The butler snapped to attention. “Aye, missus?”
It’s about damned time. Brandon followed the butler’s gaze, a half smile already carefully in place. But the moment he saw the woman who stood at the bottom of the steps, his smile froze, slipped, then disappeared altogether.
Devon had been wrong; Lady Westforth wasn’t beautiful at all. Her bottom lip was too short, her chin far too determined, her figure not the thin, willowy type society favored. She was blonde, her hair the color of ripened winter wheat, but the strands were thick and straight with no sign of curl so favored by the women of the ton.
Brandon’s mood lifted. Perhaps Marcus had been in error. Chase could not possibly fancy himself in love with this woman. Brandon was just thinking that perhaps he was wasting his time coming here at all when the woman turned her head, her questioning gaze meeting his.
Her eyes were the deepest violet, fringed with thick lush lashes; her skin creamy white with the faintest touch of pink. But it was her smile that stole his breath.
He couldn’t explain what it was, but when she looked at him like that, humor lighting her gaze, her lips curved in a smile, a deep thrum of awareness gripped him. His entire body responded as if in some way, he recognized her. Knew her…intimately.
She nodded gracefully. “Mr. St. John. I hope you will forgive Herberts. He’s new and he doesn’t yet understand all of his duties.”
Brandon took firm hold of his erratic thoughts. What had been in that foul concoction Poole had fixed for him this morning? Whatever it was, it had left him befuddled as if still drunk. “Lady Westforth. I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Of course not! Herberts, take Mr. St. John’s coat and brush it. You may return it when he’s ready to leave.”
“Yes, missus,” the butler said in a disconsolate voice as he took Brandon’s coat. Herberts ran a hand over the fabric and brightened a bit. “Perhaps oiye’ll wear it about a bit, jus’ to see what it feels like to have such a fine piece o’ workmanship on me back—”
“No!” Lady Westforth shook her head emphatically. “Butlers do not wear the coats they take to brush.”
Herberts’ face fell. “Ye sure ’bout thet?”
“Positive.” She collected Brand with her gaze and flicked her hand toward a set of double doors. “This way, if you please. We can speak in here.”
Brandon followed the lady’s softly rounded figure into a sitting room. He couldn’t help but watch her walk, noting the way her hips swayed beneath her silk gown. She was shorter than he’d first realized, her head only reaching his shoulder, and a bit plumper than society deemed attractive.
Of course, society was rarely right about such things. Celeste was thought to be the perfect woman—people fawned over her, women sought out her company, men wrote sonnets to her eyes. Brandon, meanwhile, could barely contain a yawn at the thought of carrying on a two-minute conversation with the chit.
Lady Westforth sank into a chair and gestured to the one opposite hers. “Pray have a seat.”
Brand started to refuse, for he had no intention of staying long. But somehow, looking down into her face and noting the warmth of her expression and the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, he found himself sitting, his lips almost curved in response.
Damn it, what was he doing? He was supposed to pay this woman to remove herself from Chase’s life, not have tea with her. He cast a cursory glance about the room, surprised to discover that it was elegantly appointed, though small. The furniture was so closely placed that his knees almost touched hers.
She regarded him steadily, her gaze never wavering. “You look very much like your brother, only…” She tilted her head to one side, a thick lock of hair falling over her shoulder. “You’re taller.”
“I’m also older than Chase.” And I don’t play the fool for anyone. Especially Cyprians like you.
She colored as if she’d heard his thoughts. “He spoke of you often. I know he is quite fond of you and your brothers.”
So Chase had been sharing family confidences, had he? Blast it, what was his brother thinking? This woman was everything a man of means should avoid—the only way she could support herself was to find someone willing to pay for the pleasure of her company. She was no better than the shallow females who flung themselves onto the marriage mart every year, trolling the bachelo-real waters for an unsuspecting male capable of supplying endless pin money and a house in London for the season.
