The Reluctant Bride Collection Page 37

  “You killed him. You took him from me just like you took Marcus.”

  It was possible. Her father had died the night she’d thrown him out of her life, his face purple with rage. He’d screamed and threatened. Hit her.

  But she’d hired very good solicitors and they both knew he’d never touch her merchant husband’s money.

  She’d never seen him again and she’d always wondered if the rage had killed him.

  Rage and drink, and she didn’t think she should shoulder any guilt for his death.

  “No more, Alan. I’ll take nothing more from you.”

  “That’s because I have nothing left to steal!”

  “It’s because you’re nothing to me. I won’t open the door again. I won’t humor you anymore.”

  “Humor me. . .” His face turned purple, his hands squeezed into fists. And then he laughed. A maniacal sound that made her ears hurt and her dogs jump and bark.

  He sing-songed, “He’ll never marry me, Alan. I won’t steal from you again, Alan. Acting like a countess already, sister. I can taste it just as well as you can.”

  He grabbed at her, digging his fingers into her arm and jerking her from the step. “You won’t be getting rid of me, Countess.”

  Jones shouted and Retribution lunged through the doorway, and before she could do anything to free herself from Alan’s grasp, she was thrown to the ground as he tried to defend himself from Retribution.

  Alan shrieked as sharp teeth pierced his leg and Elinor screamed, grabbing at her dog. She jerked at his collar and shouted her command to release.

  When Retribution let go, Alan stumbled, still shrieking, and Elinor hung on to the collar, falling backward and using her weight to drag Retribution with her.

  Alan grabbed his leg and when blood coated his hands, he raised his head to meet Elinor’s eyes. She nearly let go of her dog’s collar at what she saw in Alan’s eyes. It wasn’t hate or jealousy, but madness, and all directed at her.

  Jones stepped between them, his gun cocked and pointed at Alan’s heart.

  Alan stopped shrieking. Elinor started breathing again.

  Jones said, “Leave. I won’t say it again.”

  Retribution growled, echoing those sentiments, and Elinor tightened her grip on his collar. Her view was blocked by Jones and she stayed on the ground behind him.

  Huddling. Hiding.

  She lifted her chin.

  I will not hide from him. I will not hide ever again.

  She said, very quietly and very calmly, “Jones.”

  It took him a long minute, and she knew he wanted nothing more than for Alan to make a threatening move, but eventually he took a half step to the left. Enough for her to see Alan’s face.

  She stayed on the ground, still using her weight to keep Retribution from attacking again, and said nothing more. There was nothing left to say.

  She met her brother’s eyes for the last time.

  Alan gripped his leg and looked between her and the gun and the dog. He smiled mockingly and took a deep breath.

  “Sister. Au revoir.”

  He waited until she knew he meant it. I will see you again. Then he turned and hobbled away until he was swallowed by the small crowd that had stopped to watch.

  Later, Elinor was sure, she would be happy this had happened so early in the morning.

  Later, she was sure, it wouldn’t make any difference. All of London would have nothing else to talk of.

  Jones turned, holding a hand down to help her up and she shook her head.

  “A leash. I don’t want to let go of him until he is inside.”

  Her arms were beginning to shake, from the effort of holding her dog back, from the fear, and Jones only nodded before trotting up the stairs to get a leash.

  Elinor murmured to Retribution that he was a good dog. He’d been protecting her, she knew, but the blood around his muzzle was disconcerting. She wanted him inside and cleaned up, and it wasn’t until Jones tied a leash through his collar and led him through the front door that she finally relaxed.

  She saw a tall man break from the crowd and come toward her, and she thought seriously for a moment about calling her dog back. Or Jones and his gun.

  And when the man stopped in front of her and held his hand out to help her up, she said, “And I thought the day couldn’t possibly get any worse.”

  When she didn’t take his hand, preferred actually to sit in filth than to let George St. Clair help her up, he said, “Shall we have it out here in the middle of the street, Lady Haywood? Or have you given your neighbors enough of a show?”

  She’d given her neighbors enough of a show for ten lifetimes. What was a little row with St. Clair in comparison?

  But she was tired of being gawked at, tired of sitting on the hard pavement, and she lifted her hand to take his help. Then stopped.

  “I have blood on my hands.”

  Blood and dirt and unspeakable filth.

  St. Clair grabbed and pulled. “It washes easily enough.”

  “Does it? It’s only the metaphorical blood that just won’t come off?”

  He didn’t answer and she looked down at her ruined dress.

  “I look as if I’ve been dragged through the street.”

  “You look bruised and like you need a good, stiff drink.”

  She was bruised. She did need a good, stiff drink.

  A bath, too.

  “Then get on with it, St. Clair.”

  He looked around, at the gawkers lining the street and then down at the muck and blood on her dress and nodded.

  He said quietly enough that only she could hear, “I came to congratulate you. Another man willing to throw away his life on you.”

  She sighed and closed her eyes. “Ah, yes. You and my brother. And like him, a bit premature.”

