Emma wasn’t certain what she expected from Brandon Rohan. Immediate contempt was the most likely response, or an insulting demand for sexual favors. In truth, she was hoping for one or the other, something that would wipe any lingering emotions forever. All he had to do was look at her with disdain and she’d be done.

Brandon Rohan simply raised an eyebrow. “I don’t actually use my title,” he said casually.

She did her best not to gape at him, too startled to say anything more. Then she rallied. “Why not? Why don’t you use the advantages you’ve been given?”

The faint twist of his mouth could almost be called a smile. “Why don’t you use your beauty—it’s just as valuable a commodity, perhaps more so than a courtesy title. Oh, that’s right, you did, but apparently you don’t any longer, which begs the question, why did you offer up that particular bit of information?”

He still wasn’t looking at her with any sort of distaste, merely bland curiosity. It unnerved her, when he already set her off balance. “Someone would have told you, sooner or later,” she muttered, feeling graceless and not caring.

“I’d be forced to hit them if they did,” he said. “And I’m afraid telling me makes no difference—I’ll still have to hit them, and that complicates things, since I’ve been expressly forbidden to pound on the vicar, due to his position and his scrawny appearance. However, I expect my brother would forgive me if he knew about the man’s behavior.”

He sounded as if he was discussing dealing with a runaway pig, and her temper began to stir. He was turning a source of pain and shame into an inconvenience. “You’ve been out of society for a long time, Lord Brandon,” she said, liking the formality of his title. It kept him one more step away from her. “Selling one’s body is not an act that is overlooked among ‘good’ people.”

“People do what they have to do,” he said, unmoved. “I presume you didn’t enter the profession on a whim.”

“No,” she muttered. She wasn’t going to make excuses for herself—be damned to them all. The only one who knew her history was Melisande, and it broke her best friend’s heart. She certainly didn’t want this man’s pity. “Am I supposed to be grateful that you’re noble enough to forgive my transgressions?” she said sharply.

His lids were half lowered on his ice-blue eyes. Not that she could see their color in the darkness, but she remembered that brilliant blue—for some damnable reason it still haunted her dreams. “You didn’t transgress against me,” he said mildly. “It’s none of my business.”

She’d worked herself up into such a state that his words deflated her. She was left with nothing to say, and she stared at him, at the beauty and ruin of his face, silent.

“But in fact I do appreciate your informing me,” he went on in a purely practical tone. “I was going mad trying to think of where I’d seen you before, why your name was familiar, and now I know. I frequented a number of houses of ill repute—I must have seen you there.” His forehead furrowed. “God, you must have been so young.”

She froze. For a moment she recognized the nameless soldier she had cared so much about, and his casual sympathy twisted her heart. She wanted to cry, and she’d given up crying years ago. It accomplished nothing. He’d been to the house. Of course, he had—so had his older brother and any number of gentlemen. But he hadn’t seen her there—once she took over the reins she never had to service anyone, and she ran the place behind closed doors, never venturing out among the customers. Some part of his brain was remembering her from the hospital, but her spontaneous announcement had successfully detoured him. Now that he thought he had the answers he wouldn’t have to think of her again.

And then it got worse.

“Good God, I didn’t sleep with you, did I?” he said in tones of absolute horror, and the man she’d cared about disappeared once more, leaving the cynic in his wake.

She glared at him. “You did not.” And if he asked her how she could be certain she’d take the fire poker and bash him on the head. Or at least think about.

But he looked relieved, and she still wanted to hit him.

She managed a small shrug, ignoring her unruly reaction. “So, you can see why I’m persona non grata. Don’t worry, you won’t be required to be around me. I usually only visit when there are no other guests in residence. The family knows me and accepts me without question, and that’s what matters.” She started toward the door, desperate to get away from him. She couldn’t bear that calm expression, she couldn’t bear to be so close to him, to feel so panicked and angry and vulnerable.

Almost at the door, she realized she was being ridiculous. He’d made no attempt to stop her. Though he’d risen he simply stayed in the shadows, watching her, and she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or. . . disappointed.

“You’re forgetting one thing, Mrs. Cadbury. And I assume the Mrs. is a courtesy title, just as mine is.”

She didn’t bother to answer that question. “What?” she said testily.

And then he smiled at her, and her heart twisted. It was an honest smile, the way he had looked down at his infant goddaughter, with none of the cynical reserve that now seemed to be his norm. “I’m a member of this family.”

She stared at him. What the hell did he mean by that? Was he going to convince the family to shun her, or was he saying he would agree with their acceptance? She wasn’t going to ask.

“Good night, my lord,” she said sharply, whisking herself out the library door and shutting it firmly behind her.

She’d almost slammed the heavy door. Brandon looked at it with real amusement—at least that explained her prickly attitude. If she thought a Rohan was going to disapprove of her, she’d picked the wrong family. Well, there was no telling with Charles—he was the most-staid member of their ramshackle tribe—but even he might just shrug. She was making a huge fuss over nothing, as far as he was concerned. Anyone who rejected her was someone not worth knowing. He remembered the house now; it had always been the height of elegance and good breeding, and the women there had been treated well, more like debutantes than hired companions. He was just going to have to do his best to convince Mrs. Emma Cadbury—he’d known perfectly well there had never been a Mr. Cadbury—that he had absolutely no problem with her past. For a moment he’d been horrified to think he might have bedded her and then forgotten, but who could forget a woman like her?

She was none of his business, he reminded himself. Granted, she was almost eerily beautiful, and he would have given anything to take her to bed and disrupt that cool, controlled expression. He could feel his body stir at the thought and he quickly controlled it.

In truth, he didn’t want a dalliance and he certainly wasn’t interested in anything more than that. If he were to stay in the south of England he could set her up as his mistress. No, that idea seemed very unpleasant, both staying in civilization and turning her back into. . . He might want to bed her, but it was a logical reaction to a beautiful woman, and he’d never found the need to act on those feelings if it seemed unwise. Not anymore.

Besides, she was a surgeon, of all things! He wondered if she cut off men’s bollocks—she’d probably jump at the chance, and he wasn’t sure he’d blame her. He’d seen what could happen to women who sold their bodies, and it was never pretty. He could remember nights with the Heavenly Host and the things they’d done. . .

He pushed that thought out of his mind, keeping it in the place he kept all his most appalling memories. He was far better off back in Scotland, away from reminders, from temptation, from the unexpectedly bewitching Emma Cadbury.

She must have run off to her bedroom, her bare feet flying across the floors. He’d liked those feet, her long toes, her delicate arch. Was the woman gorgeous everywhere?

He wasn’t going to find out. He needed to make his way to bed as well if he had any hope of an early escape. That way he could avoid stuffy Charles and whatever nefarious matrimonial plans he might have.

He walked to the fire, damping down the coals, and he almost thought he could detect the faint scent of flowers and heat and woman. He closed his eyes for a moment, wondering what she might taste like.

“No,” he said out loud, his eyes flying open in disgust at his maundering thoughts. “Just no.”