Brandon knew all about the avarice of women. During his first year on the town, he’d become embroiled with a seemingly naive innocent. He’d been enthralled. She’d been equally taken, though only with his bank account and family name.
By the time Brand realized his error, she’d almost managed to capture him. Had it not been for his friend, Roger Carrington, Viscount Wycham, Brand would have ended up yoked to the girl for life. But escape he had. After that distasteful episode, he’d been cautious to eschew virgins, unmarried women, and any other female who might need funding. Which was why Celeste should have been a more amusing companion—she didn’t need his name or his money. It was a pity she hadn’t been interesting enough to hold his attention past their first bedding.
Lady Westforth clasped her hands in her lap. “Mr. St. John, how may I assist you?” She settled in her seat, her knees moving just out of touch of his. “I must apologize for Herberts. I hope you haven’t allowed his inefficiency to put you out of sorts.”
“Of course not.”
“I’m glad. I think he will do well once he learns all the rules. Part of it is my fault. I didn’t think to tell him not to leave someone standing outside.” She shook her head ruefully, a sparkle in her violet eyes. “I have to remember that what is obvious to me, may not be so obvious to him.”
Brandon answered with a faint smile, aware that he was having the oddest urge to agree with her. To agree with everything she said.
What was it about this woman that made him feel instantly at ease? Was it the intimate way she spoke—as if she already knew him well and accepted him as he was? Or was it the way she met his glance head-on, unflinching and unapologetic? Perhaps it was simply the humor that softened her expression, or the sensual line of her mouth. Whatever it was, he found it incredibly appealing and he suddenly realized the danger Chase had been in.
She possessed the kind of allure few women possessed—a natural charm that went beyond beauty. And an intangible physical presence. He could almost feel the attraction thrumming through the air between them.
No wonder Marcus had been so determined that the woman be dealt with quickly. Brandon, even with his head and neck aching, his eyes grit filled, and pure irritation pounding through his blood, found his gaze locked on her. His heart pounded a slow, determined beat as he wondered at the fullness of her curves, at the smile that lurked in her amazing eyes.
What would she be like in bed? Would she be as uninhibited and natural as she was now? His body heated treacherously at the thought. She would be wanton between the sheets, he knew it. Knew without words, without reason, that she would give as good as she got.
For the space of an instant, Brandon envied his own brother for possessing the woman who sat across from him. The idea irked him and he scowled.
“Mr. St. John? Is something wrong?”
Yes, there was. Everything was wrong. She was wrong—wrong for Chase. And especially wrong for him.
She regarded him with a questioning lift to her brows. “Mr. St. John, is there something I—”
“I daresay you know why I’ve come.” The sooner the interview was over, the better.
Her frown lasted only a moment, realization lighting her amazing violet eyes with hints of blue. She nodded once, firmly and without compunction. “Your brother.”
“Yes.”
“I hope he’s well.”
“He left London several days ago and has not yet returned. But then, you know that.”
“I don’t know any such thing; I’m not his keeper.” She hesitate
d, then added after a moment’s thought, “And neither are you.”
Brandon’s gaze narrowed. Surely the woman was not censuring him? But one look into her violet eyes and he realized she was doing just that. His irritation flamed into anger. He regarded her icily. “The relationships I share with my family are none of your concern.”
She should have been thoroughly put in her place, but instead her gaze narrowed. “Just as the relationships I share with your family are no concern of yours.”
His jaw tightened. “I beg to differ. Everything to do with my brother is very much my business.”
“Mr. St. John. Let us come to the point, shall we? I have a horrid temper and I’d hate to box the ears of such an exalted personage.”
He raised his brows. “Exalted personage?”
“A St. John. Society has deemed your family to be above the rest of us.” A faint air of scorn rested about her, delicate yet lethal. “I would hate to disagree with society.”
“Would you?” A smile tugged at his mouth. “I get the impression otherwise.”
“You are very perceptive. I care naught for titles nor the prestige of birth.”
