Lord Braybrook's Penniless Bride

She was a respectable, unmarried, probable virgin—his sisters’ governess, his stepmother’s companion. In a word: forbidden. Untouchable. Dangerous.

Some dangers were worth risking.

He drew her closer, one arm sliding about her waist, bringing her to him so that the small rounded breasts just brushed against him. A taste. Just one taste of those sweet berry-stained lips…

His lips touched hers and her wits whirled.

Warm, firm lips feathered and caressed, promising ravishment and yet teasing with light touches before settling properly…

His control shook as he felt the flowering of her lips, the softening as they opened. Quelling the urge to ravish her mouth, he took it gently. Honey, sweet wild honey, intoxicating—and her very hesitance, even clumsiness, seemed to make it all the sweeter. All the more dangerous…

With his final, fading shred of sanity and control Julian pulled back, breaking the kiss.

‘This,’ he informed her, ‘is not a good idea.’

Award-winning author Elizabeth Rolls lives in the Adelaide Hills of South Australia, in an old stone farmhouse surrounded by apple, pear and cherry orchards, with her husband, two smallish sons, three dogs and two cats. She also has four alpacas and three incredibly fat sheep, all gainfully employed as environmentally sustainable lawnmowers. The kids are convinced that writing is a perfectly normal profession, and she’s working on her husband. Elizabeth has what most people would consider far too many books, and her tea and coffee habit is legendary. She enjoys reading, walking, cooking, and her husband’s gardening. Elizabeth loves to hear from readers, and invites you to contact her via e-mail at [e-mail]

LORD BRAYBROOK’S PENNILESS BRIDE features characters you will have already met in HIS LADY MISTRESS.

Recent novels by the same author:

HIS LADY MISTRESS

A COMPROMISED LADY

Author Note

Julian, Lord Braybrook, has been buzzing around in my head for some years now. He originally appeared in HIS LADY MISTRESS, and several of you asked if ‘that rake who took Verity out onto the terrace’ would ever get his own story. At the time I was writing A COMPROMISED LADY, and when Julian managed to muscle in on the action there too I knew the only way of dealing with him was to write his story.

LORD

BRAYBROOK’S

PENNILESS BRIDE

Elizabeth Rolls

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Joanna Maitland,

who showed me such a good time

in Braybrook’s territory, and beyond.

Chapter One

Julian Trentham, Viscount Braybrook, bit his tongue, figuratively speaking, and reminded himself that his stepmother, Serena, considered tact the best way to deal with his wayward half-sister. Telling Lissy she sounded like a second-rate actress in a bad tragedy was not tactful.

‘But it isn’t fair, Mama!’ said the Honourable Alicia furiously. ‘Julian only met Harry for five minutes yesterday and—’

‘Half an hour,’ said Julian, sitting down on a sofa. ‘Long enough to ascertain that, apart from his post as Sir John’s secretary, he has no prospects.’ He eyed the tabby cat seated on Serena’s lap out of the corner of his eye. The blasted thing was convinced he adored cats. It couldn’t have been more mistaken.

‘Five minutes!’ repeated Lissy, ‘and poor Harry is declared unsuitable. Whatever that means!’

‘Amongst other things, it means you’d run the fellow aground inside of a month,’ said Julian, unmoved. ‘Have sense, Lissy.’

The cat stretched, brilliant green eyes fixed on Julian.

Lissy glared. ‘I would not!’

Serena chimed in. ‘Lissy dear, I feel quite sure that charming and pleasant as Mr Daventry may—’ She made a grab for the cat, but it was already flowing off her lap. ‘Oh, dear. Now, where was I? Yes, Mr Daventry, I am sure he is not at all well off, so—’

‘What does money matter? And anyway, he has an income!’ protested Lissy.

‘Two hundred a year?’ Julian suppressed a snort. ‘And, no, money doesn’t matter. Just as long as you learn to manage without it. Otherwise you will find it matters a great deal when the bailiffs take your furniture and the landlord kicks you into the street.’

‘Harry has his own house,’ said Lissy. ‘In Bristol. He told me.’

