"Excellent." Brandi sank down beside him, her finger pressed conspiratorially to her lips. "But don't tell Desmond. He'll surely succumb to apoplexy."

  Desmond.

  "Brandi, what exactly is your relationship with my brother?" The question that had been plaguing Quentin for days burst out with a will of its own.

  "My relationship with Desmond?" Brandi started at Quentin's unexpectedly harsh tone, her brows drawn together in puzzlement. "You know the answer to that as well as I do. As per Papa's instructions, Desmond is my guardian."

  "What about prior to that?"

  "I don't understand."

  "Is he—special to you?"

  Stunned realization dilated Brandi's pupils. "The other day in the stables, when you asked if any gentleman I'd met made me feel differently than the others—oh, Quentin, surely you weren't alluding to Desmond?"

  "Wasn't I?"

  "That's absurd!" she countered, shaking her head. "You, of all people, know how utterly different Desmond and I are."

  "Yes, I do. But I also know how committed he is to you."

  "And my gratitude for that commitment, as well as for his comfort and support, is boundless. I've made no secret of the fact that he's sustained me these past few weeks—I'll always be indebted to him for showing me such patience and compassion when I needed it most. But I have no romantic interest in him. Whatever made you think otherwise?"

  "Desmond did."

  Brandi's eyes widened. "What are you saying?"

  Quentin sucked in his breath, determinedly squelching his momentary twinge of guilt. Maybe he was being unfair to his brother, severing any chance Desmond might have of swaying Brandi's feelings. But to hell with fate. All that mattered was Brandi—and her happiness.

  "I'm saying that Desmond intends to wed you—soon."

  "What?" All the color drained from Brandi's face. "Where on earth did you get an idea like that?"

  "From Desmond. According to his pronouncement, he'd been on the verge of approaching Ardsley and offering for your hand when your father's death annihilated all his plans. Now, given the circumstances, he's allowing you time before he recommences his plan to escort you down the aisle."

  "Quentin, this is madness. Father respected Desmond. I respect Desmond. I even care for him—as a long-standing family friend. But I could never, would never ..."

  "It appears he believes otherwise." Relief flooded through Quentin in great waves, accompanied by a very powerful, very personal elation he wished weren't quite so pronounced.

  "What shall I do?"

  "I have no answer." Recalling Desmond's appraisal of Brandi's needs, Quentin forced himself to be frank, to give voice to what Desmond truly could offer her. "He does care for you, Sunbeam. And, despite all your differences, you know you can count on him to remain at Colverton, beside you, with no conflicting obligations to tear him away."

  "So that's what this is about." Pain and hurt flickered in Brandi's dark eyes before her lashes descended, veiling her feelings from view. "The two of you are sitting about at Colverton, discussing poor, pathetic Brandi and how someone must remain in the Cotswolds to take care of her lest she fall to pieces. And, since your position in the army precludes you from assuming the bothersome responsibility, Desmond is the next best choice, right?"

  "No, Sunbeam, not right." Leaning forward, Quentin grasped Brandi's chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "My God," he breathed, seeing the humiliated anguish on her face. "How could you presume such a thing? Do you honestly, for one minute, believe I wish for you to be Desmond's bride? Why do you think I brought the subject up: because I applaud the thought of you and my shallow, self-centered, and—to quote your words of four years past—relic of a brother having a life together? Hardly. To be blunt, I believe you're all wrong for each other. I believe Desmond would crush your spirit and leave you empty. I believe he'd be oblivious to your beauty and resentful of your uniqueness. I believe you deserve far more from a husband than Desmond could ever offer, despite his ability to remain constant in your life."

  Brandi blinked, temporarily distracted by Quentin's unprecedented verbal assault. "I've never before heard you speak so harshly of Desmond. All these years—and the countless times—I ranted and raved about Desmond's archaic views, you never spoke thus. Oh, to be sure, I always knew where you stood, that you sympathized, even—to a certain extent—shared my exasperation. But you never expressed such a vehement condemnation of your brother, at least not to me."

  "Nor to anyone else," Quentin clarified.