“Only money,” Brandon said succinctly.
Her chin lifted. “I enjoy money. Who doesn’t? Life would be dreadfully dull without it. But I do not make it my main purpose. Nor does it affect my friendship with your brother.”
“What is your main purpose, Lady Westforth? Marriage?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I have no intentions of ever marrying again.”
He could almost believe her. Almost. “Never is a strong word.”
“I’ve been married before. And while I have no complaints, I find the freedom I have now much more to my liking.” She leaned forward, her dress pulling across her full breasts, her gaze direct and challenging. “But thank you for inquiring. Now, was there something else? Or did you just come to raise my hackles?”
Brandon found that his anger had heated into something more insidious. She was an interesting bundle of pride, sparkle, and self-possession. Added to that, she had a sharp wit and a lush figure. Rounded and plump, she would keep a man warm in bed for hours.
He shifted in his chair and realized that far from being offended, he wanted to taunt her all the more. It was fascinating the way her eyes sparked with heat when she was angered.
Damn it, he admonished himself, make the offer and be done. “Lady Westforth, let me be plain. Whatever your designs for my brother Chase, they are at an end. I’ve come to make you an offer—my brother’s freedom in exchange for a certain amount of funds. Avery, very generous amount of funds, if I say so myself.”
She stood so quickly that he didn’t have time to pull back, her legs brushing against his knees. “It is time you left.”
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I suggest you resume your seat and listen to what I have to say.”
Her hands fisted at her sides. “You’ve said enough as it is. I will ring for Herberts. He will see you to the door.”
Brandon’s irritation faded as hers grew. She was no fool. She knew what he thought of her and she was ready to retaliate without hesitation. “I’ll leave as soon as we’ve come to an understanding. How much will it take to get you to leave my brother alone?”
“Of all the—” She clamped her lips over the words. “You are attempting to purchase my cooperation.”
“Yes. And I am willing to offer a considerable sum.”
“Offer all you want; I won’t take your money.”
“No?” He did smile then…of course she wouldn’t take the money. And tomorrow, the sun wouldn’t rise. He pulled the bank draft from his pocket then reached out and captured her hand where she held it fisted against her thigh. He pried her fingers loose, noting that her skin was warm and soft, and placed the draft in her hand. “Here. Take this. It should make it worth your while.” He pressed her fingers closed and looked up into her eyes. “Very worth your while.”
He knew what she was going to do…she’d protest, of course. They all did, or pretended to. But soon enough they’d capitulate and take the money. All too soon, he’d be on his way, secure that Chase was once again out of harm’s way.
For some reason, the thought bothered him. There’d been a moment when he’d been certain she was different from all the others. Just a moment. But now…he noted how her fingers gripped the bank draft. He met her gaze with a superior smirk. “Afraid you’ll lose it?”
Her gaze narrowed, became scathing. She jerked her gaze from his and glanced down at the draft crumpled between her fingers. “You have erred, Mr. St. John. Money does not make anything worth my while.”
Then she did the most astonishing thing. She lifted the bank draft and held it in front of his face and ripped it into tiny pieces.
“I don’t need your money, nor do I need you.” To his startled chagrin, she held her hand over his head and showered him with tiny pieces of paper.
Chapter 4
Do you know what Hunterston says of Miss Grenville? That she is lucky enough to fancy she is beautiful and unlucky enough not to be. Took me a week to puzzle that one out, but by Jove, he’s right!
Edmund Valmont to his friend, the Duke of Wexford, as they played a game of billiards at Wexford House
It had been many minutes since Verena had thought that Brandon St. John quite possibly the handsomest man she’d ever seen. He was tall, powerfully built, with blue eyes that contrasted devastatingly with his black hair.
Fortunately for her, that first positive impression had been far overshadowed by her realization that he was also, in addition to being incredibly handsome, a pompous jackass badly in need of a set down.
