Midnight Pleasures by Eloisa James Read Free Book Online Page A

Braddon was deadly serious now, trying to explain something that he had painstakingly worked out in the years since his father had first introduced him to Mrs. Burns. The former Earl of Slaslow had demanded complete respect from his heir and had sent him a look that shook Braddon to his bones when he didn’t immediately bow. And so Braddon had bowed, as deeply as if Mrs. Burns were King George himself.
    And then they had sat down to tea, he and his father and Mrs. Burns, and he’d looked with fascination at the beautifully furnished house, the elegant gardens visible through wide Venetian windows. Finally at the picture of a child on the piano—his brother! Only to find out from Mrs. Burns that the brother had died, dead at age seven. His father had moved a bit creakily over to Mrs. Burns and held her shoulders tightly after she said that.
    And Braddon understood, without rancor, that his father had loved that boy more than he loved Braddon himself, or his sisters. And that he loved Mrs. Burns, and not his wife.
    It had taken hard thinking, something Braddon wasn’t good at. But he knew that that , what his father had with Mrs. Burns, that was something he wanted for himself too. So when his father was dying, a huge mound of flesh in the master bedchamber, he bribed his father’s valet to keep everyone out of the room for an hour. And then he smuggled in Mrs. Burns.
    Before he left the room he saw her sit on the bed and lean over, and his father, who hadn’t spoken for two days, whispered “beloved.” When the old Earl of Slaslow died that night, without saying another word, Braddon’s mind was made up.
    Ay, he’d get married as his witch of a mother kept demanding. And he would have the children required, as many as necessary till a boy sprouted from the pile. So far he’d asked three gentlewomen to marry him; the third had finally taken the lure. So that part of his life was taken care of. But he wanted to have a Mrs. Burns too, a Mrs. Burns of his own.
    The miracle of it was that suddenly he had found a Mrs. Burns.
    “Her name is Madeleine, Miss Madeleine Garnier,” he said, his jaw stiff in case Patrick tried to make some prior claim. “Do you know her?”
    Patrick’s eyes were twinkling now and Braddon relaxed.
    “Never heard of her in my life. No poaching, word of honor.” If Patrick added hastily to himself, “at least, not on Madeleine,” there was no need to say it out loud. But his brother looked at him keenly. Alex sensed the ellipse, the unspoken words. One of the disadvantages of having a twin was invariable detection of silent lies.
    Patrick cleared his throat. “Have you known Madeleine long?”
    Braddon’s mouth tightened again. “ ‘Miss Garnier’ to you.” Then he blinked, hearing how foolish he sounded.
    “I met her a few weeks ago. That’s what I was telling Alex when you showed up. It’s providence; has to be. I finally got myself a proper wife—my mother’s up in the clouds about it— and I met Madeleine, all in the same week.
    “And you know what else?” Braddon continued with a burst of confidence. “I quite like the idea of marrying Sophie York. She’s got backbone. Perhaps she can even hold my mother off. Perhaps they’ll have an argument and my mother will refuse to visit the house.”
    He beamed like a man granted a view of heaven.
    “You’d still have to contend with her mother,” Patrick drawled. He himself quite liked the old martinet, the Marchioness of Brandenburg, but she would terrorize Braddon.
    Braddon shuddered visibly. “I won’t be around much. I think I’ll buy Madeleine a house in Mayfair. What do you think?”
    Patrick felt uneasiness stirring again. “You can’t do that,” he snapped. “ Your house is in Mayfair. Buy Miss Garnier a house in Shoreditch.”
    “No.” Braddon’s long jaw set.
    Patrick’s heart sank. He’d seen that look before, whenever Braddon had decided on a plan of the utmost idiocy.
    “I want Madeleine near me.