Heartless by Anne Stuart
He’d never known a woman who didn’t use her looks and her femininity to her best advantage, and this one was more blessed than anyone he could remember. She looked pensive, staring into the fire. She wasn’t a girl—she might very well be as old as he was, even older. It didn’t matter. She’d be exquisite at any age. She sat back on her heels and surveyed the wall of leather-bound books. She still hadn’t sensed he was in the shadows, watching her, which surprised him. He’d known she was near before he’d even seen her.
He didn’t dare move from his place in the darkness, his legs propped on Benedick’s desk. He was content just to watch her, the way she moved, the shifting emotions on her face, as she made herself comfortable, when suddenly that lovely body stiffened, and she slowly turned her head until she was looking directly at him as he lounged, unnoticed.
“Do you make a habit of spying on women?” she said in a cool voice, the same cool voice she’d used off and on with him the entire day. She had no reason for hostility, and it made him even more curious.
He didn’t bother taking his feet off the desk—for one thing it was relieving the pressure and pain in his knee, for another he didn’t want to appear discomfited by her presence. “I was here first,” he pointed out. “You invaded my privacy. I’m hardly the one to blame.” Which was untrue—a gentleman would have immediately made himself known, but he no longer had any interest in being a gentleman. That ship had sailed many years ago.
He could see it quite clearly in her mesmerizing eyes. The fight-or-flight response was something he’d grown used to in the army, had felt it himself on numerous occasions, but he’d never been smart enough to run. Too much pride, he supposed.
Emma Cadbury looked as if she suffered from the same defect of character. He didn’t bother looking away, giving his curiosity full reign. “Have we met before?” he said suddenly.
She didn’t move. “I cannot imagine any occasion in which we might have done,” she said in her clipped voice.
He tilted his head to one side, surveying her. “No, I can’t imagine it either. You’re not precisely forgettable, you know. There’s just something about you that feels familiar. Even your name strikes a bell.”
Her face tightened so slightly that someone with duller eyesight might not have noticed, but that was one thing that hadn’t changed despite all the damage his body had suffered. “You’re mistaken.” Her voice was as tight as her expression. “I’m an old friend of your sister-in-law, but I seldom attend social gatherings. The only reason I’m here this time is because I’m Alexandra’s godmother. As you saw with Mr. Trowbridge I’m not particularly welcome in society, and I prefer to keep to myself.” There was just the faintest flush on her high cheekbones, and he wondered if it came from the fire or her own words.
“Why?” he said softly.
He’d managed to startle her. “Why what?”
He swung his legs off the desk and set them on the floor, managing to keep a grimace of pain off his face. “Why aren’t you welcome in society, why did the vicar feel he could accost you like that?”
She rose with that almost unnatural grace, clearly sensing he was more a danger with his feet on the floor. “Because, Lord Brandon, I was a whore.”
Chapter 5
Emma wasn’t certain what she expected from Brandon Rohan. Immediate contempt was the most likely response, or an insulting demand for sexual favors. In truth, she was hoping for one or the other, something that would wipe any lingering emotions forever. All he had to do was look at her with disdain and she’d be done.
Brandon Rohan simply raised an eyebrow. “I don’t actually use my title,” he said casually.
She did her best not to gape at him, too startled to say anything more. Then she rallied. “Why not? Why don’t you use the advantages you’ve been given?”
The faint twist of his mouth could almost be called a smile. “Why don’t you use your beauty—it’s just as valuable a commodity, perhaps more so than a courtesy title. Oh, that’s right, you did, but apparently you don’t any longer, which begs the question, why did you offer up that particular bit of information?”
He still wasn’t looking at her with any sort of distaste, merely bland curiosity. It unnerved her, when he already set her off balance. “Someone would have told you, sooner or later,” she muttered, feeling graceless and not caring.
“I’d be forced to hit them if they did,” he said. “And I’m afraid telling me makes no difference—I’ll still have to hit them, and that complicates things, since I’ve been expressly forbidden to pound on the vicar, due to his position and his scrawny appearance. However, I expect my brother would forgive me if he knew about the man’s behavior.”
He sounded as if he was discussing dealing with a runaway pig, and her temper began to stir. He was turning a source of pain and shame into an inconvenience. “You’ve been out of society for a long time, Lord Brandon,” she said, liking the formality of his title. It kept him one more step away from her. “Selling one’s body is not an act that is overlooked among ‘good’ people.”
“People do what they have to do,” he said, unmoved. “I presume you didn’t enter the profession on a whim.”
“No,” she muttered. She wasn’t going to make excuses for herself—be damned to them all. The only one who knew her history was Melisande, and it broke her best friend’s heart. She certainly didn’t want this man’s pity. “Am I supposed to be grateful that you’re noble enough to forgive my transgressions?” she said sharply.
His lids were half lowered on his ice-blue eyes. Not that she could see their color in the darkness, but she remembered that brilliant blue—for some damnable reason it still haunted her dreams. “You didn’t transgress against me,” he said mildly. “It’s none of my business.”
She’d worked herself up into such a state that his words deflated her. She was left with nothing to say, and she stared at him, at the beauty and ruin of his face, silent.
