Julia London 4 Book Bundle (20 page)

He squirmed at that thought—such sentiments were dangerous. He did not want to feel, had spent
years
learning not to feel. The few times he had allowed himself the privilege disaster had struck. His mother, God rest her soul. Benedict. Lord God, his cousin Phillip, whose death stood as a grotesque monument to the pain his feelings brought him. The moment he allowed himself to feel was the moment disaster struck.
That
was the quality of his mercy.

Yet he
was
feeling something, and it scared him to death.

Adrian suddenly drained the snifter. Disaster would not happen here. It was his duty to see to it that their lives were kept perfectly normal, that they lived without the entanglement of needless, hurtful emotions that were neither necessary nor welcome.

He closed his eyes against a headache that was threatening to erupt. Whatever Lilliana wanted of him, whatever made her cry at night, she would eventually learn to overcome. Her youth made her fragile, and he had a responsibility to make sure some misguided feelings for him did not destroy her. And to make sure that they did not, he would do her the enormous favor of keeping a respectable distance, both figuratively and physically.

He was doing just that when he heard the crash the next morning. Frowning, he glanced at the door, hearing the distinct sounds of giant paws and liny yelps in the corridor. With a sigh, he walked to the door and pulled it open, scowling at the detestable little creatures who were apparently oblivious of the expensive vase they had knocked from a console in their play. “Idiot runts,” he muttered, ignoring the excited wagging of their tails. “Go find your mistress,” he said, walking back into his study and yanking on the bellpull. He paused then to check his pocket watch against the mantel clock, not bothering to look up when the door opened, intent on setting the time of his watch. “Have someone clean that mess,” he uttered.

“Yes, my lord,” Max said.

“Good day, Adrian.”

Adrian’s head jerked up; his heart suddenly began thumping with a surge of anxiety.

Benedict.

     
H
IS HEART WAS
beating erratically, but Adrian calmly snapped his pocket watch shut and slipped it into his waistcoat. “What brings you to Longbridge? Did Archie send you?” he asked casually, and glanced up at his brother.

Benedict flushed. “No!”

Adrian’s brow lifted with skepticism. “Then you came to see Lilliana—”

“No!” Benedict hastily responded, his flush turning crimson. “I came to see
you
, Adrian.”

He didn’t believe that for a moment, and chuckled derisively. “Perhaps I should assume you covet Longbridge too?”

With an uncharacteristically icy glare, Benedict snapped, “I do not covet anything of yours, and I never have! I can hardly abide what has happened, so much so that I have come to see if we can set things right between us!”

Set things right between them? And how in God’s name did he propose to do
that
? Years stood between them, years of distrust, of turmoil … the sound of laughter suddenly drifted into Adrian’s consciousness.
Lilliana was somewhere nearby, and he suddenly and irrationally did not want her to see his brother. “Rather ambitious undertaking,” he said with a shrug, and strolled to the door, feeling a strange sense of bafflement.

He had assumed he would never see Benedict again, and that was exactly how he had wanted it. The sycophant was a traitor as far as Adrian was concerned, his cowardice keeping him squarely behind Archie until he had obtained Adrian’s rightful inheritance. But as he soundlessly closed the door of his study, the only thing Adrian could see was Benedict’s eyes the day of the wedding. The longing as he had watched Lilliana. The unambiguous look of grief.

A pain stabbed at his eyes. “Shall I fetch you a drink? A brandy perhaps?” Adrian offered.

“Whiskey,” Benedict muttered.

Silently, Adrian moved to the sideboard and poured two very stout whiskeys. He handed one to Benedict, who took it uncertainly. “Adrian, please believe me. What Father did … I had no prior knowledge of it. It surprised me as much as it did you.”

Adrian smiled thinly. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that?” he asked, and lifting his glass in a mock toast, gulped a mouthful of whiskey, hoping the burn would dull the pain in his head.

“It is so!” Benedict blustered impatiently. “How could I have known? Father was in London and I was at the Park. I did not know about Phillip—”

“Phillip’s death,” Adrian interjected impassionately, “had little to do with it, Benedict. Archie has contrived for years to do what he did. You know that.”

