Chapter Three #2
Evening had arrived once more, and Quinton watched Mr. Brainard over his crystal cut glass of whiskey. The younger man sat with Lillian and her father, making them laugh, though the duke was not close enough to hear what they spoke of.
Quinton took a deep swig of the bitter liquid.
Lillian was charmed by Mr. Brainard; it was easy for anyone to see. Her father was charmed by him, too. And the fellow was much younger than Quinton. Younger, thus more attractive and more appealing to a woman the same age.
Quinton rose from his lonesome chair and crossed the plush carpet for the window. Tonight, it rained, and the rain pelted the glass quite loudly. Everyone was indoors, either in their bedrooms, in the billiards room with the hosts, or here in the parlor.
With darkness beyond the window, he could see his own reflection in the glass. His graying hair, the lines in his face, they seemed to mock him.
His eyes moved to Lillian’s reflection as she sat on a sofa beside Mr. Brainard, her father in a nearby chair.
She glowed like fire in a red dress, her dark hair piled upon her head in complicated braids and curls.
Quinton had quite literally dreamed over the past few nights about holding her in his arms, of tasting every inch of her body, worshipping hers with his own.
She had haunted him more than the headless ghost.
A loud gust of wind rattled the windows, and in the reflection of the glass, he saw her jump and look his way.
He wanted her to himself. But her father seemed enamored with Mr. Brainard.
The two men laughed loudly together over something, and Quinton had to resist the urge to groan to himself.
“Good evening, Your Grace.” Lillian had appeared at his side, causing him to nearly leap himself. He had been so focused on Mr. Brainard that she’d managed to sneak up on him amongst his distraction, even in a burning-red dress.
He drank in the skin revealed by evening necklines, knowing that she would see this and not caring, either. “I asked you not to call me that,” he said in a grumpy tone.
The pretty smile on her face faltered. “I cannot very well call you ‘Quinton’ in front of everyone, now can I? They would make some incorrect conclusions, I believe.” She raised her eyebrows at him, in case he didn’t know what she meant.
“What do you call Mr. Brainard when you have a private moment together? Did you know his first name is Augustus? Imagine being married to a man named Augustus Brainard. How humiliating.” He took a sip of his drink and smacked his lips.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t believe that is any of your business. And anyway, your name is Quinton, which is worse.”
“Factually, it is better by an enormous degree.”
This won him an eye roll. He turned to face her fully and lowered his voice. “Do you wish to share such familiarities with me, then, my dear?” It was uncouth, but maybe if he scared her away, it would hurt less when she married the young fellow who was now guffawing in an obnoxious way.
She looked over to Mr. Brainard with a frown before turning her dark eyes back up to Quinton, innocence reflecting in them. “Whatever do you mean by that, Your Grace?”
Brutal honesty would protect him better and scare her away quicker.
Mr. Brainard would be a better match for her, as in what felt like only a few years, Quinton would be an old man.
A young, innocent woman would be devoured by a man like him.
After all, she was an American. Did American women marry older men?
He didn’t know but doubted it was as common as it was here amongst the aristocrats.
But that was because ton parents wanted their daughters to marry titles, which were generally held by older men, not young.
He doubted young women truly wanted to marry saggy, old, gray-haired men like himself. He snorted at his own description.
It was rather obvious she was an innocent, too, and innocent women frightened easily.
He leaned down to her ear to say words that would make even a courtesan gasp.
If he’d known any to whom to speak such words, of course.
He was more of an isolationist. “Men rut like feral animals against a woman; it takes very little thought or talent to do so. But loving her body, teasing her and tasting her, using one’s tongue to make her cry and beg and lure her into pure, unadulterated bliss…
” He licked the shell of her ear with the tip of his tongue, wining a sharp inhale in response.
“That is an art form I can promise you your Mr. Brainard is far too young to have mastered.”
He pulled back to find her face as red as a beet, her eyes as big as saucers. From behind her bodice, she pulled out her silver flask, took a deep swig, and slid it back in its hidden place. She coughed, looked around as if making sure no one paid them any mind, and turned to face the window.
“I should like to experience that firsthand, Your Grace, if you are offering,” she finally whispered after a minute.
Quinton had happened to be taking a sip of his drink when she’d said this and spit the drink all over the window. The room went completely silent as he made his apologies for “swallowing incorrectly.” They all went back to their own conversations.
“Forgive me, did I shock you?” she said to him with innocence.
He removed his handkerchief from a pocket to clean the window. And decided it best not to answer. It had not occurred to him that she would find his words desirable, not terrifying.
Finally, she got to the crux of the issue. “Why have you been so strange toward me since we saw the ghost?”
He frowned. “You have been busy with Mr. Brainard.”
“The man you stuck upon my father? And whose fault is that?” She lifted her eyebrows at him. “It certainly isn’t mine.”
He scowled and swallowed another swig of his drink while making a thoughtful observation. “You have not had your flask since that first night here.” Spirits, of course, were not considered an appropriate drink for the fairer sex, so he understood why she hid it.
“No,” she replied, offering no further explanation.
He glanced down at her, then back at her father, who shook hands with Mr. Brainard. Both men turned their attention over to Lillian, who paled under their stares. “I believe Mr. Brainard will be offering for me.”
Quinton tried thinking of what to say. This surely would be the best for all.
“He will be the first, and only one, to do so,” she added.
“Congratulations, then.” It was clear to Quinton that Lillian was attracted to him only in a physical way and that was only because he used his knowledge and experience to entice her. He knew he was an odd man, and his age did him no favors, not with her, at least.
But he should have known her well enough to have anticipated her next words. “I thought you would offer for me,” she said on a whisper.
He swallowed back his shock at her forwardness.
“You have misread everything, I’m afraid.
I took advantage of a situation for my own selfish reasons that do not extend beyond an attraction that will last as long as tonight’s candlelight,” he forced himself to say.
“If Mr. Brainard does not offer for you—”
“We go home,” she finished with bitterness. “Which seems to be what you are waiting for.” She turned on her heel and, without grabbing anyone’s attention, left the room.
A sick feeling engulfed Quinton. He had genuinely thought there was nothing but a brief, surface-level attraction on her part. Maybe he had read the situation all wrong.