Chapter 3
HIS FISTS BALLED at his sides as the thickness in his throat threatened to cut off the air his body so desperately needed. All the while, his shame boiled to the surface. He never should have come back to Hockcliffe, at least not in such a wrecked demeanor.
Brigham was helpless to stop the shame, remorse, and scorn that followed.
He was a scoundrel like no other. Mellie stood before him, her mourning attire evident in the black gown nearly hidden under her winter cloak.
She was in pain, swallowed by grief at the recent death of her mother, and all Brigham could ponder was how her soft, wild, strawberry-gold waves would feel against his skin.
What glorious curves her gown kept hidden from his view.
In his mind, he was stripping the offending fabric from her body.
Unfastening the buttons he knew lay at her back, pulling free her stays, and watching as layer after layer fell to the floor, revealing first her smooth shoulders, then the creamy flesh of her breasts, and next the flare of her womanly hips and long, toned legs.
He would remove her stockings one at a time as he knelt before her, pressing his lips to her exposed skin.
Certainly, he would not walk away unharmed for the very touch of her would scorch him thoroughly.
If that were the case, Brigham would perish a satisfied man.
He pulled his stare from her, making a show as he removed his glasses and scrubbed at his eyes.
Bloody hell but this was the woman he’d spent countless nights, months, years dreaming of.
Here she stood before him, and he could not speak, could not think, could not bring himself to keep his lustful longings within.
Brigham replaced his spectacles, determined to treat Mellie with the respect and reverence she deserved.
But when his eyes lit on her once more, Brigham was startled to see not the woman he’d left the previous Christmastide—wary, broken, and her eyes devoid of life—but the lady he’d fallen in love with all those years ago.
Her hair had returned to its former luxuriant waves and would certainly shine under the sun that had returned her sallow complexion to a healthy, sun-kissed glow.
She stood taller and was no longer reduced to the lanky, rail-thin shell of a woman who spent every ounce of her energy caring for another.
“You have arrived early, my lord.”
The melodic note to her voice was that of his dreams, as well. Yet, there, Mellie never spoke of him as my lord. No, it was Brigham, always Brigham—or my love, my dearest, or my everything.
My lord was never what he longed for her to say… not to him. They’d known each other since birth. They’d climbed trees together in their youth; they’d shared a chaste kiss several years later. And now, they were man and wife, even if Brigham had used her grief to bring them to that position.
He swallowed the lump that had settled in his throat and unclenched his fists to run his damp palms down the front of his trousers. “Yes, matters in London concluded earlier than anticipated.”
“I do hope all went well.” Her gaze had shifted away from him to the stack of papers on his desk.
“It was as fate deemed it to be,” he retorted, making no attempt to keep the bitter note from his voice. Odd how fate seemed to have a hand in altering his life at every turn.
“I would not know of such things.” Mellie tugged her cloak tighter about her body, blocking his view of her gown beneath, its bodice straining across her bosom and the skirts flowing from her waist to the floor.
However, her words belied the truth. Melloria was quite possibly the most knowledgeable person in the room on the matter of fate. Had fate not stepped into her life, as well, and wreaked havoc? Had fate not altered her course as a London debutante and made her a wife in under two years?
Hell, fate—that evil taskmaster—hadn’t so much changed Brigham’s course as shortened it.
He’d been willing to stand aside and allow Mellie her time in London, her Season among society; though he’d always known he would offer for her hand.
After time in town, surrounded by dashing, honorable men, and beautiful, guileless ladies, Mellie may have chosen to accept his proposal, or she might have turned up her nose at him.
They would never know if they would have chosen one another willingly, had other options been available to them.
Perhaps that’s what made it all the more difficult for Brigham to spend time with her when he was at Hockcliffe.
While fate had stepped in and altered their courses, Brigham could have offered her aid without marriage. He could have found a suitable chaperone for Mellie, moved her mother and her to Hockcliffe, and acquired adequate medical treatment—all without tying her to him.
Brigham had been selfish, and continued to be selfish with each passing day.
He’d made certain she was forever bound to him, and then he abandoned her.
Mellie had insisted he remain in London during her mother’s final days…and had sent word only after she’d been laid to rest. All the while, Brigham knew he should have been here, should have ignored her pleas for him to remain at his work.
A large portion of him was weak, the truth of the matter lowering his honor. Brigham hadn’t had the strength to see Mellie go through the hardship of losing yet another parent. The first time had nearly killed him.
And now here they were, together once more. Though she stood so still, he’d almost forgotten she was in the room, not just a vision he’d conjured.
Brigham moved from behind his desk, his Hessians weighing down his feet as he stopped before her.
There was nearly a foot separating them. Brigham didn’t trust himself to move even a fraction of an inch closer to her, though he could feel her warmth. Her chin tilted up slightly, and she met his stare once more, her green eyes softening.
Could it be that she sensed the struggle he faced? Had word reached her about his failed bill in London? Did she seek to comfort him when it was she who needed his strength?
Brigham longed to reach out to her. Desired her in his arms. Wanted nothing more than a brief moment with her as they’d had in their youth. No distractions, unburdened by the present, and free of obligations.
Thus far, he was unworthy of even so much as touching Mellie.
“I think it best I retire to my chambers,” he scoffed, taking a step back from her. “I am filthy and wrinkled from travel, and in need of time to freshen up before our evening meal.”
She gave him a slight nod.
With a curt bow, Brigham fled his study.
He didn’t pause to glance over his shoulder. He did not slow down when he reached the main stairs. He did not so much as acknowledge Mellie’s lady’s maid when he passed her in the upstairs hall.
No, Brigham did not stop until he was safely in the confines of his private chambers.
The sound of the door closing echoed loudly down the hall as he shut himself inside and threw the latch into place.
Leaning against the door, he closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to collect his thoughts—and suppress the urge to return downstairs, pull Mellie into his arms, and kiss her as he’d longed to do since their wedding day.
Sometime later—it could have been a few minutes or several hours—he heard footsteps in the hall outside his door. But, quickly, they retreated, and the only other door in the corridor opened and closed as Mellie no doubt entered her own chambers.