  "Not even Bentley?" Brandi's eyes grew wide as saucers, her genuine wonder causing Quentin's surge of protective anger to dissipate.

  "Why are you so surprised?" A corner of his mouth lifted at the indisputable reality. "You always have had a baffling ability to elicit the raw truth from me."

  "I believe, my lord, that some call that particular quality honesty."

  A rich chuckle. "So they do. But for a man who's been trained to supplant candor with diplomacy, I find it a continual source of amazement that only you can reach behind the mask of discretion I show the world."

  Desperately, Brandi tried to conceal the elation his admission invoked in her heart. "I'm glad," she stated simply. Another thought distracted her. "Quentin, if you feel so strongly about Desmond's and my incompatibility, why didn't you say so sooner?"

  "Because, Sunbeam, as much as I take exception to your sharing a future with my brother, 'tis your opinion—and ultimately your wishes—that count, not mine. Thus, I vowed not to give voice to my sentiments until I was certain you had no interest in spending your life with Desmond."

  Joy and gratitude illuminated Brandi's face. "Thank you for that." She covered Quentin's hand with her own. "Not only for understanding what is best for me, but—even more important—for allowing me a say in my own future." She stared at their joined hands, her mind consumed with the information Quentin had just imparted. "How could Desmond come to such a groundless conclusion?" she murmured, half to herself. "Dear Lord, I scarcely even speak to the man for fear of revealing how wrong is his belief that I've somehow radically changed. 'Tis easier to let him perceive me as the mature woman he envisions than to risk arousing his wrath by confessing that I'm the same hoyden I was in my teens, only older. In fact, to be perfectly candid—with the exception of the past fortnight—I avoided him as best I could. Not a difficult task since I was customarily with Pamela at Emerald Manor, while he was immersed in the task of becoming the fine businessman Kenton always wished him to be." Brandi shook her head incredulously. "Marriage ..."

  "I didn't mean to upset you, Sunbeam."

  "To upset me?" Dawning awareness made Brandi's chin come up, "Is that why you didn't tell me of Desmond's intentions immediately—to avoid upsetting me?"

  "I told you why I remained silent."

  "To allow me the privilege of determining my own future."

  "Yes."

  "No."

  Quentin's dark brows arched. "No?"

  "No. That is only a reason to stifle your opinion, not to conceal the facts." Her small jaw set, Brandi rushed on before Quentin could reply. "This is my life, my future, we're discussing—not some tidbit of gossip you chose to squelch. And while I understand—and appreciate—your resolution to let me plot my own course, how could I do so when Desmond had already completed the task?"

  "Touché, little hoyden. " Quentin nodded, pride shining in his eyes. "You're quite right. I should have told you sooner."

  "Exactly when did you intend to tell me, directly after Desmond's proposal—as you caught me in a dead swoon?"

  Quentin grinned at her dramatic description. "I think I would have intruded a bit before that."

  Brandi was on the verge of blurting out a defensive comeback when a sudden—and distinctly unpleasant— possibility struck her. "Quentin . . ." She frowned. "I've leaned heavily—perhaps too heavily—on Desmond since Papa died. Could my actions have misled him? Could he have interpreted my behavior as romantically suggestive?"

  "You are never suggestive, Brandi," Quentin countered. "You're forthright and direct. If you had any amorous feelings for Desmond, you'd never disguise them as dependency or friendship. So put that nonsensical notion from your head." He paused. "As for Desmond's perceptions, however—now that is another situation entirely. I've never understood the way my brother's mind works. He has a tendency to interpret things as he chooses to: my mother's fictitious dislike of him, my own supposed vying for Father's affection, even Father's alleged approval of his business practices."

  For a fleeting instant, Quentin wondered if Brandi would take exception to the last, given her erroneous belief that Desmond excelled in business matters. But her preoccupation indicated that she was too absorbed in the issue at hand to grasp his pointed comment.

  "Evidently, Sunbeam," he concluded, "Desmond's misconceptions extend to you—and the future he believes you wish to share with him."