‘A man of property, then,’ said Julian. He watched, resigned, as the cat strolled with offensive confidence towards him. His setter bitch, Juno, sprawled at his feet, lifted her head and then lowered it with a doleful sigh.

‘Well, I wouldn’t marry Lissy,’ piped up six-year-old Davy from the corner, where he was endeavouring to put together a puzzle map of Europe. ‘I’m going to marry Mama.’

Somehow Julian preserved a straight face. ‘Excellent notion, old chap,’ he said. ‘Only not unless you want to land in Newgate!’

Lissy looked as though she might have giggled, had she not been trying so hard to look affronted.

The cat sprang into his lap and made itself comfortable. Very comfortable; its claws flexed straight through his buckskin breeches.

‘Never mind, dear,’ said Lady Braybrook to her youngest son. ‘You won’t want to marry me when you are old enough anyway.’

‘No, indeed,’ said Julian. ‘After all, Lissy no longer wishes to marry me. Do you, Liss?’

‘I never did!’ exploded Lissy.

‘You proposed to me when you were about five,’ said Julian, reminiscently. ‘It was most affecting.’ He turned to Davy. ‘Why don’t you trot off to the kitchens and see if Ellie has something for you to eat?’

Davy leapt to his feet, scattering Europe to the corners of the drawing room, and decamped before his mother could veto this excellent idea on the grounds of education or indigestion.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Lissy burst out again. ‘It isn’t fair, Julian! Why should you have any say in it?’

‘Probably because I am your guardian,’ he said. ‘For my sins,’ he added. ‘Calm down, Lissy. You’re too young to be thinking of marriage.’

‘I shall be eighteen soon!’ she cried, making it sound like a death sentence.

‘You turned seventeen less than three months ago,’ Julian pointed out. ‘You’re not precisely on the shelf.’

‘What if it were one of your rich, titled friends?’ she countered. ‘Like Lord Blakehurst?’

Julian blinked. ‘Since he’s married, I’d shoot him! Believe it or not, I would refuse my consent to any binding betrothal until at least next year.’ The cat in his lap rolled, displaying its belly in furry offering. Resigned, Julian kneaded the shameless creature.

Lissy stared. ‘But, why?’

‘Because you’re too young,’ he said. ‘And don’t tell me again that you’re nearly eighteen!’

Deflated, Lissy said, ‘But we love each other. It isn’t fair. Just because he isn’t wealthy—’

‘Lissy—Daventry can’t afford to marry you!’ He strove for patience and nobly squashed his instinctive, and more cynical, reaction. ‘Not with bills like the ones sent to me from Bath last month,’ he said.

Lissy blushed. He hoped some of his pithy comments on the advisability of keeping a check on expenditure had sunk in. ‘It is unfair, though. If we cannot see each other, then—’

‘I didn’t forbid him the house!’ said Julian irritably. ‘For God’s sake, Lissy! Stop acting as though you were in a bad tragedy!’

Serena coughed, and Julian gritted his teeth, remembering the tact. He added, ‘He seems pleasant enough, and I believe I can trust him not to go beyond the line.’

‘You mean, we may meet?’

He fixed her with his best steely glare. ‘If he is invited to the same entertainments, then of course you will meet. He may call here. Occasionally. But you may not meet him unchaperoned, nor exchange correspondence. And I would make the same conditions for any man courting you, even if he were a veritable Midas!’

‘I suppose you think you’re being generous!’

He nodded. ‘Yes. Now that you mention it, I do. And if at any time you are tempted to view me as a callous tyrant,’ he added, ‘you might care to ponder the fact that our father would have shown Daventry the door with a horsewhip, set the dogs on him, complained to his employer, and confined you to your room for a month. At least. And think—once you are twenty- one, I will be powerless to prevent your marriage.’

Faced with this very accurate summation, Lissy set her mouth in a mutinous line. In trembling tones she said, ‘If you had the least idea about love, Julian, you would understand the agony of being obliged to wait!’

She swung around and stormed out.

Serena, Lady Braybrook, said, ‘I thought we agreed to be tactful?’

