Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle. Bronwyn Scott
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Brandon didn’t give her a chance to respond. ‘My dear, you aren’t the only one who can improvise.
‘Shall we? We have much to discuss between us. You might as well do it in fine fashion. Until we resolve this tangle, I think it is best to see the ruse through,’ Brandon said sternly, crooking his arm, knowing she didn’t dare refuse. This was a role of her making. She had committed herself when she’d hastily concocted the idea to pose as his betrothed.
Nora took his arm and the challenge he invoked with her customary cockiness. ‘The curtain rises.’
‘So it does.’ With any luck, it wouldn’t be the final curtain. As long as he kept her with him, he could protect her from Cecil Witherspoon. He would learn more about this errant husband of hers and send Jack out to find him. In the meantime, he could persuade her about the merits of being his wife, an idea that he was starting to grow fonder of by the moment. He would not let her go without a fight.
Chapter Fifteen
How had he done that? Nora marvelled, standing on a pedestal swathed in fabrics, surrounded by two dressmakers and their assistants. She had thrown her last ace in an attempt to keep an insurmountable object between them; he’d glibly overcome it with a simple sentence to the effect that until this tangle is sorted out, it was best to continue with the ruse.
At best, his option was a delaying technique, but she saw the small victory he’d won with it. Going ahead with the ruse kept her by his side. It bought him time, time to convince her of his proposal’s reasonability. But time was dangerous to her. The longer she was in his sphere of influence, the more likely it was she would start to believe him. It would be so easy to capitulate to his logic. Of course, she couldn’t capitulate all the way, she did have a husband on the loose out there somewhere in England. And of course, Brandon hadn’t asked for the ultimate commitment.
Nora shifted and turned on the dressmaker’s pedestal, tamping down the rampant feelings that had begun to surge through her since his proposition. He had not spoken of marriage, merely of being under his care. They were both people of the world. He knew what he meant when he’d couched it in those terms. They both knew what those terms included and what they did not.
She might be an outlaw, but she had standards. She would not flagrantly live as any man’s mistress while being married to another. Sleeping with Brandon twice had been bad enough, but that was nothing more than a physical fling. And who could fault her giving into temptation after seven years of celibacy? In her book, it was a small infraction.
Being his mistress was more than an infraction. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, do it on principle as well as practice. Giving up The Cat and becoming his woman would force her into an emotional realm, a realm where she’d establish an attachment to him, where he’d have all the control, where he’d decide when it was over.
She could not let herself be devastated in such a manner. That day might be months or years off, but it would come and she could not tolerate standing by and watching him marry or take a different lover. And he would. She’d noted during his protestations this morning that he’d not spoken once of affection or love.
Nora was acutely aware that she needed to marshal her resolve and stand against Brandon’s ideas of protection. There would be difficult conversations in the near future. Stalling those conversations was the only reason she had permitted herself to be poked and fussed over. As long as she was surrounded with dressmakers, Brandon couldn’t begin to broach the many questions that were obviously rolling around his mind.
She hazarded a glance in his direction now. He lolled indolently on a sofa in the small parlour as if he had nothing better to do with his time but help his intended fuss over her selection of gowns. Only his eyes, sharp and shrewd as they took in the developing scene, belied his relaxed pose. She had sparred with him too often to miss the intensity in his gaze. For him, indolence was merely a façade.
The long case clock in the hall chimed the hour. Three o’clock. Good lord, they had been at it all day. Nora’s stomach grumbled in confirmation that they’d worked through luncheon.
The dressmaker held up two swatches of silk. ‘Miss, do you prefer the cerise or the cherry?’
Nora barely fought back a groan. Was there a difference? ‘I prefer green.’ She was gratified to see the dressmaker look suitably horrified. No doubt ‘green’ was too simple of word. A lady didn’t wear ‘green’. A lady wore emerald, jade, olive or lime, but not plain green.
Brandon swiftly stood up and clapped his hands, commanding all the attention in the room. ‘The lady prefers the forest green. I thank you all for your time, but I regret my betrothed grows weary from her exertions. I will expect the first of the gowns tomorrow afternoon.’
Her exertions! Climbing a tree to a two-storey window or breaking glass window panes were exertions. Standing still with pins stuck all over like a witch-doll was only boring. Nora would have laughed at the thought she had exerted herself if she hadn’t been so grateful for Brandon’s interruption.
In no time, the women had packed up their goods and exited, bobbing their heads and murmuring effusively ‘thank you, my lord’ to Brandon.
Brandon shut the parlour door when the last of them had left and rang for tea before sinking back down onto the sofa. ‘Tired?’ he asked.
‘Bored. I can’t believe ladies take such a thrill in visiting the dressmaker.’ Nora sighed, plopping down into a chair across from him, careful to keep the low serving table between them. ‘I had no idea there were so many shades of any given colour. I said blue and they said, “azure, periwinkle or sapphire,”’ she offered in fair mimic.
Brandon smiled his commiseration and carried on making small talk. His facile conversation made Nora nervous. She saw it for what it was—an obvious camouflage of the actual issue. He was waiting for the tea tray to arrive before launching into the real conversation.
Never one to put off the inevitable, Nora was relieved to see the tray arrive. The footman put it on the table between them. The door shut ominously in the wake of his departure, signalling the totality of their privacy. Pregnant silence followed while Nora poured out a cup for each of them. It seemed best if Brandon began. So she crossed her legs and sat back and waited.
He sipped from his cup.
He reached for a sandwich from the platter of food that accompanied the tray.
He took a bite.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
He was driving her mad.
She would plant a facer on that beautiful jaw of his if he took one more bite.
‘You’re not eating. Sandwich?’ Brandon picked up the platter and held it out to her.
She met his gaze levelly and took one. It might come in handy as an impromptu torture device.
‘So,’ he began casually, ‘tell me about this professed husband of yours.’
‘He’s not professed. He is quite real, I assure you,’ Nora said, taking a delicate, savouring bite of the sandwich in slow retribution before she delivered any more information. Two could play his game.
She took another bite. ‘Delicious.’
‘Fine, I’m sorry about the bit with the sandwich. Am I going to have to drag every detail out of you or could you just divulge the story without turning it into a parlour game of twenty questions?’
She supposed that was about as close to begging as he would allow himself to get. Nora put down her sandwich and showed mercy.
‘Fair enough, we have moved beyond the point of games,’ she said in all seriousness. ‘I fell in love when I was seventeen with a man named Reggie Portman. He was handsome and adoring. Back then I still believed in fairy tales.’
It was true. Reggie had not been anywhere near as accomplished as Brandon in bed, but his ardour had meant everything to her