Braden could imagine the sparkle in Quentin’s cinnamon eyes, the ever-present laughter playing about his mouth. A man for the ladies, was Quentin—like the prince, to whose set he belonged. But he had noticed Cassidy, and there was no disdain in his voice.
All to the good. Yes, surely all to the good.
“I’m delighted that you find her pleasing,” Braden said. “You’ll have the chance to get to know her much better in the coming weeks.”
Quentin’s breathing changed. He hardly moved, but Braden had learned how to read silences as well as others interpreted the most obvious alterations in expression.
“So,” Quentin said. “That’s the scheme you have in mind. One wayward brother, one conveniently restored lost cousin, and… voilà. A perfect match.”
“Perfect. Yes. “Are you surprised, Quentin? You knew the day would come. Cassidy is an orphan with no other kin of our kind. This way she will remain within the protection of our family, and the Forster blood will be reunited.”
Quentin knew too much to ask, as Rowena had done, why Braden didn’t consider Cassidy for himself. He rose and strode across the floor. The door opened; there was a brief exchange between Quentin and Aynsley, and a few moments later a footman returned with something that reeked distinctly of alcohol.
“Don’t blame Aynsley,” Quentin said. “I brought it back from Paris. Excellent stuff.” He dismissed the footman and poured for himself. “You won’t deny me my small pleasures at such a pivotal juncture in an otherwise inconsequential existence.”
It was said lightly, but Braden heard the self-mockery behind the words. In human society, a younger son in the peerage was all too often a financial burden who must make his own way in some respectable career. But aside from his few years in the army, Quentin had only one occupation laid out for him: mate of the loup-garou bride selected for him, sire to offspring of the pure werewolf blood.
There had always been an understanding between Quentin and Braden. Until the day came that he must surrender his freedom, Quentin could live as he chose. As long as he did not endanger his life through the sins of excess and idleness, as long as he fathered no bastard half-werewolf children, he was kept on a very loose rein. Even his service in India had been carefully arranged so as not to place him in significant danger.
If Quentin was bitter, he didn’t let that emotion bother him overmuch. He knew how unimportant his feelings were. He’d accepted the bargain, lived for pleasure on the unlimited funds his brother provided, and carried out the occasional errand in the Greyburn interests.
Now his freedom was at an end.
“Cassidy Holt,” Braden said, “has no conception of your pastimes. You will behave with discretion in her presence and suppress any habits which might distress her.”
Quentin sighed and set down his glass. “Is she such a fragile flower, then? She scarcely looks it. The prince is fond of these American girls, you know. Loves them for their lack of pretense and their frightful honesty.”
“She has much to learn, and you will help teach her.”
“The skills I know won’t be of much use to her at Grey-burn,” Quentin said, pouring himself another drink. “Except the single one that’s indispensable. I’ll endeavor to make that… as painless as possible.”
Braden rose from his chair and gripped the arm. “She must have time to adjust to our ways, our life. For now you will make yourself agreeable—”
“Oh, I should think that’ll be easy enough. She is a pretty girl, in an American sort of way. In fact—”
Into the gap left by Quemin’s unfinished sentence came the rustle of skirts and twin sets of footfalls. One of them belonged to the widow Mrs. Smith. The other was Cassidy’s. Slower than it had been before, more decorous, but indisputably hers.
“Please pardon the interruption,” Mrs. Smith said, “but Cassidy was so anxious to show you her purchases, Lord Greyburn, after all your generosity…”
The footfalls stilled. Quentin whistled under his breath.
“Cousin,” he said. “May I say that you look absolutely enchanting.” He moved across the room, and Braden could imagine him suavely bowing over Cassidy’s hand. Playing his habitual role to the hilt. Charming his mate-to-be with no effort at all.