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Brahm had never put much stock in his name. After all, it was just a name. Everyone had one. To him, a name held more meaning for the person who bestowed it than for the person upon which it was bestowed. Besides that, few called him by his given name, Josephine being on the forefront. He would even venture as far to say that precious few people even knew his Christian name. After all, what was a name compared to the title a man carried?
At least, that was how he thought until his name was purred from Holly Middleton’s lips.
With longing.
In her sleep.
It had been a whisper of breath, but he had caught it.
Brahm.
And he felt the precious hold on his carefully constructed world slip. She had said everyone deserved love. But he’d never thought of marrying for love. For so long, his whole life had been about duty—his duty to the title, his commitment to Josephine, his responsibility to honor his parents’ memory. His duty to sire an heir.
All this time, even though his parents had loved one another and his sister had married for love, Brahm had never truly considered the possibility for himself.
And why the hell should he? He was a man, and men did not lounge around mooning over love matches. They did what needed to be done when it ought to be done. The end.
Wasn’t that the way of things?
He cast one last look over his shoulder to where Holly lay slumbering. She was so bloody beautiful it hurt not to look at her.
Outside, the rain made no promise of passing. So neither would he.
He turned and strode from the chamber. Christ, just in descending the stairs, his lungs heaved as if he had run a great distance with the hounds of hell nipping at his heels. All the while a brilliant, feverish storm raged inside him.
All because one woman had whispered his name.
What a bloody mess.
And, to his mortification, it only then occurred to him that he had never left word to Josephine of his departure. That was highly out of character for him.
He checked his pocket watch. It was a quarter to noon. They had slept the entire morning, and he was famished. He also still wore the same clothes as the day before, now rumpled and creased. His valet would be horrified.
Brahm shot a glare toward the front entrance, his dark scowl aimed at the storm, which trapped him inside the cottage with the biggest temptation he had ever faced.
Earlier, he had awoken to find Miss Middleton draped over his chest, her limbs entwined with his. He had scarcely been able to breathe in that moment.
Dammit—he had gone to bed above the damn covers with her beneath them. How the hell had she ended up on top of him?
Taking a deep breath, he raked a hand through his hair. It had been pure torment to wake with such a painful erection that he could not ease any more than he could escape to London in the storm. Even now his body was alive with fire.
But he was her guardian. Her protector.
And supposed to be a bloody gentleman.
It had taken every bit of his strength to untangle himself from her and slip away. And, as punishment—he was certain—a low moan of objection had escaped her full, parted lips. Followed by his name.
He cursed again at the memory.
His fists clenched at his sides as he struggled to control the urge to return to her.
The winds howled against the windows, mocking him, keeping him caged in this house alone with her. This snare of nature alone possessed the power to snap him in two.
But it was not Holly’s fault that her innocent touches enflamed him. Of course, his lack of control over his own body and emotions served to annoy him further. He should be able to ignore the feelings her touch brought on. For some reason, he couldn’t.
He should have retired to his room or slept in the chair. Or on the floor. But no, he had wanted to remain close to her in case the thunder frightened her more. Frankly, sleeping outside amid the storm would have been better than staying in bed with her.
But the way she had looked, eyes as wide as a terror-stricken doe’s, standing so small and alone in the drawing room . . . it had undone him. To leave her now, even if he could manage it, would be like slitting his wrists.
And what of tomorrow? Or the day after that, when the heavens had ceased pouring, and the loud clap of thunder was a thing of the past?
Brahm shook his head. It would still feel as though a vein had been opened. Because what happened when another storm hit, and he wasn’t with her to comfort her?
It’s not your damn concern.
But it was. She had trusted him to take care of her.
You like her, Warton, just admit it.
Brahm snorted. He most certainly did not like Holly Middleton. What did the word like even mean? It seemed such a little word, such an insignificant word.
You tolerate or you do not tolerate. You indulge or you do not indulge. You enjoy or you do not enjoy. You desire or you do not desire. And if you do all of the above, you are smitten; if you don’t, you are not.
It was as simple as that.
Only, he did tolerate her company well enough, which was a rarity for his solitary self. In fact, he didn’t just tolerate her; he indulged her whimsical ways, and he bloody enjoyed doing it. He enjoyed her. Hell, he desired her. That was evident from his nearly constant arousal. Which left him to conclude that he was well and truly smitten with Holly Middleton.
Sweet Lord.
The revelation struck him hard.
He desired a chit that believed in fairy tales and magical things.
If Josephine could see me now.
Admittedly, Holly’s notions of fairy tales and love had given him pause, but they did not leave a taste of horror in his mouth—not as they would have a year ago, perhaps. And, as her lifelong crusade to find Prince Charming had not sent a frisson of fear into his heart, and nor had learning that she had kissed half a village, he must be just as bloody mad as she was. Which, he decided in a moment of clear reflection, he bloody likely was.
Brahm pressed his lips together in a grim line, glancing out the window again. They could be stuck together for days. How did a man go about living with a woman who was not his sister but also not his wife? Not that Brahm would know how to live with a wife, either. He had no bloody idea what he was doing.
He ought to leave.
He ought to brave the winds and downpour until he reached the village, where he could stay until the storm passed.
But an uncomfortable tightness seized his heart at the thought.
Holly had entirely turned his world inside out. Which didn’t sit well with him, but he couldn’t ignore it, either.
A decision regarding Holly Middleton had to be made. That much, at least, remained clear.
Would he stay when the storm passed, or would he go? The logical answer was to leave when the rain did. It was safest. But would it be so remiss if he delayed his return? Continued to inhale the very air she occupied? Endure the soft ring of her laughter day in and day out? Stare into those dreamy, hypnotizing blue eyes at every opportunity for the rest of his life?
