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

Nora sleepily groped the big bed, searching for the warmth of Brandon’s body. Her seeking hands found only cold sheets. Disappointingly, Brandon’s side of the bed was empty.

She pulled herself up into a sitting position and scanned the room, looking for traces of him. His clothes were gone. He was up and dressed.

She sighed heavily, flopping back against the down-filled pillows. It was better this way. She could be dressed and gone out the window before he knew it.

The two of them were unsuited for a long-term future together, as much as she wished that could be different. The realisation that she did wish it could be different struck her with such force she sat upright, trying to quell her rising emotion.

Her mind cruelly played the ‘what if’ game. What if there could be more than a short-term relationship between them? What if their passion was based on more than mutually shared lust? What if Brandon had been right, that they wanted the same things?

But they were only fantastical ‘what ifs’. In order for them to come true the world would have to be a far different place, a place where Earls married outlaws, a place where The Cat was not needed. That would be a perfect world indeed, an utter utopia where workers were treated fairly, where children did not risk limbs scavenging cotton droppings from under machines.

Those days were far away and probably beyond her lifetime, which might be a short one if she wasn’t careful. As much as her body yearned for Stockport, she had no business giving him her trust carte blanche. And really, Brandon had no business giving her his. He was in this game up to his neck and she wondered if he realised how deeply he played these days.

She could not allow him to develop a connection to her. It would be too dangerous for them both. She would end up dead. He would end up hurt if he developed a connection to her that could be traced or an attachment of an emotional nature. That was putting the cart before the horse. They had never spoken of love or affection last night or ever.

But sometimes sex did crazy things to a relationship, creating the illusion of something being there that wasn’t. Neither one of them could afford that delusion.

The solution was simple. She needed to leave. She dressed rapidly, thrusting legs into her breeches and arms through her shirt. Her hands fumbled on the buttons in her haste. She hoped her absence would send a message. There was no need for him to come looking for her and offering futile explanations for things that didn’t need to be explained.

Drat it, where was the other boot? Nora knelt on the floor and bent to peer under an armoire. There it was. She reached out and grabbed for it with a hand. But she was out of time.

‘As lovely as your derrière looks in those breeches, I am sure I can find something more suitable for my betrothed to wear.’ A familiar male voice broke the quiet of the room.

Damn that boot. If the boot had been handy when she was dressing, she would have been out the window. Now, she would have to face Brandon. From the sound of it, he was not pleased. The last thing she needed right now was a male caught up in some primal sense of protection for the woman he’d bedded.

‘Don’t get up.’ Brandon’s voice held a dangerous tone. ‘It’s the perfect position for spanking, which is what I’d like to do to you right now for even contemplating leaving.’

That was the sound of cold fury. Nora shut her eyes and took a deep breath before rising from her ignoble position on the floor. Her acerbic wit failed her, so she opted for silence, countering his anger with crossed arms and a defiant pose. She waited.

Brandon stared at Nora in disbelief. After Jack left, he’d come upstairs, expecting to find her still abed, still drowsy and on the brink of fully awakening. If he had waited a minute more, she would have been gone.

It was quite a blow to his ego to find that, while he was contemplating some level of serious commitment with a woman, the woman in question was contemplating escape out of a two-storey window. The whole scenario was worthy of a Drury Lane farce: an Earl, rich and handsome, able to have any woman, made sport of by the only woman he wanted.

Brandon shut the door behind him and met her stare evenly. He was gratified to see she was at a loss for words. ‘What did you think you were doing?’

‘We both know I’m not really your intended,’ she said at last.

‘We’re the only ones who know that.’ Brandon folded his arms and settled against the bed post, entrenching. ‘You cannot simply make such a claim in front of witnesses and then walk away, leaving me to clean up the mess. How am I to explain your disappearance or live down the scandal of broken nuptials? It’s hardly fair to me.’ He tried to sound cool, neutral, as if he weren’t furious at finding her in the midst of leaving.

‘I am sure you’ll think of something. Tell them you discovered I was a woman of loose virtue and that I misled you into believing I was something I was not.’ Her tone was punishingly devoid of any warmth. They could have been strangers for all that her tone implied. Brandon hated it.

‘I don’t lie well.’ Brandon pinned her with his gaze. ‘You are not a woman of loose virtue, but a woman of more honour than any person I’ve ever known. As for the bit about pulling the wool over my eyes, I resent the implication that I might be capable of being hoaxed. It reflects poorly on my manhood, to say nothing of being highly unbelievable. I fear Witherspoon and others would smell a rat. After all, I am the Cock of the North. I know my way around women, adroitly.’