  There was a long pause and Elinor kept her eyes closed. Her backside throbbed, her arm burned. She was in no mood to toy with St. Clair.

  He said softly, “I will try hard not to be insulted by the comparison.”

  She opened her eyes to find him glaring at her. It was a look she was quite familiar with.

  “And like my brother, if you’d waited but a day you’d have seen that George Sinclair had not chosen me but a perfectly acceptable young woman. Your visit is wasted, St. Clair; I expect your dear friend spent the early morning getting himself engaged.”

  “He was with me all last night, talking himself out of a perfectly good opportunity to do that very thing.”

  She blinked and he continued, “And I have every belief that he’ll be here shortly instead.”

  Elinor opened her mouth, then closed it.

  St. Clair never stopped glaring at her. “You’ve won. Again, Lady Haywood.”

  When she still could think of nothing to say, to think, St. Clair turned to study her home. Looking as if he found brick and glass absorbing, and studying the proportions as if it held the answers to all of life’s questions.

  He whispered, “And I beg of you to turn him down.”

  Another man begging her with hate in his eyes, but when he tipped his head to her, there was nothing but concern for his friend.

  “Please. The earl won’t forgive him, and it will kill him as surely as putrid fever killed Bertie.”

  “I thought I killed Bertie,” she said, and even to her own ears sounded tired and defeated. George St. Clair was another battle she would never win.

  “Sinclair says I am irrational on the subject.”

  He was, but, “Grief is not rational.”

  “He was a good man, was Bertie.”

  Elinor nodded and St. Clair said, “George is the same. A good man.”

  Too good for her.

  She couldn’t disagree with him. Not after what he’d witnessed that morning. She wasn’t sure she’d ever disagreed with him, just hadn’t cared if he was right.

  She said, “You know it’s not in my nature to lay down my cards when I’m winning.”

  “I know it’s not
. I doubt it is in any man or woman. Except. . .I saw you dance with him last night and I think more than one heart has been lost. And I think someone who loves wouldn’t ask for such a sacrifice.”

  St. Clair turned fully to her and bowed. Low and long instead of the disrespectful head nod he’d always subjected her to before.

  He said not another word, and when he rose back up just looked at her and begged with his proud eyes.

  He turned and walked away, leaving her to watch him disappear into the crowd again.

  More than one heart has been lost, he’d said and he was right.

  Who wouldn’t love George Sinclair?

  She’d danced with him last night, knowing that he couldn’t marry her. Even if he wanted to, and she did think he wanted to.

  She’d woken without him, knowing he hadn’t come because he was finally doing what he should have weeks ago. Knowing that Miss Westin would be the one to have his name and his future.

  She’d stood in front of her brother, finally realizing that she’d never had any chance at catching Sinclair, knowing she’d been right to tell herself to steer clear of him.

  Finally realizing that she’d never had any chance of that, either.

  She wondered if she had any chance of staying away from him in the future and doubted it.

  Doubted that she could say no to him, whatever he asked of her.

  She’d loved only two people in her life. Marcus and her daughter, and Elinor hadn’t been sure there was room in there for anyone else. Perhaps that was why it hurt, just a little, to love Sinclair.

  It could also be that she wasn’t going to be able to have him after all, that she thought St. Clair was right. Someone who truly loved wouldn’t ask for such a sacrifice.

  Wouldn’t ask for everything when she could offer nothing in return.

  George Sinclair had made a decision.

  It wasn’t the right decision.

  It possibly wasn’t even a good decision.

  It might be great, but not good, and he stood in front of his brother’s home dreading what would come next.

  It wasn’t going to be great, good, or even tolerable.

  But he knocked and was led back to his brother’s library.

  “Ah, George. You’re early.”

  Sebastian went back to his figures, then raised his head again and paid more attention. “Have you even been to bed yet?”

  George opened his mouth and Sebastian held up a hand to forestall him. “I should have been more specific. Have you had any sleep?”

  “No and no. And you are awfully clever to be around at the moment.”

  “Mm. Go home, your home, and get some rest. You are of no use to me witless.”

  George sat, realizing just how tired he was. “I don’t think I will ever be of use to you, Sebastian.”

  Sebastian put his pen down and rubbed at his eyes and George said, “You can’t have got much more sleep than me.”

  “An hour or two. A change of clothes. It can make a world of difference.”

  George grunted.

  And then they sat in silence, both wishing for sleep.

  “Sebastian–”

  “George–”

  They stopped, and George tipped his hand up for Sebastian to go ahead.

  “I was going to say that it’s been. . .nice, not to have to do this alone. When you’ve had a few hours sleep behind you, you can be quite astute about the estate. I’m sorry I’m so hard on you sometimes. Father was the same with me and I swore I would do things differently with my own son.”

  George sunk in his seat. “You would have. A brother is different.”

  “Perhaps. But I can do better.” He took a deep breath. “I must do better or I will be surrounded by people and problems I have no idea how to fix.”

  “Flora?”

  “The biggest at the moment.”

  George wobbled his head. “That was quite a dress.”

  “And the laughing. And the gambling. And the drinking.” Sebastian rubbed his forehead and George tried not to grin.

