Bronwyn Scott - Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle - Pickpocket Countess / Grayson Prentiss's Seduction / Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady / Libertine Lord, Pickpocket Miss / The Viscount Claims His Bride

Brandon rolled his eyes at that. ‘By doing what? Robbing my neighbors? You most certainly will not. A wardrobe will not beggar me.’

Nora furrowed her brow, perplexed. ‘But you need Witherspoon’s money. You’re poor.’

Brandon gave a friendly chuckle. ‘Hardly. Poor is a bit over the top. My pockets aren’t to let. But it is getting more difficult each year to keep the estates functional. My estates generate enough to support repairs to the tenants’ cottages, to buy seed and farming implements for the fields, but there’s less and less profit for expansion and other expenses. I fear it will only be a few more years before the tenants will be forced to look elsewhere for their livelihoods. Aristocracy is an expensive career. The agricultural economy hasn’t helped.’

Nora saw the pieces fit together at once. ‘The mill is your plan for financial security.’

Brandon nodded. ‘It’s at the foundation of it, the first building block. I need the investors’ money to build for the future of Stockport-on-the-Medlock. I can’t build that future alone. My pockets aren’t that deep.’

Nora felt sick. Her plans would ruin more than his credibility. A few weeks past, such ironic justice would have suited her perfectly. Now, looking at the man across from her, she could barely stomach the thought of all she’d be responsible for. She had to cut ties here before she was too emotionally involved to see reason.

‘None the less, Brandon, I am not comfortable being a kept woman,’ Nora said slowly. ‘Even if you were the richest man in England, I would be reluctant to accept the wardrobe you’ve lavished on me these past few days.’

‘My intended needs the appropriate clothing. No one would believe I was to marry a woman of dubious fashion.’

‘I will pay for the gowns,’ Nora insisted.

Brandon took her hands in his, squeezing them in reassurance. ‘You talk too much. Maybe I’ll get my money’s worth out of the gowns. After your two weeks are up, you might decide to stay.’

Nora sighed. ‘I am not free to marry and I won’t be your mistress.’

‘If he were dead, you would have a choice,’ Brandon said softly.

Nora drew back. ‘What have you done, Brandon? You will not commit murder on my behalf.’

Brandon laughed. ‘Nothing that bad, Nora. Did you imagine I sent thugs to kill your errant husband?’ He sobered. ‘I did send my friend Jack, Viscount Wainsbridge, though. If Reggie Portman is still of this world, Jack will find him.’

Brandon slipped a hand behind her neck, sifting her hair through his fingers and drawing her close for a deep kiss. ‘Until then, we have two weeks to ourselves to wait and see and enjoy. Promise me, two weeks, Nora. The Cat can take a holiday,’ he whispered against her neck.

‘I promise,’ Nora replied softly. But it was already a broken promise. She still had the haul from St John’s to pawn for cash and get to Mary Malone. Brandon kissed her again and Nora felt a twinge of guilt. He couldn’t see the fingers she crossed behind her back.

Brandon took off his glasses and stretched back in his leather chair behind the desk. He had been poring over the latest dispatches from London. Even though Parliament was out until spring, dedicated politicos like Earl Russell were still hard at work, trying to lobby support for the Reform Act which would be the focus of the spring session.

Brandon used his break from paperwork to study the beautiful woman sitting demurely in the wing-backed chair near the fire, her neck bent slightly forward as she read a slim volume of poetry, a silver tray containing hot fudge and strawberries next to her elbow. Nora.

After nearly a week of her constant presence, he still couldn’t believe his good fortune. She had stayed. She had admitted she cared for him; so much that she would throw away the passion they shared together in order to protect him. It was the partnership he craved, the knowledge that he was not alone. He had found the one person who could bring him the solace his soul demanded, not just in the dark watches of the night but in all aspects of his daily life, from the mundane to the more extraordinary.

Never had his heart been so committed. He could not resist her. She could not resist him, yet she did for reasons he did not perceive or understand. For every obstacle she erected, he countered with a solution and still it wasn’t enough to win her capitulation.

Looking at her now with the firelight dancing on her features, her toes tucked beneath her soft rose-coloured skirts, her hair gathered into a loose chignon at her neck, he could hardly reconcile the image with the brazen Cat who had dangled her trousered legs over the same chair and swigged down his brandy like a dockhand a month ago. Anyone seeing her tonight would see a lady of gentle refinement. Of course, it was all an act, a trick wrought of fine clothes and a competent lady’s maid.

He liked the illusion. He liked it even more because he knew what lay beneath the soft wool and pearls. He had only to look in her sharp jade eyes and see the truth of her—the keen intelligence, the ardent passion for her cause. That passion made sense now in the wake of her tale. She’d been disappointed by important people in her life and by the world in general. But instead of letting those disappointments overwhelm her, she’d elected to change the world so that others would not be similarly disappointed.

Not so unlike him. He wished he could convince her of that.

She raised those eyes to meet his. ‘You’re staring, Brandon,’ she chided softly.

‘Better to look at you than these damnable papers,’ Brandon said with a weary tone. ‘I swear they tread over the same ground time and again, never gaining an inch. The act has passed the House of Commons three times, but the House of Lords will not admit the need to change.’

Nora rose and put down her book. She came around the desk to stand behind him, her capable hands massaging his shoulders. ‘Was there anything else of interest in the post today?’

Brandon knew what she was really asking. Had Jack come up with any news of Reggie Portman? ‘No.’

He reached up and covered her hand. ‘It is too soon for him to know anything conclusive. It doesn’t matter what he finds. If Portman is dead, you are free now. If Portman is alive, we will petition the courts for a divorce on grounds of abandonment. You will be free either way,’ he consoled her. ‘It’s been seven years—perhaps we can have him declared legally dead.’

‘Divorce, Brandon? You cannot consider it. A divorced woman may be your mistress, perhaps, but not your wife. You must not forget your station.’ Nora’s soft tone carried a warning edge to it. ‘Besides, he’d have to be the one to divorce me. The law doesn’t allow a woman to sue for divorce. You know that, Brandon.’

There it was again, that damnable tendency to block his solutions. Debating with Nora was as frustrating as his opponents in Parliament; more frustrating, perhaps, because the next minute she was all soft compliance, making him forget how hard-headed she could be.

‘Besides, I am free now, Brandon. There is no sense in going through the public display of a divorce if he’s alive. He hasn’t found me for years. Perhaps you’re right and he isn’t as bent on revenge as I imagined.’

Brandon drew her around to his lap. ‘I would never stop looking for you.’ He smiled at the blush rising on her cheek.

He had discovered in their short time together that The Cat might be a tough, saucy-tongued woman, but true flattery was the chink in Nora’s armor. A sincere compliment was her undoing. It thrilled him that in many ways he was the first to love her honestly and in the truest sense. It also touched a tender spot deep inside him that this woman, who risked herself so completely in order to give to others, had received so little affection in her life.