl pins from her hair
. One by one, the pins clattered to the marble as her hair fell softly across her bare shoulders.

“Let me help you, miss.”  Celeste reached for the silver brush lying on the vanity.

“Nay, I can do it myself.”  Seeing the maid’s face fall, Brenna immediately regretted her churlishness. “Ye must forgive me, Celeste. I dinna mean to snap at ye. I’m just feeling a wee bit out of sorts, is all. Go on to bed,” she said gently. “I can get into my nightdress myself.”

Celeste bobbed a curtsy
. “If you say so, miss.”

“Good night, Celeste,” Brenna said, rising and reaching for the young maid’s hand
. Celeste had been some sort of lesser servant, a laundry maid, perhaps, and was only recently elevated to lady’s maid. Light blue eyes under pale brows eyed Brenna curiously as she tugged her hand from her mistress’s grasp.

“Good night, then, miss.”  With a shake of her head, Celeste took her leave, softly shutting the door behind her
.

Brenna slumped back onto the padded seat before her dressing table
. She exhaled in a rush, wishing to forget the evening’s unpleasantness. She grasped the cool handle of the brush and began to run it through her hair, staring back at her own reflection as she did so. Her face appeared drawn, her mouth pinched. It most certainly had
not
been an enjoyable evening, and her countenance certainly showed the strain.

Oh, Lord Thomas Sinclair had been polite enough, his manners impeccable and his attentions solicitous
. He was no doubt a handsome man as well. Perhaps too handsome for his own good. Yet there was something wolfish about his smile, and his eyes possessed a predatory glint that made her shudder. Several times during dinner she’d looked up from her plate and seen him watching her, his gaze possessive and full of heat. As if he...he
owned
her already. And it was clear that that was her brother’s intention—that Lord Thomas should own her.

When Lord Thomas had at last prepared to take his leave, he’d reached for Brenna’s hand and raised it to his lips while his fingers had stroked her palm
. There had been something suggestive about the touch, and when her surprised gaze flew up to meet his, he’d winked at her. Or perhaps he’d had something in his eye, her mind countered charitably. No, she was very sure it had been a wink, the rogue.

No doubt Hugh was in collusion with him
. She’d watched her brother escort their guest to the front hall, the pair conversing in low, hushed tones, then throwing their heads back and laughing aloud, as if they had shared a most amusing joke. She’d paused on the landing and distinctly heard Hugh say, “Didn’t I say she was exactly your type?”  At that, Brenna had scurried up the stairs without waiting for the distasteful man’s reply.  

Brenna smacked the brush back down on the marble, wincing at the sharp sound
.
Exactly his type?
Rubbish. What did he know of her? Even her own brother knew very little of her true character, her interests and enjoyments. Hugh wouldn’t entertain talk of her years at Glenbroch. As far as he was concerned, her life began the day she arrived at Danville House.

She rose and padded across the room, taking a seat on the edge of the bed
. Hera crawled out from beneath the bed and rubbed against Brenna’s bare ankles. She reached down and scooped up the cat, depositing her on her lap. After several strokes, the cat was purring loudly.

“Oh, Hera, I do believe Colin Rosemoor understands me better than my own brother does.”  Spoken aloud, the thought startled her, warming her cheeks
. But it was the truth, plain and simple. If Mr. Rosemoor had winked at her whilst bidding her a good night, she would have found the gesture amusing, not disconcerting. It would have been done in jest; it would not have seemed lascivious or indecent in any way, shape, or form.

And then her parents’ warning came crashing down on her consciousness
. A liar, her father had called Mr. Rosemoor. He’d nearly compromised a barkeep’s wife, for God’s sake, in Covent Garden of all places. Brenna knew enough about London and its environs to know that a respectable gentleman—a viscount’s son—did not wish to be seen patronizing such an establishment. There were enough public houses in London’s fashionable districts to serve men of reputation and character. A gentleman only ventured to such seedy districts as Covent Garden when one was desirous of participating in illegal—or illicit—activities. Brenna could only wonder which it was that had lured Mr. Rosemoor there on the night in question. Considering the way in which the night had ended—with the threat of a duel—she supposed it must have been the latter.

She scowled, continuing to stroke the cat’s fur
. Now that she’d been forbidden to associate with the man, she’d likely never learn the truth, especially if the
ton
truly preferred gossip to fact, as Mr. Rosemoor had suggested. Perhaps it was for the best, she reminded herself. Scratching the cat beneath the chin, she met Hera’s steady, green gaze. “Perhaps I
have
let myself grow too fond of Mr. Rosemoor, haven’t I, Hera?”  No sense in that, especially as she planned to return to Glenbroch come autumn. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she valiantly struggled to force away all thoughts of Mr. Rosemoor. Setting Hera on the bed, she rose to fetch her nightclothes from the high bureau in the room’s corner.

She pulled her chemise over her head and replaced it with a soft, lawn night rail
. As she buttoned the tiny pearl buttons at her throat, her mind was involuntarily drawn back to Lord Thomas Sinclair. Just his type, was she? Very well; she would make it her aim to ascertain exactly what his type was, and then fashion herself entirely the opposite.

Shaking her head, she blew out the candle beside her bed and settled herself under the bedcovers, rubbing her cheek against the soft-as-silk linen
. Their own linens back at Glenbroch seemed almost coarse in comparison, yet she’d always found them perfectly acceptable before now.