When You Wish

by Alexandra Ivy

  With a last smile the Devilish Dandy slipped toward the back of the stables along with the groom. Perhaps ridiculously, she sent up a prayer that he would be safe. She did not know if God looked over jewel thieves, but it could not hurt to try.

  “Emma, we must return to the ballroom to avert suspicion,” Cedric intruded upon her anxious thoughts, reaching out to place her hand upon his arm.

  She heaved a faint sigh. The last thing she desired was to return to the hot, stuffy room and chatter aimlessly with complete strangers. Especially when she would be consumed with worry that her father had been discovered or the poor groom somehow injured during his daring ride toward London.

  Still, she was aware that their prolonged absence was bound to arouse suspicion. And not only by the men watching the house for the magistrate.

  “Yes.”

  Leading her out of the stables and across the yard, he glanced down at her pale countenance.

  “I know it will be difficult, my dear, but I fear I must insist that you conjure a smile. I would not wish the guests to think that a short stroll upon my arm induces a fit of the sullens in a maiden.”

  She abruptly lifted her gaze, her expression troubled. “What if your groom is caught? Or they shoot him, thinking he is my father?”

  He patted her hand in a comforting fashion. “Do not fear. My groom is a man of great resourcefulness. He will not be caught.”

  “I hope you are right,” she muttered as he angled directly for the terrace.

  “Do you not recall?” he teased lightly. “My aunt has already informed you that I am always right. It is my most annoying fault. Now, come, I believe they are playing a waltz.”

  Emma went.

  From the terrace to the ballroom and into his arms.

  She closed her eyes as they twirled across the floor, drinking in the feel and scent of the man who had firmly lodged himself into her heart.

  For the moment her father was forgotten as she attempted to store a lifetime of memories in the one, all too short waltz.

  Fifteen

  Nearly a week later Emma lay upon a brocade-covered sofa with a lavender-scented cloth pressed to her aching forehead.

  She was miserable.

  No, worse than miserable.

  Since the morning after the Valentine ball, when she had begged Lady Hartshore for a coach to take her to Lord Chance’s estate, she had felt as if she were slowly dying. Not even being reunited with her beloved sister, Sarah, nor the warm welcome offered by Lord Chance, had managed to ease the pain tearing at her heart.

  In truth, the constant sight of Sarah and Chance mooning over each other only reminded her of what she had lost.

  It was not that she wasn’t utterly delighted with her sister’s good fortune, she was always swift to reassure herself. Or that she in any way disapproved of Lord Chance. How could she? He was perfect in every way.

  But the sight of them together, holding hands, whispering in each other’s ears, sharing glances that practically set the very air on fire, only underlined her loss.

  Pressing the cloth even tighter, she fought back the urge to cry yet again. Gads, she had cried enough for a lifetime. And what had that achieved beyond a raging headache and running nose?

  She should be concentrating on the future. Making plans for leaving Kent and returning to London. After all, she could not remain with Sarah forever. And since she had refused to take the salary Cedric had sent to Mayford, it was imperative that she find employment as swiftly as possible.

  Unfortunately the mere thought of packing her bags and enduring the tedious carriage ride back to London made her headache worse.

  A faint moan escaped her lips as the door to the dainty parlor was thrown open and Sarah strode firmly across the room to gaze down upon her.

  As always, she appeared annoyingly beautiful in a rose satin gown, her hair artfully arranged, and her blue eyes shining with a deep sense of contentment. Her well-groomed loveliness only managed to make Emma feel sadly bedraggled in her gray gown and her features reddened by bouts of tears.

  “Very affecting, my dear,” her older sister drawled.

  Startled by the strange words, Emma slowly lowered the cloth and met Sarah’s narrowed gaze.

  “Excuse me?”

  The sympathy her sister had displayed since her unexpected arrival on her doorstep was distinctly absent as she studied the reclined form draped upon the sofa.

  “I do not believe even the great Mrs. Siddons could capture the role of the tragic heroine with such dramatic flair.”

  Her headache forgotten Emma abruptly swung her feet to the floor and sat upright.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I am merely expressing my appreciation for your lovely performance over the past week. All those heavy sighs, your refusal to do more than nibble at the chef’s enticing creations, your pale countenance, and those wounded shadows beneath your eyes.”

  Emma could not have been more shocked if Sarah had entered the room and slapped her across the face. She could not imagine what had gotten into her sister.