Nora rolled her eyes. ‘Then it’s settled. We should definitely let people go on believing in our little deception for the sake of keeping your precious manhood intact.’

Brandon felt a smile crease his lips. This was better. He would rather joust with her wit than shadow-box her silence. ‘If there has to be any deception involved, I’d rather deceive others than deceive ourselves.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Nora fired back.

‘You want to walk out of here and pretend last night or the first night didn’t happen.’

‘For the record, I wasn’t going to walk out of here, I was going to climb. And pretending they didn’t happen is better than what you want.’ Nora bent to tug on her boot.

Brandon smiled wickedly and advanced towards her, making it difficult to look at him and put her boot on at the same time. ‘Tell me, what is it that I want?’

Nora gave up on the boot to meet him squarely. ‘You want to believe last night meant something, that you are under obligation to protect me.’

‘That is true enough. Protection is an issue we must consider. Witherspoon is set on capturing The Cat. We can’t risk him discovering The Cat’s identity.’

Nora interrupted, caution infusing her tone. ‘This is my fight. I will not have you entangled. The game has become too perilous.’

Brandon ignored her and forged ahead. ‘I will politely debate that point. The moment Witherspoon realises my betrothed and The Cat are one and the same, I am suddenly in the middle of a very tricky situation. I find myself in great need of guaranteeing your safety. The only way we can guarantee your safety is to stop the raids. Once the raids stop, people will lose interest in The Cat.’ He braced himself, knowing she wouldn’t like it.

‘You are asking me to give up my goals. How do I know you are not using the situation to get what you want? You want me gone so your investors won’t flee,’ Nora said shrewdly.

Brandon nodded. ‘You need assurances of my trustworthiness and you already have them. I have had opportunities to turn you in and I have not. Instead, I played out your ruse. Those are not the actions of a desperate man who could take the easy way out.’

Nora crossed her arms over her chest. ‘I have to leave at once if I want to live to fight another day.’

Brandon’s tone turned sharp. ‘There will be no more fighting for you. Consider yourself retired.’ He was close enough to touch her.

He reached for her. She let him draw her into his arms, but he could feel the tension of her reluctance. ‘Nora, when I said “protection”, I meant permanent protection. If Witherspoon doesn’t catch you, someone else, somewhere, will. You can’t play The Cat indefinitely. The only way to be safe is to stop being The Cat altogether.’

She was ready to bolt and Brandon knew he was on tenuous grounds. ‘Nora, don’t be The Cat. Don’t be Eleanor Habersham or any other bit of fiction you can dream up. Stay with me and let me keep you safe.’

‘What did you say?’ The pallor of her face did her credit. Her shock was real.

‘I said, stay with me.’ He felt her tense for a protest. He put a finger on her lips. ‘Shh. You can talk in a moment. You told me Christmas Day that you could never stop being The Cat because there would always be the fear of arrest for a past burglary. With me, you would be protected from that. No one would dare challenge you while you are under my care.’

Nora’s chest heaved, indicating she wanted to break into the one-way conversation. Brandon shook his head. ‘I’m not finished. I haven’t forgotten your other reasons. You won’t have to give up your cause. All my funds, all my political connections, will be at your disposal, Nora, to do with as you wish. You already know I share your concerns. You know I support the Reform Act. Nora, we would be splendid. Stay with me and know that your fears have been laid to rest.’

Brandon found himself slightly out of breath. He could not think of anything more compelling to add. He watched her face for signs of acceptance. There were none.

‘Brandon, all you say is true. It’s a good offer. But I won’t stay with a man so that he can fulfil an obligation of honour and for other reasons. Please let me go and don’t ask any more of me.’

‘You cannot expect me to let you go without a reason, Nora, not with the possibility that we’ve had two opportunities to create a child.’

He had not wanted to push things that far, to use conception as a trump card, but his hand had been forced. He’d not expected her to leave. He’d expected her to stay with him and they’d be able to face that eventuality if it arose in the natural course of time. But Nora had not done the expected. As always, she’d done the opposite.

‘Tell me what it is that would drive you away and I will fix it.’

She shook her head slowly. ‘You can’t fix this, child or not, Brandon. You can’t jump down off the wagon box and throw your fortune at it.’ It was said with sorrow, without any mocking at his actions on Christmas Day.

Brandon felt a finger of fear move down his spine as he watched her eyes harden. She was steeling her resolve. He was suddenly seized with the desire to retract his statement. He didn’t want to know.

