Saying I Do To The Scoundrel. Liz Tyner

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       Chapter One

      The knocking on his door pounded like hooves against Brandt’s head, bringing him from ravaged dreams into the summer-baked room. He didn’t care where the hands on the clock might be—the hour was too early for him to awaken. He needed another bottle of brandy to cleanse his mouth. He called out to his valet, ‘Enter.

      ‘Enter,’ he commanded again when he heard no footsteps.

      The door swung open.

      ‘Heathen.’ The word screeched into his ears as if attached to flying glass. A woman wearing a bonnet the size of a parasol stood beneath the transom. For a moment, he thought he dreamed of a butterfly, the dress fluttered so and bead trim sparkled. A pale face, with dark eyes rimmed in lashes any siren could be envious of, stared at him.

      The drunken haze confused him. This was a boarding house—not his home. For a moment, he had forgotten.

      Memories returned, anger flooding his body.

      He rolled on to his side, and propped himself on his elbow, re-orienting himself, and feeling a breeze waft over his body. Completely over his body.

      Everything came back to him. Or enough of it did. He’d shed his clothing when he’d returned from the tavern. He felt beside him for a covering. Nothing touched his fingers but a mattress so thin he could feel the ropes beneath.

      ‘Why did you call for the door to open?’ The woman at the door had her hand over her eyes—and her cheeks were flushed. The one behind her seemed to be taking measurements.

      ‘I was dreaming of—’ He could not tell her he dreamed of Mary. Of a world of servants and health and sobriety. ‘I dreamt of a swarm of annoying bees and I called for the door to be open so they might fly out,’ he said. ‘Instead one rushed in.’

      How had he wronged the woman at the door? He couldn’t recall her face, and she didn’t look at all the kind he consorted with. She had the look of an outraged wife on her face, but she wasn’t his outraged wife.

      He took a breath to calm himself and wished the night hadn’t been so warm he’d shed his clothing, his covers and the last threads of his dignity.

      The female at the threshold looked as if she’d been snatched from Sunday services and plopped in the middle of a brothel.

      But no devil had forced her to open his door.

      He reached to the side of his bed, ignored his small clothes and went straight for his trousers.

      With his body turned away, he pulled his clothing over his legs.

      ‘Perhaps you could introduce yourself.’ He spoke calmly to the daft one even as the second woman tiptoed to examine him. He was at a blasted soirée and he had not accepted the invitation. ‘You are under the impression we are acquainted. And I am under the impression we are not.’

      She sputtered.

      ‘And to what do I owe the pleasure?’ he asked, finishing the last button and turning. He would have preferred to have on his small clothes, but then he would have preferred to have drunk a lot more and fallen asleep at the tavern.

      The drink had finally destroyed him, but not in the way he had expected.

      ‘Cover yourself,’ the young woman commanded. ‘You heathen.’

      ‘You can take your hand from your eyes,’ he said. ‘I’ve got my trousers buttoned.’

      Eyes, which reminded him of sunlight shining through sparkling glass, took a quick look at him. ‘A shirt?’

      ‘Oh, let’s save that until after we’ve been properly introduced.’

      ‘We will never be properly introduced.’

      She wouldn’t be in a tavern, or on the darkened streets. And she shouldn’t be in his room. He paid little care to the society folks with their haughty stares. СКАЧАТЬ