  “Don’t forget the dancing. My legs have not yet recovered. And if it comforts you at all, she did seem to prefer to dance with her brother-in-law. She could have chosen someone much, much worse. A Lothario, a conman.”

  “Shall I be thankful for small favors? We’ve been married how long and I’ve never seen her like that before. You know who I blame.”

  George closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “I can guess.”

  “Do you know which is the real her, George? Because you came home, and the widow got her hooks into my perfect countess, and suddenly I’m rudderless. Floating in the middle of an ocean without a first and second mate.”

  George laughed. “A mutiny? Is that what it feels like to you?”

  “My whole crew, against me.”

  George let out a long breath and opened his eyes. “Then what I have to tell you will just feel like more proof of that.”

  “Then don’t tell me.”

  “I’ve not come to get your blessing. I know you won’t give it.”

  Sebastian’s nostrils flared and his lips tightened.

  George said, “I’ve come to tell you that I’m marrying Elinor. Or will be, once I’ve asked her. But I came to tell you first. Because you are my brother. Because I am your heir presumptive.”

  “You are my heir presumptive. Which is why you will not be marrying her.”

  George said softly, “Not asking. Telling. Preparing you for this.”

  Sebastian leaned forward. “Not even you are this irresponsible. Not even you can believe that she loves you in return.”

  “I am, and I do. I’m going to marry her, Sebastian.”

  Sebastian let out a disgusted breath of air. “No, you’re not. Get your brain out of your bollocks.”

  “I love her.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “You don’t know her.” George narrowed his eyes. “Do you? No. Don’t tell me.”

  Sebastian leaned his elbows on the desk and stared at his steepled fingers. He didn’t look at George when he said, “That’s all it would take, is it? Tell you I slept with her.”

  “You haven’t.”

  “Are you certain?”

  George thought and thought. Because if his brother had slept with Elinor, then yes, that’s all it would take.

  But he knew Sebastian hadn’t.

  “She’s not to your taste. And you are not to hers.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know you. And I know her. And perhaps it’s not the most flattering picture of a woman that I want to tie myself to, but sleeping with you wouldn’t accomplish anything.”

  “You’re right, that’s not very flattering.”

  “I think it best to find out the faults early on in a relationship, not ten years in.”

  Sebastian raised an eyebrow and George said, “Which is why I would like you to invite Elinor to dinner.”

  “She’s not welcome. You’re not marrying her.”

  George said nothing. Didn’t know what to say to make his brother see, to make his brother into a different sort of person.

  Sebastian said, “What of Miss Westin?”

  George couldn’t imagine how much worse that conversation was going to go so he pushed it out of mind.

  “One step at a time.”

  “I appreciate that you chose me first,” Sebastian said, not sounding appreciative at all.

  George looked down at his knee, wiped at a spot that had appeared sometime during the night.

  “I would like to bring Elinor to dinner. I would like you to get to know her. I think you would like her.”

  “She can’t have children, George! So what if I do find I like her?”

  “Would it be so bad, Sebastian? Would the inevitable be so bad when it’s going to happen anyway?”

  Sebastian shook his head, looking like he thought George was suddenly talking in Hindostanee.

  “Yes! Because right
now, it’s not inevitable. Right now, it’s a choice.”

  Choice. The fates asking him to choose.

  He already had.

  But he knew his brother wouldn’t see that. Would think that there was still a choice to be made until he stood in front of the vicar.

  Sebastian had thought the same of India. Had thought that George would change his mind and there was still a choice up until the ship sailed.

  There hadn’t been. Nothing would have kept him from that boat eight years ago once he’d decided.

  And last night, he’d known looking at Lord Westin that he would marry the widow.

  He rose, meeting Sebastian’s angry eyes. “If it feels like your crew is mutinying Sebastian, perhaps you should consider that you are on the wrong course. That where you want us to go is not in our best interest. And perhaps it’s not in yours, either.”

  “Wrong course? Best interest? The right course is the one that insures the survival of this house, this name, this legacy.”

  George shook his head, knowing they would never see eye to eye on this. Knowing that his brother– a man who had given his life to this house, his title, and their father’s legacy– couldn’t believe otherwise.

  The only thing George could do was figure out what he wanted to give his life to. And what price he was willing to pay for that choice.

  Twelve

  Sebastian watched George walk out the door and thought again that his crew was mutinying.

  George married to the widow. A woman married five times before. A woman who couldn’t have children.

  His wife angry with him, furious.

  Perhaps you should consider that you are on the wrong course.

  The wrong course? That implied there was more than one, and Sebastian had never entertained the thought that there could be.

  Because if he let himself wonder for even a moment what the point of it was, he’d start questioning what the point of anything was.

  He stepped back quickly from that great, gaping black hole of unknown threatening to swallow him.

  He was right. This was right. And whatever sacrifice was required was worth it.

  He clung to the thought that George hadn’t asked yet. Perhaps the widow would turn him down.

  And then Sebastian choked on his own laughter. The widow wouldn’t turn George down.