Julian snorted. ‘Tactful? Lissy needs a dose of salts!’ He removed the cat from his lap. ‘What has she been reading, Serena?’

Ignoring that as wholly unimportant, Serena regarded her stepson. ‘Tell me, dear—when you were seventeen—’

‘Yes, all right, very well,’ said Julian hurriedly, recalling some of his youthful peccadilloes. He looked away from the cat, which was staring up at him indignantly. ‘At least I never wanted to marry any of them!’

At Serena’s choke of laughter heat flared on his cheekbones, and the cat took advantage of his distraction to reinstate itself with fluid ease.

‘So I recall,’ Serena said, still laughing. ‘Is Tybalt annoying you? Just put him out.’

He grimaced. ‘I think I can survive one cat.’ Even if it was stretching its claws on his breeches again. Serena was fond of the thing. ‘Was I that much of a nuisance?’

‘Worse,’ she assured him. ‘Whenever news of your misdemeanours at Oxford and then, after you were sent down, London, reached us, your father nearly had apoplexy.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘The worst was the rumour that Worcester was about to call you out for your attentions to Harriette Wilson.’

Julian blinked at this unabashed reference to one of his youthful follies. ‘Dash it, Serena! Where did you hear that?’

‘Oh, was it true, then? I told your father it was more than likely a silly invention and not to give it a moment’s thought. Was I wrong?’

‘He told you?’ He hadn’t even realised that his father knew!

Serena stared. ‘Well, of course! How else could he ask my advice?’

‘He asked your advice?’ Julian tried, and failed, to imagine his father discussing his son’s involvement with a notorious courtesan with Serena.

Grey eyes twinkling, she said, ‘Frequently. Which is not to say he took it very often.’ Her mouth twitched. ‘Not intentionally, anyway.’

Julian decided he didn’t want to know. ‘Hmm. Well, I’m here now for the rest of the summer, and Lissy and Emma are off to Aunt Massingdale in the winter. Surely we can keep Lissy out of mischief until then.’

‘You’re staying until Parliament resumes?’

He shrugged. ‘Mostly. I do need to see Modbury about some business. I’ll go to Bristol for a few nights next week. Since I’m meeting with him I’ll write first and ask him to find out something more about Daventry. This house, for one thing.’

‘Yes, that surprised me,’ said Serena.

‘Modbury should be able to discover something if Daventry does own property,’ said Julian. ‘Apparently, Alcaston is his godfather and settled the income on him.’

Serena frowned. ‘Alcaston? The duke?’

‘Yes. He recommended Daventry for the post with Sir John,’ said Julian. ‘Will you be all right while I’m away? Are you sure you don’t want Aunt Lydia to visit? Or—’

He broke off under the fire of Serena’s glare.

‘I may be stuck in this wretched chair, Julian, but as I’ve said before, that does not mean I require someone hovering over me the entire time,’ she told him. ‘And since that is exactly what Lydia would do, no—I do not want her to visit!’

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘No Aunt Lydia.’

He’d have to think of someone else, because with her daughters off to Bath for the winter Serena needed a companion. He looked at her with affection. Her confinement to the wretched chair, as she put it, limited her physical independence. While he could see her point in categorically refusing her widowed sister-in-law as a companion—Lydia would fuss mercilessly and bemoan ceaselessly the unfairness of fate—who else was there?

‘Julian—I don’t want any well-meaning relatives fussing over me.’

‘No. I understand that.’ Sometimes he wondered if she could actually read his mind…he’d have to think of something else. Meanwhile he’d best write to Modbury and ask him to find out what he could about Daventry.

Chapter Two

I think I’ve found the house you wanted, my lord. Only Daventry I could find. It’s on Christmas Steps.

Yes?

Only thing, my lord—there’s a young woman living there from what I could find out…a Mrs Daventry …

Good Lord! Julian stood at the top of Christmas Steps and wondered if he was insane even thinking of descending the alley. Modbury had thought so, and Julian could see his point. The alley was positively medieval, and so steep someone had actually built steps. According to Modbury it led down to the old quay, and at least once had housed the sort of establishments sailors on shore leave frequented—brothels and taverns.