Blast it all to hell!
No.
He couldn’t.
Absolutely not.
Not without marrying her. And given that she had just run from one wedding, it was unlikely she’d dash into another.
What Brahm needed was to go out for a long ride to settle his worn nerves. Once on his horse, open fields spread before him, wind whipping through his hair, he would be able to think straight. But since he couldn’t go for a ride, he’d find another distraction.
Straightening his shoulders with grim purpose, he marched toward the kitchen. Unfortunately, they would be weathering this storm on bread, cheese, some fruit, and a bit of almonds. The food, however, should be enough to last. But first, a strong cup of coffee would go a long way in improving his mood.
Brahm had never developed a taste for the weak flavor of tea. In fact, it quite literally made him shudder whenever it passed his lips.
Rummaging through the cupboards, he found no coffee. He did, however, find some cocoa beans.
“Close enough,” he muttered to himself.
How different could it be from brewing coffee? A bit, he guessed. Though he did once read an article on the art of creating a delicious cup of hot cocoa in the London Times.
Grind the cocoa beans.
Hunt for some spice.
He gave a shout of approval when he found cinnamon and vanilla.
Crush a few of their dwindling almonds.
Explore for some chilies and add to the mixture.
After crushing the ingredients together, preparing the desired paste, and bringing it all to boil in a pot of steamy water, Brahm stood back with a triumphant grin. He’d managed to make hot chocolate.
“You should stir that,” a soft, slightly amused voice murmured from the door.
Brahm’s pulse leaped. The fruity zest of her scent reached him even before he’d fully turned around.
Holly stood in the threshold, looking edible in the same soft, pale yellow day dress she’d worn yesterday. Her eyes darted over the glorified mess on the table where he’d been working.
Brahm.
Damn that purr of his name. Would it never leave his brain?
“How long have you been standing there?” he demanded. His words were rudely spoken and blasted out harshly. He hadn’t meant them to be, but she unsettled him as no other woman ever had. He was edging near his breaking point.
Little Miss Daylight, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed by his lack of warmth. A soft smile curved her lips. “Long enough to discover you are not an entirely sour beast.”
He snorted and turned away in search of a wooden spoon to froth the mixture.
“I’m ravenous,” she continued, wading into the kitchen, invading his space and claiming his air.
“We don’t have much,” he confessed, “but it will be enough to outlast the storm.”
Then she suddenly appeared beside him, leaning over his pot of hot chocolate and inhaling deeply.
“Oh! It smells delicious!”
Brahm grunted. Not as appetizing as you.
Their eyes found each other, and he stilled, waiting for the familiar clench of his gut, the rapid start-up of his heart. He watched, spellbound, as she reached up and brushed a finger over his cheek, her brows puckered in thought.
Bloody hell.
“You have gathered quite some dust,” she murmured.
“It’s from the cocoa beans.” His voice sounded raspy. Too raspy.
Restless, he took a step back, and her arm fell to her side. She said nothing, only took hold of the spoon, which he had abandoned, and started to stir.
“Perhaps we should go on a picnic,” she suggested.
A what?
Brahm cast a scowl her way. He would rather not dignify her ludicrous suggestion with a reply.
“I thought maybe the library would be an excellent spot,” she continued happily, stirring the hot chocolate.
“You want to picnic in the house?” Brahm would never understand her.
She glanced at him and rewarded him with a smile. The air left his lungs.
“Why not? There isn’t much else to do.”
Right, but picnics were intimate. They were things that lovers did, that courting couples did.
A refusal hovered on his lips, but what rolled out was a snappish “Fine.”
“Marvelous!” she exclaimed, performing a little jump up and down. “I do so love to picnic!”
Brahm groaned in reply. What the hell had he just agreed to? He could not, however, extinguish her excitement just because he loathed spending his time in fanciful diversions. He could just see how the conversation would go.
What is not to like? She’d ask. And he’d reply with an irascible retort along the lines of, Sitting on the ground while my ass becomes numb, eating stale bread and talking about what an outstanding day it is for having a picnic in a library. And then he’d ruin her fun.
Brahm shut the curtain on his sour thoughts when her gaze narrowed on him.
“If you’d rather not—” she started to say, but he interrupted her. “I said it was fine,” he barked out, and then in a gentler tone, managed, “I’ll gather a basket.”
“And I’ll gather a tea set for the hot chocolate.”
He nodded and was about to set out to do just that when she began humming a merry tune.
He snuck a sidelong glance at her. She simply did not react to his boorish ways as a regular lady would. Not that he would ever admit to being that boorish, though his sister forever complained about it. But the fact of the matter was that Holly Middleton simply accepted people as they came, warts and all. And Brahm had a big bloody wart in regard to his attitude. Holly seemed to cast a calming influence over him. Damn strange, that.
His pulse raced when he recalled once again that the duke wanted her to marry his brother, some young buck who might very well hold no regard for her happiness. Which would eventually steal the bright tone from her voice.
Of course, at first, she would be accepting, as was her nature, but after a time, years even, a vacant look would no doubt replace the spark, and a cynical stretch would curve her once impish lips.
Brahm had seen it happen often enough to chits like her. Had glimpsed what a careless partner could accomplish. It was why, to some extent, he had steered clear of the marriage mart. As a man with a churlish temper and a profoundly protective nature, Brahm had never wanted to be the cause of his wife’s unhappiness. Which was why he had to pick wisely.
Now he found himself dead center in a situation in which he could no longer form any clear lines to separate honorable intentions from desirable ones. Guileless and starry-eyed, Holly Middleton seemed to receive him as a whole, embracing his good along with his gruffness.
And that was quite dangerous indeed.