The Bachelor Trap (23 page)

Kerr seemed taken aback, as though his honesty was in question. He shook his head. “I'm afraid I can't do that. You might say that the evidence is my insurance, in case anything happens to me. I'm not a fool. If anything were to happen to me, my sworn statement along with the evidence will be in the hands of my attorney, and he will know how to proceed.”

Brand laughed. “Then all I can say is ‘Do your worst!' I'll take Marion in her shift if she'll have me.”

Kerr stared. “And what about your career in politics?”

“I've weathered worse storms. However, I'd still like to save Marion any embarrassment, but on my terms.”

The haggling became serious after that, but on one thing Brand would not budge. He was buying the evidence as well as David Kerr's silence. At the back of his mind, however, he was devising ways to punish this man. There were huge gaps in his story that had yet to be told. Brand hadn't accused him of anything because Kerr was still in a position to hurt Marion.

Once the danger was over, however, retribution would follow. Meanwhile, all he wanted from Marion were some straight answers.

Marion lay on top of her bed, fully clothed, listening to the constant gurgle of the rain as it spilled from the eaves and splashed off the roof of the hotel's front portico beneath her window. She was waiting for her maid to return with a jug of hot water for her ablutions and a glass of medicinal brandy to dull her senses.

The last thing she wanted was to dwell on her troubles, so she pictured the scene outside—roofs and windows slicked with rain; eaves dripping; carriages throwing up streams of water as they drove through puddles; horses neighing and tossing their heads; Brand combing his fingers through his damp hair—

She groaned. Now she understood the lure of brandy. Oblivion—that's what she wanted.

Since her ploy to evade thinking about her troubles wasn't working, she hauled herself up and got out of bed. The fire in the grate had not been lit because this was June, the beginning of summer, and only the elderly or the infirm did not lose face by lighting fires. Everyone else shivered in silence. The English liked to think that they were a hardy race.

That's how she liked to think of herself: hardy, capable, in command of every situation. And what a fraud she was! Oddly enough, the thought of telling Brand about her parents did not agitate her nearly as much as the thought of telling her sisters. He had suffered all his life from the stigma of his birth. He would understand. But her sisters would be stricken, their safe and comfortable life shattered. They would become objects of curiosity, objects of scorn and laughter.

She tried to rehearse in her mind what she would say to them, but all she'd come up with so far was that they had done no wrong so they had nothing to be ashamed of. It was easy to say, but when fingers started pointing—as they would—they would all share in their parents' disgrace.

Dear Lord, how could she have permitted them to have a Season in London? How could she have trusted David Kerr to keep his word? How could she have allowed herself to become engaged to Brand? Once, she and her sisters were provincial nobodies. Now the whole world knew about them. Their names and faces would be recognized wherever they went.

And it was all her fault.

She was starting to shiver again. She glared at the cold fireplace for a long moment, then, coming to a decision, took the candle from the mantelpiece and set it to the kindling. When the fire blazed to life, she gave a defiant nod. So, she was a weakling. There was no one there to see her.

On her way to the dresser to find her warm robe, she stumbled over her evening pumps and paused to pick them up. There wasn't a scratch on them. She gave a teary sniff, remembering how she'd felt when she'd put them on to go out with Brand. A great deal could happen in the space of a few hours.

A discreet knock on the door brought her head up. Finally, her maid had returned. Tossing the shoes on the bed, she went to let her in.

When she opened the door, however, it was not Doris who stood on the threshold, but Brand. For one wild moment, she thought he had stepped out of her imagination. His dark hair was windblown and glistening with raindrops. His jacket was open, his neckcloth askew. But it was his eyes that held hers, blue, blue eyes that were burning brightly with some strong emotion that held him in its grip.

He knew everything.

She wanted his respect and admiration, not his pity. A look from him, a word, would break the dam of her pent-up emotions. Tomorrow she would face him, but not tonight.