You can’t visit, my lord!

The hell he couldn’t. Gripping his umbrella, Julian started down the slippery steps. There were two possibilities. Either Daventry kept a whore down here—it was not unknown for a woman to use her protector’s name—or he was already married. On the whole, Julian thought a conveniently distant wife more likely; a mistress was only convenient if she were close enough to bed regularly. Either, however, would settle Lissy’s idealistic infatuation, if a description of the alley wasn’t enough.

It was dark in the alley and a dank chill closed in, with a reek of cabbage, fish and sour humanity on the breeze rattling the shop signs. The old, timbered houses with their cantilevered upper storeys loomed over the street, holding light and fresh air at bay. A couple of seedy-looking taverns were the only hard evidence of the street’s former reputation. There were few people about, but suspicious eyes followed him from doorways and windows. He consulted the address Modbury had given him—there, on the opposite side, just before the next set of steps between a fishmonger and an apothecary, was the house he sought.

A one-eyed, moth-eaten cat sheltering in the lee of the building flattened its ears and hissed, slinking away as he approached the open door.

A voice was raised.

‘Now be sensible, missy. I got Mr Daventry’s letter and it says, right here, “the house and all its contents”! See? All its contents. Not “all its contents if no one else happens to want them”. So—’

‘Well, I assume you’re not planning to put me on the auction block along with my clothes and hairbrush as part of the contents!’ came another voice. A prim, schoolmistressy voice a man would think twice about annoying.

The voice went on. ‘And if you can make that distinction, then you should be capable of exempting the rest of my personal property.’ Irony gave way to anger. ‘And since Mr Daventry is my brother and not my husband, he owns neither them nor me!’

Blast! Probably not wife, then. Mistress remained a possibility…

The angry woman continued, ‘When you return next week, you may have the house and all its contents because I shall have removed myself and my possessions to lodgings!’

Through the open door Julian could now see a large, beefy- looking man, in the old-fashioned knee breeches and frieze coat of a respectable tradesman. He had his back half-turned, but there was no mistaking the rising annoyance in the set of his jaw.

‘Now see here, missy!’ he growled, all attempt at reason abandoned. ‘’Twas unfortunate I misunderstood how things were, but there’s no call to take that tone! I’ll be calling in the sheriff and bailiffs if you remove more than your clothes and hairbrush. Everything, the letter says, and I’ve made a list, I have!’ He brandished a piece of paper, presumably in his unseen opponent’s face. ‘If aught’s missing, I’ll have the law on you!’

It was none of his business, Julian told himself. Common sense dictated that he remain out of any legal brangle between Daventry and his sister. Only this wasn’t Daventry…and exactly what situation had the man misunderstood?

The woman spoke again. ‘You may leave, Goodall. I suggest you clarify your instructions with my brother. In the meantime my solicitor will call upon you.’

Goodall, far from being abashed, took a step forward, presumably towards the woman.

‘Are you threatening me, missy?’ His voice had turned thoroughly unpleasant.

‘Leave!’ Sister or not, the undercurrent of fear in her tone flung Julian into action. Three swift strides took him over the threshold.

‘Goodall!’ he rapped out.

The man swung around. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘The lady told you to leave,’ said Julian coldly. ‘As an acquaintance of Daventry, I suggest you do so before I speak with the magistrates on his behalf about entering this lady’s home and harassing her. Out.’

He strode past Goodall with scarcely a glance at the woman. All he could see was that she was of medium height, bespectacled and clad in dull brown. His attention was on the aggrieved Mr Goodall, and he deliberately interposed himself between them.

Goodall flushed. ‘Now, see here—’

‘Out.’ He delved in his pocket and pulled out his cardcase. ‘As for who I am…’ He took out a card and handed it to Goodall ‘…I’m Braybrook.’

He gestured to the door and Goodall, his face now as pale as it had been red, swallowed.

‘I’m sure…that is…I didn’t mean—’

‘Out!’

