Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle: Pickpocket Countess / Grayson Prentiss's Seduction / Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady / Libertine Lord, Pickpocket Miss / The Viscount Claims His Bride. Bronwyn Scott
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was that word again: responsibility. She was coming to hate it. She would hate it if it wasn’t so important to her too. She understood the power of responsibility all too well.
‘Be glad I have the good sense not to take advantage of you. My rejection is a gift,’ Nora fired back, relieved to feel her temper rising. Good. She wouldn’t dwell on all that she was turning down. She cared for him too much to tie him to her when he did not reciprocate her depth of feeling. When he worked that out, he’d be thankful for her decision.
‘You will see reason and you’ll know I was right to decline. I cannot abide the idea that you would marry me to fulfil your sense of duty. You cannot wish to be shackled to a woman you don’t know for the rest of your days.’
‘You’re wrong. I know you, Nora. I know you’re The Cat. I know you have a criminal past, all for a good cause. I know and I still admire you. When I saw Witherspoon point that gun at you, I knew I couldn’t lose you.’
Of course not. You can’t stand to lose, you insufferably stubborn man. Nora stared at him, letting silence permeate the room. She took a moment and let the import of his words sink in. It would be easy to interpret them to mean what she wanted them to mean—a replacement for ‘I love you’.
Any other woman might be taken in by those powerful words. But in the past month she’d come to know Brandon Wycroft. He was a man who hated to lose and hated to share. She knew what he really meant: he wasn’t going to let a chap like Witherspoon call the shots. This was his game with The Cat and his game alone. She understood, but it still hurt.
Brandon chuckled in the quiet. ‘Besides, Nora, you can’t leave just yet. I need to produce a betrothed for a reasonable bit of time or else it will look suspicious.’
‘How long?’ Nora said warily. Letting him determine how the betrothal gambit evolved put her in a tenuous position.
‘Two weeks ought to be sufficient.’
‘Two weeks and then you let me walk away?’
‘Yes, unless you change your mind.’
‘I won’t. I can’t.’
Brandon smiled knowingly with all the confidence of an urbane rake prowling the London drawing rooms. ‘We’ll see.’
What had she got herself into? Nora wondered two days later, standing in what had become her suite of chambers, surrounded by boxes of hats, shoes, gloves and undergarments of the finest linens. Her wardrobe began arriving the afternoon following the dressmakers’ initial visit, providing a signal of sorts to those in the village who felt obliged to consort with the Earl and his intended.
The purported tragedy befalling her luggage and maid held would-be callers at bay for a day, long enough for Brandon and she to sort out what lay between them. For the ruse to succeed, they had to have a united front. Playing his role to the hilt, Brandon had dashed off a letter to his closest sister, inviting her to chaperon.
Now that her new clothing had arrived, the callers were not far behind. Indeed, Nora had been informed mere minutes ago that Witherspoon, along with his wife and sister, were downstairs in the front drawing room, hoping to be received. She supposed she could ask Brandon to tell them she was indisposed, but that would be the coward’s way out. Brandon expected more of her. He had performed his role as dutiful husband-to-be quite well.
She must respond in kind. Any believable candidate for an Earl’s wife would be an accomplished hostess. Acting like a shy country miss or wilting wallflower would not reflect well on Brandon.
Nora rang for the maid and pulled a morning gown of emerald-printed challis with Medici sleeves from the pile of gowns covering the bed. ‘Quickly, Ellie, we must not keep Witherspoon and his guests waiting overlong,’ Nora said in her best imitation of the lady of the house, which was what the servants expected of her. In their minds, she was to be the Countess.
Fortunately, she’d spent enough time robbing the rich to know something of their lifestyle and behaviours. She was not without her own resources when it came to avoiding major mistakes and Brandon had been diligently present behind the scenes, making sure she did not face insurmountable tasks alone.
Nora let Ellie drop the dress over her head and straighten it before sitting down at her vanity to arrange her hair in a hasty but tasteful coiffure. Ellie was a genius with hair, gathering Nora’s heavy curls into a low knot at the base of her neck that at once gave the admirer an impression of maturity and innocence when studying Nora’s face.
As Nora fastened on a pair of earrings, a knock sounded at the door. Brandon peered in and smiled. ‘Are you ready to go down? When I heard Witherspoon was here, I thought we could receive him together,’ he offered politely.
Nora graciously accepted. Witherspoon was their first visitor—the first of many. Nora knew Brandon wanted to offer guidance and cues so that she could manage well on her own for later visits. No one would expect the Earl to actually be present for the social calls. That was a woman’s domain.
There were other reasons she was glad of Brandon’s presence by her side. The way Witherspoon had looked at her when she’d descended the stairs the night he and the others brought Brandon home from the dinner party made her nervous, as if he were trying to unravel a great mystery. And, of course, there was the fact that he’d been ready to shoot her the night of the St Johns’ dinner party—not that he knew The Cat and Brandon’s intended were one and the same. Still, there was something edgy about socialising with someone who wanted to see her dead.
‘I don’t suppose we can get out of this,’ Nora said as they descended the stairs.
‘Don’t say you’re nervous.’ Brandon winked. ‘I have a plan for avoiding other callers today.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s called a picnic,’ he said in a playful tone of high drama.
‘A picnic?’ Nora said excitedly, then sobered. ‘But it is the middle of winter, Brandon.’
‘Did I neglect to say a picnic in the summerhouse? We’ll be warm enough, no matter the rain outside. Now, let’s dispatch our guests with all due haste.’
‘Witherspoon, welcome, it is good to see you.’ Brandon shook hands with the tall, blond-haired man, sounding genuinely delighted to receive the visitors. Nora marvelled at Brandon’s talent for easy conversation.
Nora stepped forward and let Brandon make the introductions. She saw the ladies seated comfortably on the couch near the fire while Brandon and Witherspoon took the two wing-backed chairs opposite. She probably should ring for tea, but she didn’t want to encourage Witherspoon to stay. It would take fifteen minutes to get a tea tray together and another twenty to politely partake of it with company. It was difficult to play the gracious hostess when a picnic in the summerhouse with Brandon loomed on the horizon.
Witherspoon must have sensed the need to expedite his visit. He shifted in his seat to directly face Brandon. ‘I appreciate being received, my lord. We did not have an appointment.’
Nora watched his face. The man might sound self-effacing as he kowtowed to the Earl, but his eyes told a different story. She hoped Brandon could see the calculation in them.
‘I am always glad to meet if I am at home.’ Brandon inclined his head slightly.
‘I felt what I have to say cannot wait, considering the state of affairs in Stockport-on-the-Medlock. It has to do with The Cat.’
Brandon affected a look of cool interest. ‘Have you heard something?’
‘It is something I noticed during the incident at St John’s. I think we may have been looking in the wrong direction for The Cat. I think there is reason to believe The Cat is a woman.’
It took all of Nora’s self-control to avoid looking at Brandon. Any contact might arouse suspicions.
‘Why would you think that, Witherspoon? It’s