“You…” She cleared her throat. “You shouldn't be here. People will only think the worst.”

“I met an old friend of yours tonight,” he said. “David Kerr. So I already know the worst.” He paused, then went on in the same pleasant tone, “I met your maid on the stairs and told her to get off to bed.”

Smiling faintly, he stepped into the room and kicked the door shut. “What shall I do with these?”

He held a jug in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other. As she studied him warily, she realized that he was spoiling for a fight, and it was the last thing she expected. He must know what she had endured in the last hour—the dashed hopes, the anguish, the fear of imminent exposure. She'd expected comfort, sympathy, anything but this coolly commanding stranger asking her where he should put her brandy and jug of hot water.

She didn't want pity, but the injustice of his unfeeling manner began to grate. “I'll take the brandy,” she said, as cool as ice, “and you may deposit the jug in the washbasin.”

He handed her the glass and set the jug on the washstand. Having done that, he came back to her. With a smile that wasn't a smile, he said, “Drink the brandy.”

Keeping a careful eye on him, she took a small sip, then another. The fiery liquid gave her nose a pleasant buzz and sent a welcoming heat to her chilled bones. She took another sip, then another, each more minuscule than the last, hoping to delay the inevitable moment when she would have to defend herself.

She couldn't drink any more. She wasn't used to strong spirits; one more sip would make her choke.

As though reading her mind, he took the glass from her and set it on the mantelpiece. “That will do for the moment,” he said. “Feeling better?”

She nodded.

“Good.” His smile vanished and his voice became strident. “Do you know what you have made me suffer, not only in the last few hours, but in the last number of weeks?”

In fact, it was during the last
half
hour that his emotions had made a complete turn, from outrage at David Kerr's presumption to a sense of betrayal at Marion's demonstrable lack of trust. He'd dropped Kerr off at his hotel, just as it started to rain, and had decided that the walk back to the Castle would give him time to reflect on what he should do next. His thoughts had ranged far and wide, but they always returned to the one inalterable conclusion: Marion had not trusted him enough.

“What
you
have suffered? Now just a moment—”

“David Kerr!” His voice had risen dramatically. He turned away from her and began to pace. “When you said his name at the theater, I thought you were afraid of him.”

“I was—”

“But later, when you wouldn't confide in me, I wondered if you were still in love with him.” He stopped pacing and pinned her with a stare. “You even told me so. Shall I ever forget your words? ‘I shall always be half in love with David,' you said.”

She gave a derisory snort, which only seemed to rile him more.

“How could I tell?” he demanded. “All I knew was that every time I got close to you, you pushed me away.”

His anger was beginning to stir strong feelings in her, too. “For your own good!” she cried.

He laughed at that, but it was a mirthless laugh. “And I let you push me away, because I suspected that Kerr had seduced you, or worse, raped you.”

She gave a strangled gasp.

He went on as though he had not heard her. “So, I held myself back in case I frightened you. I didn't want you to think that I was a brute, thinking only of my own pleasure. I took my lead from you. And what did it get me? A cold shoulder.”

That gave her pause. In her own mind, she had responded to his kisses with more passion than she'd thought herself capable of.

Piqued, she retorted, “You took your lead from me? That will be the day!”

“Give me one instance when I have not!” He took a long, calming breath. “I thought…God knows what I thought. For all I knew, you might have had a secret baby that you were hiding away in the wilds of the Lake District.”

Her jaw dropped. “A secret baby? A fine opinion you have of me!”

“Oh, I soon discarded that thought. You were Lady Marion Dane, with all the airs and graces that you were entitled to as an earl's daughter. I was sure your father would have put a bullet in Kerr's brain if he'd dishonored you.”

She heard something in his voice that softened her. “I did not give myself airs and graces. I never thought that I was better than you or anyone else. I was reserved. I didn't want or need a best friend to share all my secrets, and if you've spoken with David, you'll know why.”

“I should not have had to speak to David!”