Benedict blinked and shifted his gaze to the whiskey he held, staring into the small glass for a long moment before swigging a mouthful. “Nonetheless, it was Phillip’s death at your hand that drove him to it,” he muttered hoarsely.

Phillip’s death at his hand—how succinctly put, Adrian mused, and turned to the sideboard for more whiskey.

“Bloody hell, I had not meant to start this way, I swear it,” Benedict groaned. “You must believe that I want only to make amends. I know there is much between you and Father—I don’t know why, I have
never
known why! But … but I am not a party to it. I am helpless to affect the situation, and as you say, he was bound and determined. I cannot change what he did, but it doesn’t alter my feelings for you!”

Adrian stood with his back to Benedict, pouring another whiskey and quietly absorbing each word like a knife in his back. “Your feelings for me?” he asked, and turned slowly, eyeing his brother with disdain. “Your
feelings
for me were decidedly absent that morning at the Park.”

“I was as stunned as you were,” Benedict said meekly.

Benedict was a liar. He had known before Adrian ever stepped foot in that library what Archie had done. Adrian strolled to his desk where he absently and blindly sifted through a stack of papers. Benedict had damn well known. But … what could he have done? What could one weak-willed man have done?

“I scarcely believed it,” Benedict continued raggedly. “I
still
cannot believe it. So many times I have tried to understand, but I see no reason for his disdain. It is as it has always been … unwavering. And unfounded. I have no idea why—”

“Have you ever asked him?” Adrian asked quietly.

A palpable tension filled the room; silence stretched between them as Adrian nonchalantly flipped through the papers. “No,” Benedict mumbled at last. “Have you?”

Adrian briefly considered telling his brother the truth, but to do so would denigrate his mother. Moreover, it would allow Benedict to know the true power he held over him. He shrugged carelessly and sipped his whiskey.

Benedict sighed. “Whatever his reasoning, it is not fair. And I tried, I swear to you I
tried
to make him
understand that you are … I have tried to make him see you as I do,” he said wearily, and Adrian heard him put the glass down and move toward him. “I have admired you since I was a lad, Adrian, and the thought of a permanent estrangement between us is not to be borne.”

Staring blindly at the desk, Adrian did not for a moment believe the words he was hearings yet he could see nothing but the pain on Benedict’s face at the wedding. And then, as was inevitable, the pain on Phillip’s face in death. Phillip had admired him too. And he had let both men down.

The pain in his head was excruciating. Adrian closed his eyes tightly shut against the images and downed the second glass of whiskey. Whatever Benedict was, he was not, in all fairness, Archie. Adrian’s sole complaint against his brother was that he had taken his father’s side in a monumental battle of wills. And for that, Adrian had struck back by marrying Lilliana. How contemptible it all seemed now. “I am sorry about Lilliana,” he said suddenly, surprised that the secret sentiment should somehow find its way to his tongue.

“Lilliana?” Benedict said uncertainly.

Adrian turned to face him, expressionless. “I am sorry if I caused you any hurt by marrying her,” he said simply.

Benedict’s face darkened, and he suddenly focused on the cuff of his shirt, straightening it to perfection. “You didn’t hurt me,” he snorted. “I never harbored any real affection for her. She just seemed the sort to make a good wife. She was nothing to me.”

Liar. Even now, fidgeting with his cuff as he was, Adrian could read much into the firm set of his brother’s mouth—he had held her in great esteem.

And naturally, the object of his esteem should choose that inopportune time to poke her head in the library. “Adrian?” She gasped upon seeing Benedict, and suddenly sailed through, the two mongrels close behind.
“Benedict!”
she cried. For a moment Adrian thought she would fling herself into his brother’s arms, and gritted
his teeth. But she stopped just short, grabbing Benedict’s hand and gracing him with a gorgeous dimpled smile.

Benedict caught her elbow as he kicked at one of the dogs that had sprung up on his hind legs and planted two soggy paws on his trouser leg. “Lilliana, how good to see you,” he exclaimed, turning his attention to her fully when the pups spied Adrian and came loping forward. For once, Adrian hardly noticed the insufferable little creatures. “You look radiant,” Benedict was saying, and smiled at her like a simpleton.
She was nothing, eh, Benedict?
Only a blind man could not see how he adored her.

