Page 56 of Presenting Miss Letitia (Once a Wallflower 1)

“No, merely a diplomatic posting.”

“I’m glad. Paris. My, I would love to visit Paris one day.” She rose briskly and smoothed her skirts. “You must excuse me. I believe I’ll return to my room. I have a headache.”

He stood. “I’m sorry, Letty,” he repeated, frustrated, and constrained by how little he could say.

“Goodbye, Brandon. Thank you, for taking care of me.”

“Not goodbye,” he said, not ready to say it. “It will be days before you receive your uncle’s reply. I’ll call tomorrow afternoon. You might care for a drive in the park if the weather is fine.”

Letty stood at the door. “I should like that. I fear I might become a nuisance for the Willards if I’m always underfoot. Mrs. Willard insists I accompany her to Almack’s tomorrow evening. She has procured a voucher for me from her good friend, Lady Sefton.” Letty smoothed her skirts with anxious hands. “Mrs. Willard refuses to accept that I’m in mourning. She believes I should not allow this tragedy to spoil my life. She said that…” Letty swallowed. “That… Arietta was certain to have suffered a sad end because of the path she chose.”

Brandon moved closer to her. “Mrs. Willard is quite right, Letty.”

“I suppose you are both right,” she said with a faint smile. She offered her hand to him as if he was a new acquaintance.

Wanting to hold her, Brandon took her small hand in his. He continued to hold it while searching her eyes. “Tomorrow, Letty.”

He quitted the house, reminding himself of how much her association with him had hurt her. His world should not and would never be hers. But if he were to give up that life…he quickly dismissed the improbability of suddenly becoming a man worthy of marriage. It seemed well beyond his reach, but yet, he couldn’t get her out of his thoughts as he strode toward his carriage more conflicted than ever.

When Brandon arrived home, his father awaited him in his parlor.

He stood up from the sofa with a gesture, Brandon recognized, thrusting out his chest as if to emphasize his still strong and upright carriage. He had not come for a friendly chat. Something was on h

is mind. And he wasn’t in the mood to take no for an answer.

Brandon steeled himself for an argument. “Sherry, Father?”

“Thank you.”

His father strolled over to the fireplace. A hand on the mantel, he gazed down at the empty grate. “Can’t imagine what you do in London. Is it an endless supply of ton parties or do the opera dancers at Covent Garden still hold some appeal?” He turned to face him, irritation flickering across his face. “You aren’t gambling away your inheritance, are you?”

Brandon turned back to the crystal decanter and concentrated on pouring a whiskey for himself without his shaking hand spilling it. His father was well aware he rarely gambled, he was gearing up for an argument that Brandon had no energy for.

“I have something I wish to discuss with you.” He took the sherry glass from Brandon and returned to the sofa.

“Oh?” Brandon sat in a wing chair and took a good long pull at the whiskey.

“You will be aware that our neighbor, Colonel Smythe-Jones has a daughter, Juliette. She’s been out for a Season or two. You might have come across her at a ball or some such. She has changed considerably since you last saw her. She was a child then, she’s a pretty young woman now. I believe it would be an excellent match for you. She seems a sensible young woman, or so her mother tells me.”

Brandon tried to swallow his anger at his father’s interference, along with the last of his whiskey. He put the glass down on the occasional table. “I’m afraid I shall have to decline such an appealing offer, Father. I am about to sail for France. I’ll be in Paris, should you have need of me, you can reach me at the Hotel Westminster 13 Rue De La Paix.”

His father’s glass was replaced on the table less gently. “Continuing with your rakish ways, eh!” he said, standing up. “Well, I suppose I didn’t really expect to find any desire in you to settle down, or to make your mother happy.”

“I apologize for never having made either of you happy, Father.”

“No.” His father nodded. “Well, I am having luncheon with the prime minister. I’ll see myself out.”

Brandon stared at the closed door. Would his father feel any differently if he knew the truth? He somehow doubted it. His father had expressed a poor opinion of some of the actions of Whitehall on more than one occasion when a politician. Well, at least his parent had made up his mind for him. He would go to Paris.

The next afternoon, Brandon advised Willard of his decision to accept the Paris mission. Confident that his promise to his spymaster was now set in stone, and could not be changed, he went to join Letty.

She awaited him in the parlor, rising to greet him in a lavender-colored dress and white spencer jacket. Her bonnet, lined with silk the color of bluebells, reminded him of the flowers growing in the woods at Fernborough Park. She carried a pink parasol in her lacy, white-gloved hands. He thought her pretty as a portrait, but didn’t miss the faint shadows beneath her dark eyes.

“Thank you for taking me out, Brandon,” she said in a strangely formal tone, as he assisted her into his curricle. “I had begun to hate being indoors. I seemed unable to escape my thoughts.”

He tooled the horses through the streets, and they entered the park gates. It was early for the ton, and few carriages drove down the South Carriage Drive. “I should love to have ridden in Rotten Row,” Letty said with a regretful sigh. “There are so many things I wished to do and see while in London.”

“You’ll come back one day,” he said, hating to see her so subdued.

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