if he’d done exactly what he’d been thinking about doing in the past few hours. The past few days. He lusted after the sober little crusader—the saint of King Street, the savior of soiled doves—impossible as it seemed. He wanted her naked beneath him, he wanted to wipe that cool, distant smile off her face and have her hot and sweaty, weeping with her release. He wanted to take her, and take her hard. And there were so many reasons why he shouldn’t. Mostly because, despite her widowed state, she wasn’t the kind of woman to bed and then discard. She was someone who played the game seriously. If she thought it a game at all.
He’d finally dragged himself out of bed when he heard the clock chiming three, taking himself in search of a brandy and something to read, when he heard a crashing in the hallway below.
He caught his robe in one hand and strode out onto the landing, about to demand who the hell was there, when his angry voice died away, and he looked at his brother trying to make his way up the stairs with the help of Richmond.
He had blood on his head. He was singing softly, a ditty of such obscenity that even Benedick was impressed. He was very drunk, but he was more than drunk. His eyes glittered, the pupils tiny pinpricks in the shadow as he looked up and saw Benedick.
“M’brother,” Brandon announced to Richmond. “Not a bad fellow, but completely conventional. Wouldn’t approve.”
Benedick had already started down the stairs, reaching them midway and taking his brother’s other arm. There was a sweet smell clinging to him, mixing with the unmistakable smell of alcohol, and he wondered what the hell his baby brother had gotten into. “Wouldn’t approve of what, old boy?” he asked easily, looking at the blood. It was dried, and there was no head wound, which was a relief. And then he looked down at Brandon’s hand, the one which had seen war and despair, that had meted out death with grim certainty. There was a deep gash in his palm, still oozing blood.
Brandon followed his gaze, oddly alert despite the whiskey he could smell on him. “Don’t look so worried,” he said in an irritable voice. “Did it myself.”
“Why?”
“None of your damned business, that’s why,” Brandon replied. He paused, looking around him, his eyes going out of focus. “I need my room,” he said abruptly.
“Are you going to be unwell, sir?” Richmond inquired anxiously. “I could bring you a basin.”
“No Rohan would cast up his accounts—we come from a long line of degenerates—” And then he’d proceeded to get violently ill all over Benedick.
Which was enough to put anyone off the idea of sleeping. They’d managed to get Brandon’s nearly unconscious form into his bedroom, and he’d left him in Richmond’s care, not bothering with instructions to clean him up and bandage the hand. Richmond had taken care of him very well over the years—he didn’t need his master telling him his business.
Fortunately the noise had already roused a number of the staff, and it didn’t take long to get a hot bath to wash off Brandon’s excesses. By the time he’d finished it was already growing light outside, and he gave up the thought of sleep entirely.
It was just as well. Lack of sleep sharpened his intellect and destroyed any semblance of courtesy. He’d doubtless be such a bear that sweet Charity would develop a total disgust of him, and look elsewhere for a confederate. He would be better off investigating Brandon’s possible connection to the Heavenly Host on his own, without having to worry about anyone else.
Not that it was in his nature to worry about anyone, with the possible exception of his siblings. And Brandon had managed to get himself into a totally disreputable state while he was nowhere near the Elsmeres or any of the other possible members he’d talked with the night before, which made the connection less likely.
Today should put an end to any speculation. He would give Lady Carstairs such a disgust of him that she would refuse to even speak to him in the future, which would be better for both of them. Because she’d kissed him back. Inexpertly, to be sure, but she’d responded, and the sweetness of her momentary, unexpected response had been…distracting. And he’d already been distracted enough from his main goal.