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  Falling for Anthony

  ( The Guardians - 1 )

  Meljean Brook

  In Regency England, a desperate lady is Falling for Anthony when a childhood friend comes back from the dead to protect her brother from an unnatural evil.

  Falling for Anthony

  The Guardians, book 1

  Meljean Brook

  Chapter One

  Appearances are almost always deceiving

  The Doyen Scrolls

  London, ENGLAND

  MARCH 1811

  A single glimpse at the disarray in Colin's bedchamber and, the valet's harried expression was all Anthony Ramsdell needed to determine that his best course of action would be to exit, and quickly. Colin Ames-Beaumont, the younger son of the Earl of Norbridge, could not be hurried in his dress—neither the most pleasurable entertainment nor the most beautiful woman could ever induce him to leave the house before every fold of his cravat lay perfectly in place—and anyone who happened to be in his vicinity at that time could be subject to his valet's attentions, should Colin judge that person unfashionable in any way.

  Anthony had made that mistake more than once, and though his green waistcoat, black coat, and tan breeches might pass Colin's inspection, his linen lacked the proper amount of starch and was no longer blindingly white. His evening shoes, though he'd done his best to shine them, were scuffed from regular use. His chestnut hair had grown too long in the front; Colin had chided him the week before for letting it fall into his eyes like a schoolboy—a look, Colin had observed, that ruined his own sartorial perfection by association. As Colin had only been half-joking, Anthony was certain if he stepped into the room the valet would have scissors out in a trice.

  Self-preservation sent him retreating downstairs, smiling. He couldn't be annoyed by his friend's vanity; he understood Colin too well for that. He was only glad that the other man had recently changed his style from brightly colored silks and cosmetics to the simple elegance of a dandy—even if that elegance took him almost two hours to achieve and, by all appearances, was now only beginning the second hour.

  Knowing from experience how that time could drag on, Anthony headed for the earl's study. He'd been a frequent guest in the house for years, spending as much time with the Ames-Beaumonts as with his own family, and the study had always been one of his favorite rooms. Though much smaller than the library at the earl's ancestral home in Derbyshire, it held a significant selection of volumes, with enough variety to satisfy Norbridge's mercurial taste and Anthony's predictable one.

  He knocked once on the door out of habit—when he'd been a boy, the earl had always required him to announce his presence in that manner—and chuckled self-consciously. Norbridge wasn't inside and would not issue an authoritative command to enter; Anthony had met with him that morning and, their business completed, Norbridge had left for Derbyshire shortly thereafter.

  Thinking of the agreement they'd reached, hollow resignation settled in Anthony's stomach. In two days, he would join Norbridge's good friend, Major-General Cole, on the Peninsula to serve as his personal physician for as long as the campaign against Napoleon persisted. Norbridge had shaped the proposal as a request, but Anthony had recognized it for what it was: a demand for repayment of a debt.

  A debt Anthony readily acknowledged, but would have preferred to settle another way.

  Any other way.

  He sighed, closing the door behind him and walking along the bookshelves lining the adjacent wall. Furnished with dark, heavy wood and rich fabrics, the room was an impoverished scholar's luxurious dream; Anthony took little notice of or pleasure in his surroundings. He hadn't indulged in a bout of self-pity since childhood, but as he stared blankly at a leather-bound volume of Paradise Lost, he thought spending the next hour privately whining to himself might be just the thing.

  The sudden clang of metal against stone drew his attention to the opposite end of the library, and the invectives Anthony had been planning to hurl against God silently expired on his tongue. Colin's twin sister, Lady Emily, stood with her back to him, hair unbound, swinging a sword wildly at the marble fireplace; the blade skidded across the mantle, knocking books and a small statue to the floor. A deep scar in the stone revealed where she'd struck the first blow.

  "Emily?" Surprise gave his query a sharp edge, and he briefly wondered if she'd been sent by some higher power to purposely torment him on this day of all days. Another reminder of everything he could never have and shouldn't want to have.

