The Solemn Bell(41)
“It’s not quite that desperate, my girl. We can get a flat in Shrewsbury, if you’d like. There are plenty of parks and gardens, and it’s small enough that you could learn your way ‘round. I wouldn’t get in any trouble there.” He kissed the furrow in her brow. “It wouldn’t be like living in Birmingham, or Manchester, or even London.”
“Are you worried you’ll turn to the needle again?”
“I’d rather not tempt myself.”
“Maybe we ought to live in the country. There’d be no temptations there. We could live in my house…”
He nuzzled her neck. Even her softest touch could drive him senseless. “I thought we could go somewhere different for a change, like the sea, or the Continent. They say Paris is lovely in peacetime.”
“You want to run away…”
“Is that so wrong? We’ve both been locked up for too long—me in my morphine haze, and you in your solitude—we could use a change of scenery. Not permanently, mind you. But, at least, until we decide on something for the long-term.” When she didn’t say anything, he jostled her. “Come on, Angelica. Don’t you want to see the world?”
“I can’t see anything.” She laughed.
He laughed, too. “You know what I mean.”
“Alright, Brody. Let’s make it through your sister’s party, and then we’ll set off on some grand adventure. But I’m never going to give up my house. It’s my home.”
“I know, and I respect that. If you still feel the same way about it when we return from our travels, we’ll make it our home.”
Her bright smile wavered. “You’d do that for me?”
“I’d do anything for you, if you’d let me.”
Brody knew when he talked like that, it frightened her. It confused her. He didn’t mean to cause her any distress, but sometimes the words came out as if his heart had a mind of its own—and tended to forget that Angelica was his lover, nothing more. She was only there because he’d given her little choice. Forced to decide between the asylum, being prostituted by strangers, or becoming the mistress of a kind, yet misguided morphine addict, Angelica had naturally gone with the lesser of the three evils—or so he hoped.
There were times when Brody doubted the wisdom of both their decisions. He was having a difficulty drawing the line between being a lover to Angelica and loving Angelica. His mind and his body said one thing, while his heart screamed another. Whenever he let his guard down, his damned heart always seemed to win.
Wordlessly, Brody reached up to flip the various ignition switches. The big Bentley fired to life, and he took comfort in the steady rumble of the engine, and the purr from the exhaust. He liked cars. He liked driving them, and working on them—usually, after he drove them, he needed to work on them, because he seemed to burn through motorcars like other chaps went through hats or waistcoats. But with Angelica in the passenger seat, Brody knew better than to put her safety in jeopardy.
Oddly, with Angelica beside him, he thought twice about putting his own safety in jeopardy.
What was it about this girl that made him give up drink, drugs, nightclubs, and, now, hell-for-leather motorcar driving? Because of her, Captain Broderick Neill was quickly becoming someone he no longer recognized. Oddest of all was, perhaps, the fact that he did not really mind.
Brody reached over and squeezed Angelica’s gloved hand as he steered the motorcar down the hill. She smiled at him, her dark hair flying around her flushed face. She couldn’t see it, but he smiled, too. Being a soppy, castrated, bore who drove at roughly the speed of an old-age pensioner was all right with him, so long as it was all right with her.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“No chocolate tonight, I’m afraid.” Brody nudged her thigh playfully beneath the table.
She nudged him back, smiling. “Any sweet will do. Besides, I love a good Charlotte cake.”
Their cook had gone to great lengths, making each of Mary Rose’s favorite desserts for the days leading up to her party. Brody was curious to see how the fat little Frenchman could possibly top tonight’s treat—the tall, jellied charlotte russe placed in the center of the table.
They were each given a slice. Angelica could hardly chew hers through the smile on her face. Everything was such a delight with her. Brody wished they could eat their cake alone together, simply so he could watch her enjoy each bite. He was trying to be a gentleman, and gentlemen did not gape at ladies—especially not with one’s family watching.
Mary Rose was too absorbed in her party plans to notice. She blabbered on, oblivious to the fact that Mother, Father, and Marcus kept their attention on Angelica’s rapidly disappearing dessert. “Peter is coming tomorrow. And Cynthia, too.”
Brody knew Mary Rose had gone over these plans a hundred times. Mother probably knew each guest’s arrival time by heart.
He turned to Angelica, explaining, “Cynthia is our cousin. Peter is a friend from London.”
“How exciting!”
Mary Rose frowned at Angelica’s reply. “There will be lots of people. I’ve invited all my friends, and they’ve invited all their friends. It will be the party of the year, and the Season hasn’t even started yet. Do you know of the Season?”