CHAPTER EIGHT
London, 1882
RICHARD BRANHAM, THE EARL OF ELLSWORTH, stood at the window in his library gazing at the back gardens, his hands clasped behind his back. One could tell by the set of his shoulders this was to be one of those discussions. Said discussions usually centered around his nephew’s—his heir’s—poor behavior, lack of responsibility and questionable future. Although James Branham thought his future had been rather firmly settled yesterday.
“Uncle Richard?” James braced himself. “You asked to see me?”
Uncle Richard turned from the window, the late-morning light emphasizing the lines of aging in his face. But then the man had passed his seventy-fifth year. “I thought we should talk.”
“It seems to me we’ve done nothing but talk the last few days.”
His uncle studied him for a long moment. “I’m proud of you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Not exactly what James had expected.
“You did the right thing.” Uncle Richard crossed the room and took his usual seat behind his ancient mahogany desk. “It wasn’t easy.”
James shrugged and sat in the equally old wingback chair in front of the desk. They’d faced each other countless times across this desk since James had come to live with his uncle at the age of nine when his parents had died. Fifteen years later, James’s behavior was still a matter that warranted discussion.
“There wasn’t much of a choice.” It seemed to James it came down to his future, or hers. He would survive a scandal. Men with money and titles always did. Violet would have been ruined. And it was entirely his fault.
“You saved that girl from scandal and probably a life alone. A young woman’s fate rests on her reputation.”
“I am well aware of that.” It didn’t seem at all fair that Violet should have to suffer for his mistake. What had he been thinking? Or had he been thinking at all? Apparently, there was a great deal of guilt that went along with selfish errors of judgment, even when one ultimately did the right thing.
“Public indiscretions, even those we might deem minor, are rarely forgiven by society. Being kissed by a man whose engagement to another woman is about to be announced is not something that is easily forgotten.”
“She did slap me,” James pointed out. “Hard.”
“Yes, I saw that as did everyone else.” Uncle Richard’s lips twitched as if he were holding back a smile. He met his nephew’s gaze directly. “It was a mistake, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, of course.” James nodded, perhaps a bit too vehemently. There was no need to change his story now. He had kissed Violet Hagen on a dark terrace at the ball where his engagement to Marie Fredericks was to be announced. Admittedly, in the light of day, one would never confuse Violet with Marie, but then it hadn’t been the light of day. And he had possibly drunk more than was wise. And...
And marrying Marie had looked more and more like a fate worse than death. He should have come up with a better way to escape marriage to her but he’d tried to convince himself he was simply experiencing the kind of apprehension most men felt when coming face-to-face with an eternity tied to the same woman. Regardless, that night, with his engagement moments from being publicly announced, he could feel a noose tightening around his neck. A wiser man, a better man, would have simply called it off. Only a true idiot would have seen the silly challenge of his friends to kiss his almost-fiancée as a chance for escape. Only a stupid ass—or a coward—would have allowed the world to think he had mistakenly kissed the wrong woman, knowing full well that very public mistake would lead to calling off any engagement.
