And for years after his return from the Colonies, that had been enough. Or so he’d believed. The Hellraisers had been good company, never asking questions, as intent on the pursuit of pleasure as he.
He didn’t trust John. No reason why he should. And the hard, eager look in his eyes unsettled Bram deeply. Ambushers had the same eyes as they lay in wait. But what was John planning?
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. All of them—Livia, John, the Hellraisers, Mr. Holliday—all of them could go rot. He was beholden to no one. No one relied upon him, either.
Watching the fire as it consumed the wood, he outlined his own plan: Drink until he lost consciousness. When he woke, he would immerse himself in the realm of London’s voluptuaries, and there he’d remain, importunate ghost or no ghost. And if the world burned down, he’d watch it burn, letting the flames engulf his own flesh.
Chapter 4
Bram awoke with a pounding head and a ghost in his bed. She hovered near the foot, her upper body emerging from the mattress. Her gaze was distant as she watched him.
Rubbing the heel of his hand in his eyes, he stared at her. “Not a dream, then.” His voice was a groggy rasp, as it always was upon rousing from sleep. He’d no love for the first hour after waking, a relationship made more complicated today by the ill-effects of too much brandy. And the fact that a Roman ghost was there to share the unpleasantness. “Damn.”
“The enthusiasm is mutual.” She glanced back toward the fireplace, where an upended chair and empty decanter gave evidence as to how he spent the rest of his night. “How much did you drink?”
“Not nearly enough.” He raised up on his elbows, the blankets sliding down to his abdomen, and he didn’t miss the way her gaze moved over his bare flesh. She looked at the mark of flame, but moved quickly on to the muscles of his chest, the ridges of his stomach. Her nostrils flared. This ghost was not unmoved by the sight of a nude man.
Neither, it seemed, was the man unmoved by her. The curtains were still drawn, the chamber swathed in shadow, and he could see how her tunic clung to the lush curves of her body. Full breasts, rounded hips. A sensualist’s body. Her beauty was both patrician and earthy. The kind of woman who’d command her slaves to bring scented oils, but use her own hands to rub them on her lover.
Against his will, against his judgment, his own body responded to her. His cock stirred, eager as always for the pleasures of women. The damned thing had to suffer disappointment, however.
Throwing back the covers, Bram rose from bed. He felt her gaze on him as he walked, naked, to the low cabinet where the chamber pot was kept. For a moment, he debated whether or not to go behind the screen in the corner of the room. Ridiculous. He wasn’t going to affect modesty for this termagant. So, after his partial erection subsided, he relieved himself in full view of her. If she didn’t like it, she could just . . . fade away.
Once finished, he strode to the washstand and cleaned himself. He splashed water on his face and torso, all the while watching her in the mirror that perched on the washstand.
Her gaze never left him, traversing the length of his body, lingering on his buttocks. Hunger gleamed in her eyes.
An image materialized in his mind: her stretched out beneath him, her ankles locked around his thighs and her fingernails digging into his arse as he thrust into her. She would be a fierce bed partner, the both of them struggling for dominance and enjoying the fight.
Oh, his cock liked that. But he didn’t. He flung more cold water on his face and even onto his groin.
What he felt was only thwarted desire. He hadn’t enjoyed Lady Girard last night, thanks to Livia. And it was a very short journey from anger to lust.
A scratch sounded at the door.
“Make yourself invisible,” he growled at Livia. “Don’t want you frightening my servants.”
She scowled at him, but at least she did as he commanded, her form growing less and less substantial until only a vague outline of her shape remained. Unless one deliberately looked for her, she’d remain unseen.
Bram waited until his erection subsided, thinking of the most dull aspects of estate management such as irrigation and drainage, before calling out, “Enter.”
The door opened and Cleeve, the valet, entered and bowed. “Good afternoon, my lord. Might I open the draperies?”
Bram grunted in assent. He squinted against the glare as Cleeve pulled back the curtains, revealing a patchy gray sky. The valet remained disinterested as he went about straightening the room, setting the chair back up on its feet, putting the empty decanter on a table, picking up the discarded banyan.
He held the banyan out. “A shave, my lord?”
Bram took the robe and donned it, then sat. The rich fragrance of sandalwood soap rose up as Cleeve used a boar bristle brush to stir up the foam for shaving. As he did this, a maid appeared in the door, a tray in her hands.
“Coffee and rolls, my lord?”
At his nod, she came in and set the tray down on the bedside table. He paid his servants well to remember his habits, and they did. The maid poured him a cup of coffee—no sugar, no milk, just as he preferred—and set it on the washstand so he might have it close by.
“You chuckle, my lord,” said Cleeve, dabbing the foam on his cheeks and chin. “Something amusing at the theater?”
“This is all so damned ordinary.”
“My lord?”
“All this.” Bram waved at the shaving supplies laid out on the washstand, and the maid tidying his bed. “Everything’s changed, and nothing’s changed.”
Cleeve did his best to hide his confusion. Perhaps he thought his master still weathered the death of a close friend. Perhaps he believed his master showed the very first signs of madness. Whatever the valet thought, he simply answered, “Yes, my lord. Will you hold still, my lord?”
Bram remained motionless as Cleeve glided the razor down his cheeks, but his gaze flicked to the ghost’s hazy outline hovering in the corner. What did she think of this, the daily rituals of an English nobleman? Were they different from how men of her time met the day?
Likely she thought him a selfish rogue, attending to his toilette instead of rampaging up and down the streets of London, seeking the Devil and preparing for battle.
“Please do not frown, my lord. It makes it more difficult for me to shave you.”
He attempted to smooth out his scowl. But anger still seethed within him. He’d seen his share of battle and wanted nothing more to do with it.
Life would continue as it always had for him. Everything must remain the same. And if Livia or John objected to that, they could go hang.
“Lay out my fencing clothes,” he said once Cleeve wiped the last of the shaving foam from him. The academy had a chamber for changing one’s garments, but he did not want to go through the tedium of dressing, undressing, and dressing again.
The valet bowed and, after putting away the shaving supplies, moved to the clothes press. He pulled out a lightweight shirt and soft doeskin breeches, and a short padded jacket. Bram and Whit often practiced their swordsmanship first thing in the day. Bram had abandoned these regular training sessions after Whit deserted the Hellraisers—training at home rather than try to cling to what had been lost. Yet Bram would make everything return to normal.
Dressing for his practice, he felt Livia’s continued stare. His jaw tightened. Yes, he’d go on as he always had, and there wasn’t a damned thing the ghost could do about it.
The shouts and grunts of men echoed in the arched ceiling. Pale sunlight washed down through high windows, illuminating men moving back and forth across the scarred wooden floor. They lunged and danced, thin swords forming arcs and whistling as they cut through the air, and off to one side, a man vaulted up and over a