Goodall went.

Julian closed the door and turned to receive the heartfelt gratitude of his damsel in distress—

‘I have no idea who you may be, but you will oblige me by also leaving.’

Frost glittered at him from behind unbecoming spectacles. And there was something odd about her direct gaze, something faintly disconcerting—as though she had the ability to see straight through. Right now he wouldn’t have wagered a penny on her liking what she saw.

As for what he saw—the woman was a quiz. Her hair colour remained a mystery under an all-enveloping and extremely ugly cap. As did whatever figure she might possess beneath a gown remarkable only for its sheer shapelessness and being the drabbest brown he’d ever seen.

Any lingering hope of her being Daventry’s doxy faded. No self-respecting doxy would wear the gown, let alone the spectacles.

And she faced him with her chin up, her jaw set, and her mouth a flat, determined line.

‘No gratitude, ma’am?’ he drawled.

Those queerly penetrating eyes narrowed. ‘I’m reserving it until I know who you are, and why you entered my home without my leave,’ was the icy rejoinder.

‘Well, you won’t discover either of those things if you kick me out into the street,’ he pointed out with what he freely acknowledged to be unforgivable logic.

It seemed she concurred. One small fist clenched and the pale cheeks flushed. Otherwise her control held.

‘Very well. Who are you?’

He supposed she could not be blamed for being suspicious. He took out his card case and extracted another card, holding it towards her.

There was a moment’s hesitation before she moved, and then it was warily, watchful eyes on his face as she took the card. At once she stepped beyond his reach behind a settle before examining the card.

He watched, fascinated. There was something about her, about her face—what was it? Apart from that she looked cold.

She was glaring at him again.

‘So, Lord Braybrook—assuming you are Lord Braybrook and not some scoundrel—’

‘I’m obliged to point out that the two are not mutually exclusive,’ he said.

She positively bristled. ‘That I can well believe!’ Then, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! One of my eyes is blue and the other brown! And now perhaps you will stop staring at me!’

One was blue, the other… So they were. He could see it now; behind the spectacles one eye was a soft, misty blue and the other hazel brown.

‘And, no, I am not a witch,’ she informed him.

He smiled. ‘I assumed you weren’t, since Goodall left in human form rather than as a toad.’

For a split second there was a flare in her eyes that might have been laughter. A lift at the corner of the mouth, which was, he suddenly saw, surprisingly lush. Soft pink lips that for a moment looked as though they might know how to smile.

The impression vanished like a snowflake on water.

‘Frivolity,’ she said, as one who identifies a beetle, all the softness of her mouth flattened in disapproval.

‘Ah, you recognised it,’ he said with a bow.

This time her eyes widened, but she controlled herself instantly.

Intrigue deepened. What would it take to crack her self- control?

‘Do all your rescuers receive this charming response?’ he asked. ‘It’s true, you know; I am acquainted with Harry. As for my motives; I was coming to call on you and overheard Goodall. I interfered out of disinterested chivalry, Mrs Daventry.’

‘Miss Daventry,’ she corrected him.

He watched her closely. ‘Oh? I understood a Mrs Daventry lived here?’

Her expression blanked. ‘Not now. My mother died some months ago.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said quietly. ‘My condolences.’

‘Thank you, my lord. Will you not be seated?’

She gestured to a battered wingchair by the empty fireplace. The leather upholstery bore evidence of several cats having loved it rather too well. The only other seat was the uncomfortable- looking wooden settle opposite with a damp cloak hung over it. He took the settle and, at a faint startled sound from her, glanced over his shoulder to catch the surprise on her face.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘You can’t have thought I’d take the chair!’

Her mouth primmed. ‘I’ve noticed gentlemen prefer a comfortable chair, yes.’

His opinion of Harry Daventry slid several notches. ‘Then they weren’t gentlemen, were they?’

Her mouth thinned further. ‘And you are?’

He laughed. ‘Usually. I’ll warn you if I feel the urge to behave too badly.’

‘Very obliging of you. May I offer you tea?’

Prim. Proper. As calm as though she entertained the vicar.