  Emily had constantly been at his and Colin's sides until they had begun attending public school. Anthony had suffered a childish infatuation with her, and his teenage years had been fraught with frustrated longing. But her head had been filled with romantic dreams and noblemen, and she'd never looked twice at her brother's poor, untitled playmate.

  Eventually, he had outgrown his feelings for her, and they had become friends. Their meetings had been brief and infrequent of late years, however, due to his medical studies and her social schedule.

  Having recently passed his exams, he'd thought to enjoy her bright and humorous company more often, and to renew their friendship—but Spain and his duty to her father would make that impossible.

  His certainty that he was the butt of a cosmic joke faded when she stiffened, and the sword froze mid-swing. She turned to glare at him and spoke through clenched teeth. Firelight glinted against trails of moisture on her cheeks. "Get out, Anthony. I don't want to hurt you."

  He eyed the sword warily but didn't move. If she'd simply been weeping over some feminine dilemma, he would have been the gentleman and left, but concern for her safety prevented him from leaving her alone to act out her rage and violence.

  He had thought he'd witnessed all of her moods, but the pinch of her elegant brow and the angry, bitter slant to her mouth was new. Emily possessed a perpetually sunny, dreamy disposition; over their long acquaintance, he'd seen her upset only a few times. It would not be too difficult to help her regain her natural good humor. He would stay until she did, and until he was certain she would cause no harm to herself.

  And despite her warning, he did not feel he would be in danger. He had no fear that Emily would turn on him.

  He attempted a smile and said, "Hurt me? And what have I done? Inadvertently criticized a new hair ribbon?" Though he strove for a light tone, it came out stiffly, as if he meant to insult her.

  She stared at him for a long moment before presenting her back to him.

  Anthony bit back a sigh, a flush crawling up his neck. He'd forgotten that around Emily, his humor seemed to twist, and he invariably sounded like an idiot or a prig. Perhaps it would be better to fetch Colin; Anthony might not be up to the task.

  That would mean leaving her alone, however, and he was loath to do that, even for a few moments. To cover his embarrassed silence, he crossed the room and chose a seat on the green velvet sofa angled between the desk and the hearth. From that vantage point, she stood in profile to him, and he studied her features as best he could. The firelight danced across the gold of her hair but left her expression shadowed. Her shoulders were squared, and she kept a tight grip on the handle of the sword. The tumble of hair down her back and the long column of her dress should have softened the impression of rigidity in her posture; instead it lent a tight, brittle cast to her form, like a porcelain figurine on the verge of shattering.

  Discarding any further attempts at humor, he said quietly, "Has something happened, Emily?"

  She gave a hard, short laugh. "How astute you are, doctor! Are you so observant with all of your patients? Obviously, something has happened."

  His color rose again, but this time his embarrassment was tinged with anger that she would mock his co
ncern. He tamped down both feelings; at least she was responding to him.

  He hesitated and then ventured, "Has yet another suitor disappointed you, then?" In the five years since her debut she'd had scores of admirers and nearly as many proposals—none of which had been to her satisfaction.

  "Yet another?" she repeated, her voice rising with each syllable. She whirled to face him. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes large. He knew they appeared hazel in the sunlight, striated with green and blue; now, they were dark with fury. "I detect disapproval, Anthony—"

  He shook his head. "No, I only meant—"

  "And who do you think you are to disapprove of me?" She threw her hands up, and he instinctively drew back from the swipe of the blade. It hadn't come near him, but he kept a cautious eye on it as she continued her tirade, hacking the air to punctuate each question. "Do you think my dreams of love are not worth pursuing? Do you think them so worthless, so impossible? Is it so ridiculous to believe that love can be all-consuming and true, and to wait for that before pledging myself for eternity to a man who can't be what I want him to be? Am I a fool to think I can have that? Are my expectations too great, my requirements too exacting?"

