Chapter 15
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage.
—Macbeth,act 5, scene 5
Damned rain!
Bray sat in his book room with his booted feet crossed at the ankles and propped on his desk. He listened to the constant patter of rain hitting the windows and rubbed his forehead. Several times he’d considered rising and pouring a drink but refrained. It was more than the weather that had him feeling restless and in an ill humor this dreary late afternoon.
It was Miss Prim. Lately, it was always Miss Prim.
It had been more than a month since he last saw her, held her in his arms, and kissed her, and still she haunted him. After returning from Yorkshire with Harrison, he’d filled some of his endless days with studying account books and meetings with his solicitors and Members of Parliament, and others with fencing, shooting, or gaming at one of his clubs. The hell of it was that nothing had completely distracted him from thinking about Miss Prim.
And for the life of him, he didn’t know why.
Perhaps it was those damned senses they had talked about that afternoon when he held her captive behind the blindfold. It was no wonder she thought him a scoundrel. Kissing her, touching her, letting her touch him as he did that day were devilish things for him to have done to her. He knew she’d never before been touched or kissed.
But the lesson for her had backfired on him.
He couldn’t get the taste of her, the feel of her out of his mind. He heard her whispered moans of pleasure in the quietness of the night. He remembered the scent of warm, fresh-washed hair. The only bad thing about having done it was that he kept thinking he wanted to do it again.
And that was madness. He’d already decided she and her sisters were too much trouble. Miss Prim was too headstrong for her own good, and she was too innocent for the likes of him. Her sisters cried over nothing and screeched like banshees when they were having fun. What sane man would want to deal with that every day?
“Damn Wayebury for dying and leaving them alone,” Bray said aloud, and swung his feet to the floor. “Foolish man for insisting we race that night!”
Bray rose and walked over to the side table that held the fresh decanter of port Tidmore had brought in when he stoked the fire and lit the lamps. It wasn’t that Bray had never been foolish. Damned foolish. Often. He couldn’t count all the times he’d done dangerous things and taken unnecessary risks.
It was a wonder he was alive today. When he was younger, he had jumped from high rocks into turbulent waters off the coast of Dover. He let Harrison and Adam shoot milk pails off his head one summer long before they became true marksmen, and probably the most outrageous thing he’d ever done was wrestle a bear just to prove to his friends that he wasn’t afraid of anything. But Bray never had five sisters depending on him to see they were properly brought up and wed.
Bray had only himself to worry about—until now.
“And damn Miss Prim’s uncle for signing their guardianship over to me,” he mumbled to himself as he poured a splash of the deep red liquid into a glass.
Miss Prim had refused to marry him, and he was glad of it. He paid the accounts for her and her sisters, and that was all that was expected of him—except, of course, for the damned vow.
And it was frustrating him.
Bray took a sip of the port. But… and often there was a “but.”
He couldn’t forget the fact that he’d had to force himself not to go over to her house and see her again. His eyes closed, and his hand tightened around his glass. Not going to visit her had been difficult. He didn’t understand this unusual yearning to see Miss Prim and hold her in his arms again. Always before, there was just the need for a woman to share pleasure with him. It had never really mattered to him who the woman was, so long as he desired her. Now he found himself wanting to see not just any woman, but in fact, Miss Prim.
For some reason, she made him sense that something was missing; an emptiness in his life had been revealed, and he didn’t like that unsettling feeling. Whether he was being lectured by his father, berated by a schoolmaster, or dared by a friend, for as long as he could remember, Bray had always found a way to be content with whatever fate sent his way.
Until now.
“Excuse me, Your Grace.”
Bray turned to see Mr. Tidmore standing in the doorway. “Yes?”
“There’s a Mr. Hopscotch here to see you. Should I show him in?”
“No.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mr. Tidmore said.
Bray replaced the top on the port decanter and walked to the window to look out over the foggy garden. The shrubs had budded and were a lush shade of green. The raindrops pelted the tender new leaves on the bushes, making them look as if they were dancing. His thoughts drifted back to Miss Prim and her sisters. Were they playing in the house today, since it had rained all afternoon? Had they played chase, blindman’s buff, or some other childhood game?