  Brandi snapped to action, gathering up her sodden skirts. "I must set him right. Immediately."

  "Don't, sweetheart." Quentin stayed her progress with his hand. "According to Bentley, Desmond wasn't feeling well and took to his chambers early last night. He could, quite possibly, still be abed."

  She paused. "Then I'll ride to Colverton and await his emergence," she determined, starting to come to her feet.

  "Brandi." Quentin tugged her back to the bank. "I don't think that's the best solution."

  Her expression was an enchanting combination of annoyance and amazement. "You don't think I should inform Desmond that I have no intentions—now or ever—of wedding him?"

  "Oh, no. I definitely think you should tell him."

  "Then why oughtn't I ride to Colverton?"

  "First, because you're drenched and covered with mud— a sure indication you've been frolicking in the stream. I don't think Desmond would find that notion appealing."

  Brandi's face fell. "I'd be lectured for a week."

  "Um-hum." Quentin fought his grin. "Possibly two weeks, if Desmond is especially testy, given the fact that he's not feeling up to snuff. Second, as his indisposed state grants us time, why not use it to plan the best, most prudent approach? One that will achieve the desired results and yield the minimal bitterness? He is, after all, your guardian. Infuriating him would only serve to make your life hell."

  Grudgingly, Brandi resettled herself. "I see England's most accomplished diplomat has returned," she muttered under her breath. "So much for my free-spirited fishing rival."

  Quentin couldn't suppress a chuckle. "Fear not, Sunbeam. One trait does not preclude the other. I assure you, both aspects of me remain."

  Brandi tossed him a skeptical look and tucked her legs beneath her. "If you say so."

  Her dejected look and mournful tone were too much to withstand. "Did I say forthright and direct?" Quentin laughed. "I meant transparent." Impulsively, he tugged her to him. "I won't abandon my more spontaneous side. I promise." His hand slid beneath her damp burnished mane to stroke her nape.

  An innocent caress, manifested countless times. But never before yielding such soul-shattering results.

  Gasping softly, Brandi stared up at him, wide-eyed, stunned by the bone-melting sensations that surged instantly to life. It was just as it had been when they kissed: the tightness in her chest, the swooping feeling in her belly, and the liquid heat that coursed through her, sliding down to her feet in a scalding waterfall.

  The universe vanished with the advent of his touch.

  How can you not feel it, Quentin? she thought wonderingly, unconsciously moving her head from side to side, seeking more of the exquisite contact. And, if you do feel it, how can you relegate it to nothingness?

  "Brandi." Quentin said her name—a harsh wisp of sound, a clash between longing and denial.

  Refuting the denial, Brandi reached for the longing.

  "Kiss me, Quentin." Her arms went around his neck even as she spoke, her lips softly brushing his. "Please."

  "Sweetheart, we can't."

  "Please." She knew she'd won, felt his fingers clench in her hair, and she reveled in the victory. "Please," she whispered again.

  He groaned deep in his throat, taking her mouth with the same tender violence of a few hours past—an urgency Brandi found wildly exciting. She encouraged him, pressing closer, wishing she could show him, tell him, what his kisses did to her.

  Maybe he knew.

  His tongue stroked deep, withdrew, plunged again, his arms shaking as they crushed her to his chest. His mouth possessed hers, again and again, then moved recklessly to her neck, her throat, finding pleasure points she never knew existed and lavishing them with attention until wild jolts of excitement began to rush through her. Brandi shifted restlessly, drowning in a whirlpool of sensation, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

  Quentin's palm left her nape, caressed her back, paused at the first hook—and relented. She held her breath as he unfastened it, slipping his fingers inside to caress the warm skin of her back. A shivering moan escaped her, and she clutched him tighter, wanting nothing but to soar higher, higher, to experience more of the exquisite sensations she knew she could only taste in Quentin's arms.

  "Sunbeam," he rasped against her parted lips, "I'm going to ..."

  "I don't care."

  "Brandi, you don't know what you're saying."

  She could feel the cool ground beneath her back as he eased her down. "Yes," she breathed, pushing his coat from his shoulders. "I do."