“But in fact I do appreciate your informing me,” he went on in a purely practical tone. “I was going mad trying to think of where I’d seen you before, why your name was familiar, and now I know. I frequented a number of houses of ill repute—I must have seen you there.” His forehead furrowed. “God, you must have been so young.”
She froze. For a moment she recognized the nameless soldier she had cared so much about, and his casual sympathy twisted her heart. She wanted to cry, and she’d given up crying years ago. It accomplished nothing. He’d been to the house. Of course, he had—so had his older brother and any number of gentlemen. But he hadn’t seen her there—once she took over the reins she never had to service anyone, and she ran the place behind closed doors, never venturing out among the customers. Some part of his brain was remembering her from the hospital, but her spontaneous announcement had successfully detoured him. Now that he thought he had the answers he wouldn’t have to think of her again.
And then it got worse.
“Good God, I didn’t sleep with you, did I?” he said in tones of absolute horror, and the man she’d cared about disappeared once more, leaving the cynic in his wake.
She glared at him. “You did not.” And if he asked her how she could be certain she’d take the fire poker and bash him on the head. Or at least think about.
But he looked relieved, and she still wanted to hit him.
She managed a small shrug, ignoring her unruly reaction. “So, you can see why I’m persona non grata. Don’t worry, you won’t be required to be around me. I usually only visit when there are no other guests in residence. The family knows me and accepts me without question, and that’s what matters.” She started toward the door, desperate to get away from him. She couldn’t bear that calm expression, she couldn’t bear to be so close to him, to feel so panicked and angry and vulnerable.
Almost at the door, she realized she was being ridiculous. He’d made no attempt to stop her. Though he’d risen he simply stayed in the shadows, watching her, and she wasn’t sure if s
“You’re forgetting one thing, Mrs. Cadbury. And I assume the Mrs. is a courtesy title, just as mine is.”
She didn’t bother to answer that question. “What?” she said testily.
And then he smiled at her, and her heart twisted. It was an honest smile, the way he had looked down at his infant goddaughter, with none of the cynical reserve that now seemed to be his norm. “I’m a member of this family.”
She stared at him. What the hell did he mean by that? Was he going to convince the family to shun her, or was he saying he would agree with their acceptance? She wasn’t going to ask.
“Good night, my lord,” she said sharply, whisking herself out the library door and shutting it firmly behind her.
She’d almost slammed the heavy door. Brandon looked at it with real amusement—at least that explained her prickly attitude. If she thought a Rohan was going to disapprove of her, she’d picked the wrong family. Well, there was no telling with Charles—he was the most-staid member of their ramshackle tribe—but even he might just shrug. She was making a huge fuss over nothing, as far as he was concerned. Anyone who rejected her was someone not worth knowing. He remembered the house now; it had always been the height of elegance and good breeding, and the women there had been treated well, more like debutantes than hired companions. He was just going to have to do his best to convince Mrs. Emma Cadbury—he’d known perfectly well there had never been a Mr. Cadbury—that he had absolutely no problem with her past. For a moment he’d been horrified to think he might have bedded her and then forgotten, but who could forget a woman like her?
She was none of his business, he reminded himself. Granted, she was almost eerily beautiful, and he would have given anything to take her to bed and disrupt that cool, controlled expression. He could feel his body stir at the thought and he quickly controlled it.
In truth, he didn’t want a dalliance and he certainly wasn’t interested in anything more than that. If he were to stay in the south of England he could set her up as his mistress. No, that idea seemed very unpleasant, both staying in civilization and turning her back into. . . He might want to bed her, but it was a logical reaction to a beautiful woman, and he’d never found the need to act on those feelings if it seemed unwise. Not anymore.
Besides, she was a surgeon, of all things! He wondered if she cut off men’s bollocks—she’d probably jump at the chance, and he wasn’t sure he’d blame her. He’d seen what could happen to women who sold their bodies, and it was never pretty. He could remember nights with the Heavenly Host and the things they’d done. . .
He pushed that thought out of his mind, keeping it in the place he kept all his most appalling memories. He was far better off back in Scotland, away from reminders, from temptation, from the unexpectedly bewitching Emma Cadbury.
She must have run off to her bedroom, her bare feet flying across the floors. He’d liked those feet, her long toes, her delicate arch. Was the woman gorgeous everywhere?
He wasn’t going to find out. He needed to make his way to bed as well if he had any hope of an early escape. That way he could avoid stuffy Charles and whatever nefarious matrimonial plans he might have.
He walked to the fire, damping down the coals, and he almost thought he could detect the faint scent of flowers and heat and woman. He closed his eyes for a moment, wondering what she might taste like.
“No,” he said out loud, his eyes flying open in disgust at his maundering thoughts. “Just no.”
Chapter 6
The sky was just beginning to lighten when Emma gave up trying to sleep. She washed and dressed quickly, then tossed the rest of her clothes in the one bag she’d brought. Melisande would be extremely cross with her, both for sneaking out when she’d promised to stay, and for dispensing with the help of a maid and doing everything herself. Then again, Melisande knew her better than anyone, and she knew that her best friend would accept her disappearance with no more than a slight grumble.
