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?”
“Of course. Glittering parties in Mayfair, walks in Hyde Park, and dancing all night long…it’s every girl’s dream.”
Had Angelica ever wanted to be presented? Brody wondered if, even now, such a thing for a girl like her was possible. Doubtful. Society was fickle and competitive. Only the most suitable girls succeeded. His heart ached for the beautiful young woman who could have put all other debutantes to shame if fate had not stolen her sight.
His sister said, picking at her cake slice, “I cannot wait to go to London. Mother takes me every June.”
Angelica still smiled. “Do you go to London, Brody?”
“I…uh…used to. But not anymore.” Although he didn’t care much for parties, the dope scene in London was exquisite. If he intended to stay clean and sober, he had better stay clear of town.
Thankfully, no one at the table mentioned his past troubles, or how he’d almost ruined Mary Rose’s come-out by getting himself arrested in an opium den raid. Father had to pay a fortune to ensure his name stayed out of the papers—yet another reason the old man despised him.
“It will just be Mother and me this year,” his sister explained. “I’m thinking very seriously about getting married, and if I’m going to find a husband, I can’t have Brody or Marcus scaring off every chap who comes to call.”
Angelica’s smile wavered. Perhaps she thought of her own brother, and how they never had the chance to share that bond. “Then good luck on your Season,” she said, her voice oddly strained. “I hope you find a wonderful man who will love you very much.”
Brody realized she wasn’t thinking of her brother at all. Angelica thought about marriage, and how the chance of a husband of her own had slipped through her fingers—or, rather, between her parted thighs.
He nearly choked on his charlotte russe. Where the hell did these thoughts come from? Was he really as petty as all that? Angelica’s chances at marriage weren’t over. There were plenty of men in the world who didn’t care that she wasn’t a virgin, and would overlook her out-of-wedlock child.
“I don’t care if my husband loves me,” Mary Rose said. “I want him to be rich and handsome.”
Brody reached for his water glass. “You’ll have your pick of the bunch, M.R.”
“Can you imagine? We’ll take a charming little flat in a quiet street near the Park, and, of course, he’ll have a place in the country—he has simply got to have a country house for summers—and we’ll go to all the best parties, and jazz every night!”
That sounded like a nightmare. He hoped Angelica didn’t have such ridiculous notions about marriage. Girls like Mary Rose were raised to place importance on social position and material possessions, rather than a relationship based on love.