But the decision was in motion. She was going to tell him. He knew with distressing certainty it would be like hammering the final nail into a coffin. He swallowed hard.

‘Brandon, I am married. I will not stay with one man while I am legally bound to another.’

Brandon took an involuntary step backwards, a hand covering his mouth, his other hand groping for a chair or a bed post, anything with which to steady himself. His world was reeling. The coffee and toast he’d eaten with Jack threatened to come back up.

At last he choked out the word. ‘Married?’ This was worse than being on opposite sides of politics and even the law. This was about losing Nora. An Earl could do a lot of things, but he could not be a bigamist. The jealousy he’d so adamantly denied to Jack raised its green head. He did not want to share her with anyone from the past or the present.

‘Yes. At least I think so. I haven’t seen my husband for seven years.’

A glimmer of hope, then, Brandon thought, as morbid as it was. The rotter might be dead. Deuce take it, what was he coming to when the possibility of someone’s death brought him a surge of joy? This whole situation was becoming more ludicrous by the moment.

A knock sounded at the door of his chambers. Brandon had no further opportunity to pursue this latest twist. The present and all its implications reasserted itself.

‘This is not over,’ he said sternly, waving Nora into the dressing room where she would be out of sight. It wouldn’t do to have his servants see her in The Cat’s garb.

‘Enter,’ he called when Nora was hidden away.

‘My lord, I have come to inform you that the dressmakers you called for earlier this morning have arrived and are downstairs awaiting your pleasure,’ the valet said.

‘Excellent, tell them we’ll be down shortly.’ Brandon reached for a waistcoat and jacket. Shrugging into them gave him time to regroup. When Nora appeared in the doorway from the dressing room, casting him a questioning look, he felt back in control of himself. He had a meagre plan, a delaying action, really, but it was all he had time to come up with as he finished dressing.

‘The dressmakers from Manchester are here to help my betrothed restore her wardrobe after the unfortunate mishap yesterday that claimed her luggage,’ he explained.

She quirked a brow at the fabrication Brandon was spinning. 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 young heart and nothing to his. She had not understood at the time that sex was purely physical for men and usually devoid of any emotional connection.

‘I sold myself in marriage once. I did not enjoy it. I am not likely to pursue arrangements that would put me in similar circumstances again,’ Nora said baldly.

‘How do we get from young romantic to hardened cynic? It seems to me that you’ve left some pieces out of the story.’ Brandon was quick to note the gap.

Nora took a sip of tea to fortify herself. ‘I was alone and on the run, except for Hattie and Alfred.’

‘Are they your parents?’ Brandon looked perplexed.

‘No. They are not even relatives.’ Nora shook her head sadly, staring without seeing at the sandwich in her hand.

Brandon moved next to her, the tea tray forgotten. He took her hand and intertwined his fingers between hers. ‘What happened to your parents? How did you come to this?’ he asked softly. ‘It’s time for stories, I think. Nora, you can be yourself with me.’

It was amazingly easy to open up her memories after keeping them closed for so long. Nora found, once she started, that she couldn’t stop the flood of remembrances. ‘My father was a successful businessman here in Manchester. I was an only child and I had plenty of luxuries, a tutor and a good education. Then, one day, there was an explosion at the factory. My father died trying to save some workers trapped under fallen timbers.

‘My mother and I were left well provided for, but I saw what happened to the families of the workers who were killed. There was no help for them to repay them for what they had lost. We tried to help, but it didn’t matter. They were destitute and living in the slums before the year was out, through no fault of their own. Investigators later concluded the fire started because an improperly made machine became too hot. Carelessness cost those families everything and they were simply told they were expendable.’

‘My mother was ruined in an altogether different way. After my father died, she lost her will to go on. When I was fourteen, she passed away in the night. The doctors could not explain it. Nothing was wrong with her except for a broken heart. I was packed off to my only relatives, a strict aunt and uncle in Bradford.’

Nora shuddered at the recollection. They’d been puritanical in their beliefs and lifestyle. The home, while large, was austere and empty of frills. She was allowed only the most sombre, high-necked gowns, and the smallest modicum of freedom. Many days were spent serving out punishments in her room—punishments she had earned for sneaking out of the house with supplies for those in need. Her uncle believed the poor got what they deserved and her aunt feared the dirt and illness that came with poverty. In a way, she’d been playing The Cat long before it had become official.

‘How does Reggie Portman figure into all this?’ Brandon prompted quietly when she fell silent.