  Her voice broke on the last, and for just a moment, she seemed to withdraw into herself before gathering and refocusing her anger. Her wild jabs at the air ceased, and she pointed the tip of the sword at Anthony with cold deliberation.

  "And what of your dreams, Anthony?"

  He looked away from the blade, startled by the sudden change in her demeanor. Where she had been heat and fury, now she was ice and mockery. "What of them?" he said carefully, hoping she would not mention his youthful infatuation.

  He'd never thought to see one of her smiles contain the cruelty of the one that now curved her lips. "Come now, Anthony—don't tell me you wanted to be a doctor. It was the most painless way for you to get a title other than 'Mister. My father's suggestion, and you went along with it, allowed him to pay for your education, because you thought he'd make you his personal physician, and you and Colin could carry on as you always have, here in London."

  A hot, dull flash crawled up Anthony's cheeks. He hadn't realized she knew the particulars of his debt to her father. And he couldn't refute her other charges—he hadn't been hungry for a title, but he had wanted to advance his position in society so he wouldn't be bound by circumstances of his birth.

  His gaze dropped to the scar on his palm, a lingering reminder of the blood-brother pact he and Colin had performed years before. They had used the earl's sword—the one Emily now wielded so casually—and, afterward, his hand had become swollen and he feverish. His mother had said the infection was to remind him of his place, to remind him of his duty to help raise the family from their straightened circumstances.

  Anthony had never asked if the earl had found similar meaning in Colin's sickness.

  "And you'd never have to return to the family that rejected you for lowering yourself. The family that would rather have you remain a starving, indebted gentleman than work in a profession, even as their house falls into disrepair around them." She paused for a breath. "But perhaps your jaunt on the Peninsula will make you a hero, and you will restore the family name and fortune."

  He'd thought Emily couldn't hurt him, but she didn't need the sword to do that. He regarded her silently, pain and resentment thrumming under his skin. Everything about her declared her station in life: the pale peach walking dress skimming over her curves was of the finest cut and cloth; the way she held herself erect, the sweep of her neck, the high planes of her cheeks, the softness of her hands all confirmed the ease and luxury that permeated her existence. She would never understand his dismay at her father's suggestion that he join Cole in Spain. She could never conceive of the shame that came from being reminded of his place by the very man who had offered him hope of something better.

  He didn't know what had come over her to speak to him as she had, but if he stayed in this room much longer, he was going to say something he would regret. With stiff lips, he said, "My lady, I must beg leave—"

  But her thoughts must have also strayed to her father, for her gaze turned inward and she continued as if he hadn't spoken, "What you have failed to learn is that we—Colin, you, and I—are nothing to my father. Only Henry and my nephew matter to him, because Henry is the heir, and Robert is Henry's heir. My father is on his way to Derbyshire now, to fawn over the boy as his twelfth birthday approaches. He expected me to join them in their adoration—but children cannot interest me." Her mouth trembled and she looked away from Anthony, and her tone softened. "But I can hardly fault you for your stupidity; I myself have only just realized this today."

  Compassion warred with his embarrassment and anger. The Countess of Norbridge had died in childbed after delivering Emily and Colin; the earl, deeply in love with his wife and stricken with grief, barely acknowledged their existence for the first years of their life, and only took a passing interest in them as they aged. He saved his attentions for Henry, who was ten years older. Emily had never seemed to mind her father's indifference—but perhaps that had not been the case, and she had suffered from it.

  But his own wounds were too fresh to completely forgive her for exposing them, and his tone mocking as he replied, "And what other astounding revelations have you had today?"

  Emily slanted him a cynical glance, hefting the sword. "That he cares more for this than he does for us." He followed her gaze as she examined the length of it, turning the short bronze blade from side to side. "It's been in my family for so long, the story of its origin can barely be credited: my ancestor, a knight, finding it during the Crusades and bringing it back from the Holy Lands. It never needs to be sharpened; it's never corrupted by age. I suspect my father cleans it at night, to keep its legend alive for my family. He usually keeps it in Derbyshire—except he's been spending so much time in London, he brought it to have it near him here." She tilted her head, her eyes glinting with dark curiosity. The hard edge to her voice returned. "I wonder what will happen if I smash it against stone a few more times?"

