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Brahm stared at the invitation that had been delivered to him an hour ago. For what must be the twelfth time, he rubbed his thumb over the excellent quality paper the size of a calling card. It wasn’t like any invitation he had ever received, and he’d been staring at it since it had arrived, trying to figure out whether it was a trick or real.
A wedding invitation.
For one thing, there was no bloody name on it. Who had sent it? Who was getting married? Holly, for certain, but there was a big question mark regarding the groom. What if he arrived only to witness her being ushered down the aisle to marry Lord Jonathan?
He’d murder the whelp.
Dammit. He was uncertain whether this was a gesture of mockery from St. Ives or one in earnest. Rage and fear simmered beneath the surface at the idea of losing her.
Eleven o’clock.
Brahm glanced at his pocket watch. It was now ten thirty.
He ran his hand over his face, studying the card. The address caused him to pause.
21 Tuner Street, Mayfair.
The address belonged to Charles Middleton, not St. Ives. But that didn’t mean this wasn’t a ruse of sorts.
He stared at the plain, printed white card, tracing a trembling finger over her name. Holly Middleton.
Could it be real? And if it were real, what the hell was the meaning of it? A proposal? For him? What kind of proposal was this, in any case? Had whoever sent this completely lost their senses? He had already declared him and Holly engaged. Moreover, if it were real, did that mean that Holly was no longer held captive by the duke?
Had she escaped? Had the duked released her? Had she sent this invitation? Why wouldn’t she send word?
Brahm hardly recalled how he had come to stand before 21 Turner Street. But now that he was there, he debated the merits of kicking down the damn door.
Somewhere in this house, if this invitation was to be believed, Holly resided. That fact allowed him to draw the strength to be calm.
So he knocked.
And waited.
And then, as if his confusion wasn’t enough, the darkened clouds above him opened up and showered him, and all of London, with pouring rain.
And still he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
With a growl of impatience, his hand settled on the door just as it swung open to reveal Lord Jonathan.
Brahm uttered an oath.
The dandy stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a bold green jacket and navy breeches, whereas Brahm had not even bothered with a coat. He wore only a white shirt, soaked and clinging to his skin, and cream breeches, also drenched.
“Ah, Warton, I was wondering when you’d arrive,” Lord Jonathan said. There was no mockery in the man’s voice but for a flash of amusement.
Brahm saw red.
Without thought or word, he grabbed the man by the lapels and shoved him inside. Lord Jonathan flew back, crashing to the ground. A few feet away, a footman dropped a tray of champagne in fright, the noise startling two maids.
“Where is she?” Brahm growled, uncaring of anything else. He grasped the man again, hauling him up. “I told you if you married her I would disembowel you!”
Marcus Hunt appeared from nowhere, pulling Brahm away from Lord Jonathan with some effort. Few matched Brahm’s height and built, and Hunt was not as big or quite as tall, but the Runner packed some deceptive strength in his muscle.
“Hell, man, get it together,” Hunt hissed in his ear.
He jerked away from Hunt when a flurry of skirts entered his peripheral vision.
Brahm turned toward the stairs, and his eyes found her instantly. Like the radiant sun, she beckoned him. He inhaled a sharp breath. And for a moment, he couldn’t move, could only stare.
A week ago he would never have imagined they could match so perfectly together. Now Brahm could hardly maintain himself when she was not by his side. All he wanted to do was kiss her.
Her eyes darted to Lord Jonathan and Hunt before settling on him again, and Brahm held his breath.
Then she smiled—a full stretch of her lips that transformed her entire face.
Brahm could not tear his eyes away. She looked ravishing, downright beddable. But then he recalled who opened the door, and his eyes narrowed.
Her sisters, in a whirl of satin skirts, suddenly entered the hall, their collective gasps causing him to flinch.
“Oh!” Willow exclaimed, her brows knitting together as her gaze traveled over his soaked attire.
“I daresay you were right,” Poppy murmured. “We would know his arrival by a bellow or two.”