Lilliana’s eyes danced with laughter. “Did you come alone? Are you to stay on awhile? I must hear all the news! I had a letter from Caroline, and she fears—”

“You may tell your sister that Mr. Feather eagerly awaits her return! I daresay he will never give up!” Benedict said, smiling.

“Oh, how
charming.
I hope Papa relents. He calls him Mr. Featherbrain, you know,” Lilliana said, pulling Benedict to a settee. “And have you heard from Tom? He has written only once since I left!”

“Tom is quite content in Bath. Now if only someone would explain that to Miss Mary Davis,” Benedict laughingly responded.

“No!” Lilliana exclaimed. “Oh, you must tell me everything!”

And Benedict eagerly began to relate what had transpired at some country dance, puffing up like a rooster every time she smiled—which was often. Lilliana anxiously sat forward, hanging on every word he uttered as the pups collapsed at her feet to have their midday wash.

An extraordinary feeling of distress swept over Adrian as he watched them. He had kept them apart, two people who clearly deserved each other. He had not seen such joy on Lilliana’s face since—

The surprising pang of jealousy roiled through his belly, and he clamped his jaw firmly shut.
Unbelievable!
He had to be mad to feel any jealousy! Was this the quality of his mercy—the guilt, the jealousy, the lifetime of knowing he had caused another being unnecessary pain? His headache was beginning to blind him now, and he started for the door, glad to let the two of them ramble on about people he did not know or want to know, events he could not care less about.

“Adrian?” Liliiana’s voice stopped him. “Please sit with us! Surely you want to hear all the news?” she asked anxiously.

Adrian glanced at Benedict. “I rather think he shall be here for a few days, won’t you, Ben? Enjoy your chat I will catch up with him later,” he said, and walked out of the door before the pain in his head brought him to his knees.

A few days quickly turned into a week; Benedict showed no sign of leaving. As Adrian watched his brother escort his wife to the orangery one morning, he knew he had nothing to complain of, really. Benedict had been on his best behavior, and from all outward appearances, he genuinely seemed to desire reconciliation between them. He was exceedingly respectful of Lilliana—and she certainly seemed to enjoy his company.

Adrian could hardly look at the two of them without feeling the burden of his enormous guilt. Somehow, Benedict and Phillip had joined together in his mind, both painful reminders of his failures. And Lilliana—even years of studied practice at suppressing emotion could not keep him from the oppressive distress he felt about her any longer. If by some miracle she did not cry when he left her at night, he was made miserable by the knowledge that the man who might have made her happy was in his house. He found himself sullenly wondering if she might have shown Benedict the same stark passion, if she might have released
him
to the heavens with her lovemaking.

Adrian watched the two of them bundled up against
the late winter chill, walking side by side. Benedict walked with his face tilted toward her as if what she had to say was the most fascinating thing on earth. It was too late for them now. He had created this hell for all of them, and there was nothing that could be done for it.

But work.

Adrian was not the only one wondering how long Benedict would be at Longbridge. Lilliana surreptitiously watched her brother-in-law stroll about the orangery, admiring the many paintings she had hung there. His constant presence was beginning to grate on her; there seemed no place she could go to be away from him—or his quips about Adrian.

“Your talent is remarkable, Lilliana,” he said.

Uncomplimentary little quips, she thought, and smiled sheepishly as she donned her apron. “You mustn’t flatter me, Benedict.”

“I do not flatter you! You really are very talented!” he insisted, and pivoted, looking at her curiously. “There is so much about you that is unique. I marvel at it.”

Lilliana laughed and sheepishly turned to study the canvas in front of her.

“Ah, this is particularly lovely,” Benedict said, and pointed to a painting of the river that ran through Longbridge. “Such talent, Lilliana. But surely Adrian tells you so all the time.”

A queasiness in the pit of her belly rose up, the same queasiness she felt every time Benedict mentioned Adrian. It was as if she were playing a part in some strange little play, a role in which she must pretend all was well with her husband because she was desperate that Benedict not discover the truth. If he knew how unimportant she was in her own household, he would certainly tell Tom, if not her parents. How long would it be before the entire parish knew the Rogue could
scarcely tolerate her? The sting of humiliation began to creep up her neck.