The servants were stirring—most of them rose well before dawn to begin their endless day and night of labor—and she gave a friendly smile to the chambermaid who scurried past her. It was Rosie, one of the girls from the Dovecote, but for some reason she didn’t respond with her usual cheeky grin. Instead, with lowered eyes, she scuttled away, far too quickly, and Emma watched her go, frowning. What on earth could be wrong with her? Rosie had seemed happy with her new employment, which, despite the hard work, was better than the dangers of making a living on her back.
It had been difficult to persuade some of the girls. Some never changed, like Violet Highstreet, who now ran an elegant brothel in the heart of Mayfair, but at least she operated on more democratic principles, following Emma’s example.
It seemed so long ago, she thought as she followed the long, empty hallways down to the ground floor. Mrs. Cadbury’s house had been run along democratic lines—they all shared the profits equally, they catered to pleasant and clean gentlemen, and for a while she’d been lulled into a spirit of complacency. It had taken a random meeting with Melisande Carstairs to break her out of the trap, and the girls, who later became known as the Gaggle thanks to Benedick’s sharp tongue, came too, complaining and arguing all the way.
She reached the ground floor, then headed down the last flight of stairs into the tunnels that led between the house and the stable. They had been installed fifty years ago by the previous owner, a dandy who hadn’t wanted to get his coat wet before he went out riding in inclement weather, which had never made sense to Emma. The rider would be drenched the moment he left the confines of the stable—why would it make a difference?
The moment she stepped into the tunnel she breathed a sigh of relief. The only person she had to face was the head groom, and Lakeland had always treated her with deference and kindness. He had standing orders to take her wherever she wanted to go, and freedom was so close she could taste it.
The tunnel was unlit, and she’d forgotten to bring a lantern. She was a strong woman, impatient with her own weaknesses, but truth be told she’d never liked darkness much, and the pitch black of the corridor made her heart start pounding. She knew she was being ridiculous, and she sped up, determined to escape from the impenetrable shadows.
It was like running into a brick wall, something so hard it almost knocked the breath out of her, and she started to fall back when an arm reached out to catch her, pulling her back. Against him.
For a moment she couldn’t move. She hadn’t been pressed against a man’s body in years, and never one so tall and strong and muscled. She knew who it was. There were any number of tall, strong men at Melisande’s house party, as well as in the stables, but the way her luck had been running it could only be but one. Damn it.
And he wasn’t letting go of her. She squirmed but he didn’t release her and for one insane moment she wanted to close her eyes and lean into him, rest her head against his shoulder, put her arms around his waist.
Fortunately, she was of sound mind. “Would you please let me go, Lord Brandon?” she demanded in a frosty voice.
She heard an unexpected laugh and after an infinitesimal delay he released her. Stepping back, she suddenly felt the damp chill of the place when a moment ago she’d been so warm.
“What are you doing skulking around here, Miss Cadbury?”
“I am Mrs. Cadbury,” she said stiffly, “not miss.” She’d never been a miss.
“And I told you I didn’t use my title, yet you persist in calling me Lord Brandon. Why don’t we just dispense with honorifics entirely—you can be Emma and I’ll be Brandon.”
“I don’t think so,” she said tartly. “Our stations are so far removed that my mind can’t even comprehend it.”
“Oh, I think your mind can comprehend a great deal.” His words seemed like a challenge, but she refused to consider it any further.
“Lord Brandon,” she said with deliberate emphasis, “would you please allow me to pass?”
“Certainly,
“Mrs. Cadbury,” she corrected in a repressive tone. Why was her heart hammering? Surely it wasn’t as loud as it felt in this dank, tomb-like atmosphere?
“Miss Cadbury. I’ll be happy to let you pass, I’ll even escort you to your destination. As soon as you tell me why you’re down here at the crack of dawn.”
Blast the man! “I would think that would be obvious. I must return to the city.”
“You must, must you? And what has caused this sudden emergency? Benedick informed me that you were staying for the week. What are you running away from?”
It was anger rushing through her body, she told herself, a sudden surge of emotion that was making her feel light-headed and shaky. “I do not run.”
He gave a disbelieving snort. “You most certainly do. You ran out of the library early this morning as if the hounds of hell were after you. I promise you, I had no intention of following you.”
It was a good thing they were having this totally inappropriate discussion in the dark—he wouldn’t be able to see the way her face flushed. She took a deep breath, calming herself. “I’m sure you didn’t. I was merely in a hurry to see if I could get some rest before I had to leave.”
“Hurrying seldom leads to a good night’s sleep, which I presume continued to elude you. That’s something we have in common. I don’t sleep when I’m around my family. The Highlands are a different matter—I sleep like a baby up there in the clean, cool air. You ought to try it.”
Was he being deliberately cruel? “I don’t foresee a trip to Scotland in my future, Lord Brandon.”
“Why not, Miss Cadbury?” His voice caressed her name, and she wanted to smack him.
She didn’t even have to force a polite smile—he couldn’t see her. “I’m far too busy for frivolous jaunts. In fact, it’s imperative that I return to London immediately, so if you would please get out of my way I’d be most grateful.”