be one more disaster among a lifetime of disasters. Two out of three times he’d chosen poorly, and he had no intention of making another mistake.
No, the association was at an end, thankfully so. He would keep her apprised of his progress, and once the situation with the Heavenly Host was dealt with he would allow himself one brief visit, chaperoned by the lovely Mrs. Cadbury, to deal with any extraneous bits of business. Then and only then could he concentrate on finding a proper wife.
Though it was a good thing he’d decided against Miss Pennington, who would probably freeze him to death in bed. He wondered if she knew what her ramshackle brother was up to. The Heavenly Host was an expensive indulgence, and the Penningtons’ fortune had all but vanished, hence her willingness to consider the suit of a member of the notorious Rohan family.
The sooner he contracted a marriage the safer he’d be. The sooner he managed to find the sexual relief he’d been longing for the safer he’d be. Though safe was a strange word to use when it came to Melisande Carstairs. She was hardly a threat, except, perhaps, to the cut of his breeches. Blasted woman.
He walked briskly, the cool night air a balm. He almost hoped he’d be set upon by footpads. Beating someone to a bloody pulp would go a great deal toward assuaging his boiling frustration.
He’d come to fisticuffs with his brother Charles often enough, though his baby brother, Brandon, had always been one to be protected rather than confronted. But all that had changed—Brandon was thirty now, a soldier. He could go beat the truth out of him.
But Brandon was a shell of a man, still recovering from his grievous injuries, and the fight would hardly be fair. Confronting Brandon would get him nowhere, but he could at least try. Assuming he could catch his brother at home anytime in the next few days. Surely the once-sunny boy would respond to him, if he approached it properly. His main concern was keeping his brother out of the debacle that was the Heavenly Host—unlike Charity Carstairs he had no illusions that he could save everyone.
But he could save Brandon. He had to. His parents relied on him; his sense of duty insisted. His exasperated love for the siblings who would never do as he thought they should drove him mad, but he couldn’t afford to lose another.
He strode up the front stairs, handing his hat and gloves to Richmond, who was waiting patiently, and ordered a hot bath. It had been a long day. Tomorrow was soon enough to deal with Brandon. If necessary, he could simply truss him up and keep him prisoner until the full moon was done. It wouldn’t solve Lady Melisande’s problem, but she could find herself another knight errant, one better suited to her, and together they could fight injustice and cruelty, and he wished them happy.
“Would your lordship like some supper?” Richmond inquired politely, trailing after him.
He hadn’t eaten since the picnic on the blanket, staring at Melisande’s luscious mouth as she devoured everything in sight. Food might improve his choleric mood, but right then he felt like indulging himself. “No food, Richmond. A bottle of brandy will suffice.” And he continued up to his rooms, prepared to get completely and totally drunk.
Emma Cadbury sat back in her chair, putting her fingertips together, her brow creased with worry. She’d hoped she’d been wrong. Benedick Rohan had been an occasional visitor at the establishment she had once run, and the girls had always been generous with their praise of him. She knew Melisande was totally besotted, and she’d hoped against hope that there might be a corresponding affection.
She should have known better. Women did love a rake, and Melisande, for all that she pretended she was above such feminine weakness, was as vulnerable as the greenest girl. She’d taken one look at Benedick Rohan’s dark, haughty visage and fallen like a stone into a well, drowning in his cynical charm.
One could hardly blame her. No woman had ever been able to resist a Rohan, and Melisande was alarmingly innocent, despite her attempts to become more worldly. Wilfred Hunnicut should be drawn and quartered, and instead he was enjoying the fruits of his labors, a comfortable marriage with the daughter of a cit.
If Benedick Rohan had given any sign, any hint that he cherished tender feelings toward Melisande, then Emma would have done what she could to