Brahm shook his head and strode toward Holly, stopping at the edge of the staircase. They needed to talk. This instant.
“You came,” she whispered. Her expression was soft, her eyes luminous.
Brahm arched a thick brow, searching her face. Of course he came. Nothing would have kept him away. Nothing except for her.
His gaze roved her face. “You sent this?” He held up the invitation.
“You don’t know,” she murmured, lowering her lashes.
Beneath his skin, his pulse leaped. It was not a no but not a yes either.
“I know you are not hidden away, as I first believed.”
“Lord Jonathan let me out.”
The words were like a fire poker, jabbing at his gut. Dammit! She could either break him or calm the storm inside of him.
“When you left me—”
“I never left you,” Brahm interrupted with a scowl. “I returned that same day.”
“After I was taken by the duke’s men, yes.”
“I haven’t stopped searching for you since then.” That ought to count for something.
“I waited for days.”
Brahm placed one boot on the first step, then another and another until he loomed over her. “I was working on a plan.”
A faint smile graced her mouth. “So I hear.”
He leaned closer. “What did you hear?”
“Jonathan told me of your threats.”
His innards lurched at her use of the boy’s Christian name. His shoulders expanding even more, he prepared for her next blow. “Are you wedding him? Have you decided to follow the duke’s decree?”
The tip of her tongue darted between her lips as she licked her mouth. “That is the most absurd thing you have said so far!”
His gaze lowered to her rosy, plump, kissable lips. “You are wearing matching outfits.”
“Do not be silly!” She glanced at Jonathan and slanted a devilish brow. “That is purely coincidence.”
“Coincidence my ass.”
“Has it not occurred to you that he may not wish to marry me?”
He pressed his nose against hers. “No. What man wouldn’t want to spend the rest of his life with you?”
Her lips parted and shut again. “Lord, you are vexing at times.” Her smile was brilliant and openly amused. “The only man I wish to marry is you.”
Raw emotion seared his soul. She wanted to marry him. That thought dominated his mind, making it impossible to think, impossible to breathe.
“I cannot believe you thought the invitation was for Jonathan and me.” Her gaze was bright with astonishment.
“Woman, I do not like that man’s name on your lips.” With the chastening arch of one brow, he lifted the card to her face. “And neither does your invitation mention anything about the groom.”
“Because you are the groom. I thought that was clear.”
“Not clear enough.”
But Brahm’s body was relaxing, responding to the affection in her voice.
“Well, in any case, the duke is tied up at the moment, so of course it’s meant for us. Jona—ahem—Lord Jonathan assisted Willow in securing him.” She tilted her head to the side, resting a hand on his chest. Brahm felt her touch to the bone. “And he told me about how you declared our engagement to the entire world.”
Tied up?
Brahm grunted. That didn’t matter right now. What did matter was that he hadn’t thought she would find out about his declaration until after he had time to explain his reasoning along with his actions—privately.
“Are you angry?” she asked.
“I ought to be,” he grumbled. “Not only have you stolen my very existence, but you have now also robbed me of my chance to ask you for your hand in marriage.”
Her eyes rounded and her lips parted just enough for him to imagine all the things he’d love to do with that mouth. “How does one go about thieving someone’s existence?”
“You snatch up my heart the moment I let my guard down,” he growled, seizing her around the waist and dragging her up against him.
His lips crashed down on hers for a scorching kiss.
On and on he kissed her, until the front of her gown was as soaked as he was. Until her arms encircled his neck and she kissed him back with the same heat. Blood pounded in his veins.
Vaguely, he heard someone giggle and clap her hands, another person gasp, and someone clear his throat. But nothing mattered; only Holly and that she was finally back in his arms.
When he finally summoned the strength to pull his mouth away from her—and it took all of his willpower—he winked down at her and hoisted her over his shoulder.
“Brahm,” she gasped. “You barbarian! Let me down!”
“Of course. But first, let us continue this conversation in a more,” he glanced over his shoulder, “private setting.”
And before anyone could protest, he took the stairs two at a time.