  Anthony frowned and forgot about his intention to leave. "You won't be able to reverse the damage you do to it, Emily. Are you certain your anger—whatever the cause—is worth this?"

  "Oh, yes," she breathed, and in a smooth, quick movement, she whipped around and slammed the tip of the sword straight into the marble. He shook his head in exasperation.

  Then her cry of surprise sent him surging to his feet, crossing the short distance to her side. Astonishment furrowed his brow.

  She'd embedded the sword halfway into the stone.

  Her hands fell away from the hilt, and she covered her mouth with shaking fingers. Her eyes were wide, and her voice trembled with light, genuine laughter—familiar laughter. "He apparently sharpened it very well."

  This was the Emily he knew. Anthony grinned. "Apparently."

  She continued to stare at the sword. "Have you ever seen anything like this? It is extraordinary, don't you agree?" She lowered her hands from her face, and Anthony saw the bright streak of crimson on her cheek.

  He caught her wrist; turning it, he saw the thin line of blood welling from a shallow slice in her thumb.

  "Oh!" Emily stared at the cut. "I didn't even feel it. When the sword stopped moving, it jarred my hand over the hilt, but I didn't realize I'd touched the blade."

  "I have this," Anthony said, digging a clean handkerchief from his pocket.

  Her fingers were long and delicate; the scent of lavender rose from her hair. The warmth of her skin against his seemed to gather and spiral directly to his loins. He ignored the sensation and forced another grin. "Aren't you fortunate I'm a physician? You could have bled to death from such a wound." His jest sounded strained to his own ears, and he hoped she wouldn't notice.

  She lifted her gaze to his. Her humor had fled, and though he did not detect her previous bitterness in her expression, he could not determine her mood. His own anger had cooled, leaving behind em
barrassment and a growing arousal—and her proximity made him doubly aware of both.

  With the barest of smiles, she said, "You have the most amazing countenance—I can read every thought you have."

  His hands stilled, the handkerchief half-wound around her thumb.

  Absently raising the fingers of her uninjured hand to his brow, she smoothed back the forelock that had fallen into his eyes and murmured, "The lift of your eyebrow, the crinkle of your eyes, the corner of your mouth: they all give you away." She touched each feature as she spoke; admiration filled her expression, surprise—as if this was the first time she had looked at him. "It is so rare for a man to have such finely drawn features as you, and yet there is no doubt of your masculinity."

  The tilt of her head was assessing; dumbstruck, he could not reply.

  "You are truly beautiful; it is no wonder Colin has always kept you close to his side. You are a magnificent accessory, the perfect complement to him." Though her words stung, he knew she intended no insult; and, taken aback by her compliments, he could find no reply. He finished tying off the makeshift bandage in silence.

  She looked past him, her eyes soft and unfocused. "When we were younger, I used to wish that you weren't so unsuitable, that one day you would discover you were the long-lost son of a duke or—"

  He drew a sharp breath, and the sudden heavy weight in his chest made his voice harsh. "Don't be ridiculous."

  Her tiny smile froze in place and became brittle again. "Yes, it was ridiculous. All of my dreams were." Pulling away from him, she grabbed the sword and yanked it from the stone. It slid out easily, as if from liquid.

  Anthony turned away from her, collapsing onto the sofa before his legs gave out beneath him. Even worse than not being noticed, he decided, was being noticed and found wanting.

  Some masochistic impulse made him watch the sway of her hips as she walked toward the earl's mahogany desk and placed the sword on its display stand. She paused for a moment, cast him a calculating glance, and slid her forefinger along the flat side of the blade. He followed its progress, and the image of that simple touch on his skin rose, unbidden.