And she was just the woman to deliver it. She smiled as she watched him dust bits of paper from his shoulder. Several stubborn pieces remained lodged in his hair, giving him a much deserved horned appearance. Verena decided she couldn’t be bothered to point that out. Let him go about in public with tattered bits of paper in his hair. It was just a pity she wouldn’t be there when people pointed and laughed.
“What are you looking at?” he snapped, his brow lowered.
“Oh, nothing. Mr. St. John, thank you for visiting. I’ll ring for Herberts to bring your coat. I daresay he’s wearing it even now.” She watched with satisfaction as Brandon St. John’s expression went from irritation to blazing anger.
She turned toward the bell pull when St. John, still in his chair, caught her by the wrist. She glanced down at him, too amused to be vexed. “Yes?”
St. John’s mouth thinned, his eyes burning even more brightly. “I am well aware of the usual machinations of your type of woman.”
“Type? Just what is my type of woman?”
His gaze raked her up and down, insolently lingering on her breasts. It was almost as if he could see through her clothing. A faint tingle of heat sliced to her stomach, surprising her.
Finally, his gaze traveled back to her face. “Shall I speak plainly?”
“I’m not sure I can take much more plain speaking. Not without retaliating in some fashion. If you proceed much further, you might want to gather a pillow from the settee for protection.”
His lips twitched, surprise softening his blue gaze for a moment. “I don’t wish to insult you, but we both know what has occurred.”
Her tongue curled around a hot rejoinder and it took every bit of the masterful control she’d learned over the last four years to keep from uttering the comment aloud. “Yes, you offered me money to stay away from your brother. I have never been more insulted.”
His hold loosened the tiniest fraction and she became aware of the warmth of his hand against her skin, of the way his long fingers completely encircled her wrist.
“What will it take to get you to leave my brother be? Two thousand pounds?”
Verena wished he’d release her so she’d at least have the satisfaction of slapping him soundly.
His gaze narrowed. “Three thousand pounds.??
?
Three. Thousand. Pounds. She didn’t know what amount James would need, but three thousand pounds would certainly be useful. Verena wet her lips. It would be nice to have the money for her brother. Wonderful, in fact. Especially since she wouldn’t have to actually do anything to earn it.
The truth was that she’d sent Chase St. John on his way two entire days ago. What would Brandon St. John do if she told him the truth—that she’d already refused his brother’s offer of marriage?
She’d hated refusing Chase, for she could see that although he was sadly tipsy at the time, he’d meant every word. In reality, he’d taken it in good part and she thought that perhaps his feelings were not as deeply engaged as he thought.
Verena looked at Brandon from beneath her lashes and hid a smile. Apparently Chase had not confided in his brothers about what had occurred. They obviously thought he was still under her influence.
She smiled sweetly at her captor. “Please release my hand. You have a very heavy grasp.”
His grip loosened a bit more, though not enough for her to win her freedom.
Her smile slipped. “You are being rude.”
“I don’t want you to toss anything else over my head. The next item might hurt.”
If Verena had any say in the matter, it would hurt a lot. “You’re bruising my wrist.”
She was finally released, though she could tell he did not believe her for a moment. She tried to match St. John’s mocking smile with one of her own, though the way her cheeks pulled, she feared it was more a baring of the teeth than a smile. “Tell me, Mr. St. John; do you believe in witchery? You make it sound as if I held your brother under a spell of some sort.”
“You used your physical attractions to gain my brother’s interest. We will not stand for it.”
“We?”
“My brothers and I.”
Good God, the entire family thought she was some sort of marry-by-morning type of woman, desperately searching for a wealthy husband. It would be a remarkably irritating idea if it were not so humorous.
And poor Chase! She’d had no idea the extent of his suffering, but now she wondered if perhaps his brothers weren’t suffocating him. Had she any sense, she would tell Brandon St. John the truth and send him on his way, her foot firmly planted on his muscular rump.