He plucked her glass of brandy from its perch on the mantelpiece, drained it in one gulp, and set down the glass with a thump.

His voice was harsh. “You and I were friends, closer than friends. And who would know better than I how to advise you? Do you think you are the only one whose parents never married? You should have confided in me.”

Had he said those words in a different tone of voice, she would have been more receptive. But he was attacking her, and she instinctively tipped up her chin. “I should have confided in you?”

“Damn right you should.”

“As you confided in me?”

“What in blazes are you talking about?”

His frown did not intimidate her. She waved her index finger under his nose. “If I'm reserved, you're like a block of granite. Getting information from you is like squeezing a stone. If I had to write a book about you, I could do it in two or three sentences.” She changed her voice as though she were reading from his biography. “‘Mr. Hamilton, the baseborn son of a duke, was raised by his maternal grandfather in plain sight of the ducal mansion'—and who knows what to make of that?” She reverted to her singsong voice before he could interrupt. “‘His father, the duke, paid for his son's education, ensuring that Mr. Hamilton would have a bright future in whatever endeavor he undertook. And let's not forget that he insisted that his son would carry the FitzAlan name. But father and son never reconciled. No one knows why.'”

She stopped and gave him a spare smile. “You see what I mean? I know a few facts about you, but you never elaborate.”

“It's not my way.”

“I understand. My point is that it's not my way, either.”

His eyes were hard and intense. “Your instincts should have told you that you could trust me. You should have told me about Kerr.”

She made a gesture of impatience with one hand. “I didn't see the point. I thought I had taken care of the problem and that I would never hear from him again.”

That wasn't entirely true. She'd
hoped
she would never hear from him again.

He had that stubborn look on his face, and she didn't understand why she was trying to justify herself, except that his opinion mattered to her.

“Look,” she said, “what if you were right about the secret baby? What if I came to you and told you that David was blackmailing me about that. What would you say or do?”

“That's a hypothetical question.”

She pounced on that. “You see? You don't know what you would say or do. Can you wonder that I was afraid to trust anyone?”

“Marion,” he said softly, “I thought you knew me better than that. Of course I know what I would do. I'd claim the child as my own. We'd marry and give him a home.” His hands cupped her shoulders. “That's if you'll have me.” His eyes searched hers. “Is there a baby, Marion? Is that what you're trying to tell me?”

Her breath caught. As she looked into his eyes, her lips parted, but no words came. She couldn't find her voice. Her mind, however, was crystal clear. He meant every word.

And she was engulfed by remorse. What demon had made her spout that nonsense about his early years? He was more, far more than that lonely little boy growing to manhood in the shadow of two bitter adversaries. So he didn't bare his soul even to those who were closest to him. There was no need. He did not let his painful past drag him down, but it had shaped him into the man he was today. And she would not have him any other way.

Though her throat was tight, she forced herself to speak. “Till my dying day, I shall never forget that you said those words to me. Brand, there is no baby.” She gave a teary chuckle. “You were right and I was wrong. I should have confided in you.”

When he stared at her with the same serious expression, saying nothing, she reached up and touched a hand to his cheek. “There is no secret baby,” she said softly. “I promise.”

“Thank God for that.”

It was his smile that was her undoing. She felt the sting of tears and a piercing sweetness spread through her. There was nothing this man would not do to protect her. Uncaring of consequences, she went on tiptoe and kissed him.

It was her kiss that was his undoing. Though the pressure of her lips was whisper soft, a tide of desire roared through him, making him tremble. He didn't know what to do with his hands. He didn't know what to do with his burgeoning sex. But he knew what he wanted to do, and the thought appalled him.

He'd never considered himself an impetuous lover but rather a model of restraint. And just when he most needed that restraint, it hovered tantalizingly out of reach. Seconds passed as he wrestled with his better nature. It was the thought of Marion that gave him the control he needed. She wasn't herself. It would be wrong to take her in a weak moment.