Emerald Garden by Andrea Kane Page A

Brandi’s attempt at humor, however small. His gaze slid from her to Desmond, and he started, taken aback by the sharp, disapproving look he saw reflected in his brother’s eyes.
    “Are you ready, Brandice?” The new duke’s tone was curt.
    Brandi seemed not to notice. “Yes.” She paused to address Hendrick. “Thank you. You displayed patience and compassion—both of which I badly needed.”
    “Not at all, my dear,” he replied. “Your grief is perfectly understandable, given the magnitude of your loss. I’ll make arrangements to have Pamela’s jewel case and silver delivered to Emerald Manor posthaste. In the interim, should you think of any questions once the shock has worn off …”
    “I’ll contact you with whatever questions Brandice might have,” Desmond interrupted. “Good day, Ellard.” He glanced coldly at Quentin. “You’re going directly to Colverton?”
    “Yes.”
    “Fine. I’ll see you there.” Without another word, Desmond ushered Brandi out.
    Colverton was unusually chilly and dark when Quentin entered its doors that night—or perhaps it was only his mood which made it appear as such. The day had been understandably difficult, leaving him tired, drained, and vaguely unsettled in a way he had yet to examine.
    Although it took little insight to discern that Brandi was at the heart of his unrest—Brandi and her nebulous relationship with his half brother. A half brother he recalled as small-minded and envious, a man far too self-centered to embrace someone’s pain as his own, unless he had something to gain.
    The same man Brandi had once loathed, yet now described as solid and supportive: “a pillar of strength,” to be exact.
    Obviously, Desmond had changed a great deal over the past four years.
    Or had he?
    “Good evening, Master Quentin.” Bentley hastened over, his lips pinched into a tight line of worry. “Was the day as trying as you feared?”
    “Yes, Bentley, it was.” Quentin massaged his temples. “Would you mind pouring me a drink? I’m in sad need of fortification.”
    “You’ll find a glass of brandy awaiting you in the sitting room,” Bentley instructed, relieving Quentin of his coat and gloves. One brow arched in response to his lordship’s obvious surprise. “When I saw your approaching carriage, I took the liberty of fetching not only your brandy but a light snack. Undoubtedly, you’ve eaten nothing since breakfast.”
    A corner of Quentin’s mouth lifted. “I’d forgotten how well you know me.”
    The butler sniffed. “Since the age of two, you’ve dealt with upset in the same manner—by neglecting your food.”
    “A vice you continually remedied.”
    “And one I will continue to remedy whenever I can.” Bentley gestured toward the sitting room. “Your meal is ready whenever you are.”
    Quentin stared down the dimly lit hallway and hesitated.
    “Do you know,” Bentley remarked casually, “as luck would have it, I’ve just completed my evening duties and was about to indulge in a welcome respite. I don’t suppose you’d like some company?”
    Relief flowed through Quentin in a great wave. “Indeed I would, Bentley.” He shot the butler a quick, knowing look. “You couldn’t have arranged your respite at a better time—as luck would have it, of course.”
    “Of course.” The barest glimmer of a smile. “After you, sir.”
    Warm and cheerily aglow, the sitting room was a splendid contrast to the dreariness of the entranceway. A delicious-smelling plate of cold roast lamb and mint sauce greeted Quentin, beside which sat a basket of sugar-iced buns and, of course, the requisite goblet of brandy.
    Crossing over to the sideboard, Quentin surveyed the room, noting every one of Bentley’s personal touches right down to the fire blazing cozily at the hearth. “Thank you, my friend,” Quentin said simply, lifting his glass in tribute.
    “You’re quite welcome, sir.” Bentley cleared his throat, hands clasped behind his back. “Will