  "Christ." He covered her with himself, devouring her mouth with a passion that stunned him more than it did her. The feel of her beneath him was the most intoxicatingly erotic sensation he'd every known. Damp, soft, undisguisedly impatient—God, how he wanted her. He wanted to take her here, now, to make her his in a way that would bind them forever. He wanted her just like this—beside the stream, amid the scented gardens of Emerald Manor, with nothing but the sky above them and the earth below. He could never allow it.

  Even as that warning reminder hammered in his head, Quentin was freeing his arms, casting his coat aside. "Brandi." He framed her face, kissed her again, losing himself in her beauty, her passion, the melting hunger in her fathomless dark eyes.

  She whispered his name, arched closer to the promise offered by his powerful body. "Show me more," she managed. "Please."

  "I want to show you the stars," he murmured, burying his face in the soft cloud of her hair. "But, Sunbeam . . ."

  Vehemently, she shook her head, gripping him more tightly. "No. There are no 'but's."

  He smiled against her fragrant tresses. "Yes. There are."

  "Damn that rigid control of yours, Captain Steel." Her censure exploded like a bolt from the blue, as fervent as it was unexpected.

  Laughter rumbled from Quentin's chest. He raised up, gazing into her flushed, furious face. "Sweetheart, you are the only person in the world who could make me laugh at a time like this."

  "I don't find that to be a compliment."

  An odd emotion darkened Quentin's hazel eyes. "I disagree. Too strongly, I'm afraid." Gently, he eased off her, brushing fresh clumps of dirt from her gown. "In fact, 'tis a compliment whose impact has the power to undo me."

  Quentin broke off, not even trying to pretend the last few moments had never occurred. Brandi's ability to make him laugh had always been a miracle, one as rare and precious as her ability to permeate his veneer. But now, when melded with this newly discovered, bottomless passion that blazed between them, those qualities were acutely dangerous.

  Rigid control, she'd said.

  Hardly.

  If she only knew how very little it would take to shatter that notoriously rigid control.

  "How does a picnic lunch sound?" he proposed, an undisguised attempt to diffuse the sparks still shimmering between them. "I don't know about you, but our zealous fishing competition has left me ravenous. Why don't I ask Mrs. Collins to prepare a basket for us and we can eat in the garden?"

  Brandi didn't answer immediately. Instead, she scrutinized Quentin's face, her insightful gaze probing beneath the facade they both knew was feigned. She'd always been able to see into his soul. Now was no exception. And her heart leaped at what she beheld.

  He was as affected as she. But he was fighting it—for all the reasons he'd provided her earlier.

  Prudent reasons.

  Protective reasons.

  Meaningless reasons.

  So be it. Patience, Bentley had advised her. Very well then, she would try, after twenty years, to acquire some of that elusive quality.

  It wasn't going to be easy.

  But it was going to be worth it.

  Smiling, she came gracefully to her feet. "A picnic sounds heavenly."

  Chapter 8

  "I'll never eat another morsel." With a sated moan, Branch lay back on the blanket, arms overhead, eyes closed.

  "Ah, but will you drink?" Quentin teased, capturing the empty glass from her hand.

  One eye opened. "I'll consider it."

  Quentin chuckled, refilling her goblet and waving it beneath her nose.

  "Very well." The eye closed once more. "Maybe I will drink. But I won't eat. And I'll definitely never move."

  Her final assertion made Quentin throw back his head in laughter. "Now why don't I believe that?" he asked wryly, nudging her until she opened her eyes and accepted the proffered goblet. "The idea of your remaining still is like envisioning the tide forever motionless on shore."

  Brandi propped herself up on her elbows and gulped her wine with great enthusiasm. "That is, of course, unless the tide has eaten as much as I," she countered, her tongue capturing a few stray drops of the sweet inebriant from her lower lip. "In which case, I fear it is doomed to spend all its days on the sand." With a sigh, she resumed her reclining position. "I feel so content," she murmured, staring dreamily up at the sky. "Almost as if the horrors of the past fortnight were all some monstrous, fictional nightmare."