  “You believe me to be acting?” she demanded in confusion.

  The blue eyes, as brilliant as the sapphire that hung around her neck, briefly darkened, but her expression remained set in lines of determination.

  “No, but I do believe you are indulging in the most annoying bout of self-pity that it has ever been my misfortune to view.”

  Emma clenched her hands as she glared at the woman hovering over her. What had happened to the solicitous sister who had tucked her into bed each evening with a cup of hot chocolate?

  “Perhaps you would prefer that I leave?” Emma retorted in stiff tones.

  Expecting remorse, Emma was dumbfounded when Sarah gave an impatient click of her tongue.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, do not add being a martyr to your repertoire.”

  A surge of anger rushed through Emma at her sister’s tart insult. Good heavens, how had she ever thought this woman the sweetest, kindest person in all of England?

  “Forgive me for being a trifle upset at nearly watching my father being once again hauled to the gallows.”

  “Fah,” Sarah scoffed. “That is not the reason you are moping around like some lost waif.”

  “How could you possibly know?” Emma demanded.

  “Because I have seen that precise expression before.”

  Emma felt a trickle of unease inch down her spine. “Indeed?”

  “Yes. I saw it in the mirror when I convinced myself Chance could not possibly love the daughter of the Devilish Dandy.”

  Emma shakily surged to her feet, unprepared for Sarah’s shrewd perception.

  She had deliberately not revealed her reason for leaving Mayford, instead implying it had been her father’s near capture that had made it impossible for her to remain. She did not want Sarah’s pity for being ridiculous enough to fall in love with a gentleman who deserved so much better than herself.

  “Lord Chance is a very unique gentleman,” she pointed out, well aware that Lord Chance was commonly referred to as the Flawless Earl. The staunch respectability of his family, not to mention himself, would protect them from any vicious gossip. Gads, he could no doubt marry Josephine without raising a brow.

  “Well, I must, of course, agree, but he is not the only gentleman who would be willing to overlook such a connection for a woman he loved.”

  Emma attempted to appear unconcerned. “Perhaps.”

  Sarah was not fooled for a moment. Like a hound who had caught the scent of the fox, she was determined to corner her quarry.

  “Did you not tell me that Lord Hartshore helped to hide Father from the magistrate?”

  “I ... yes.”

  “Odd.” Sarah slowly smiled. “It would have been so much simpler to turn him over to the authorities. Think of the scandal had he been caught.”

  A familiar pain clutched at her heart at the mention of Cedric, and she briefly closed her e
yes.

  “Lord Hartshore pays little heed to the threat of scandal.”

  “He sounds perfect,” Sarah announced in satisfied tones.

  Emma wrenched her eyes open. Lud, could her sister not leave her in peace? She had no desire to dredge through her painful memories.

  “Yes,” she agreed in harsh tones. “He also bears an aunt who speaks with ghosts and her brother, who believes himself to be a pirate, not to mention a cook who tells fortunes. How could I ask him to take a wife who is the daughter of a wanted criminal?”

  Sarah arched her brows. “Surely that is his decision to make?”

  Emma heaved a frustrated sigh, giving a shake of her head. “He would not be sensible.”

  Astonishingly Sarah tilted back her head to give a tinkling laugh. “My dearest Emma, love is not meant to be sensible.”

  “One of us must be,” Emma argued stubbornly.

  Sarah stepped closer, her gaze closely examining the pale lines of her sister’s countenance.

  “You know, I am beginning to believe that you are fooling yourself, Emma.”

  “And what precisely is that supposed to mean?”

  “I think you are afraid.”

  Emma stiffened at the ridiculous accusation. Afraid? Fah.

  “That is absurd.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Sarah insisted, her expression suddenly softening. “Ever since Father’s identity was revealed, you have done your best to fade from the world. First as a governess for the Falwells and then as a companion to Lady Hartshore.”

  “It is hardly shocking that I would wish to avoid any connection to the Devilish Dandy,” she retorted, more than a little offended at being branded a coward.

  Hadn’t she refused any offers of help and supported herself? Hadn’t she saved Lady Hartshore from the fire? Hadn’t she helped her father escape from the magistrate?

  Hardly the actions of a coward.

  Sarah, however, seemed far less convinced of her heroic nature.

  “No, but you have not been hiding from Father, you have been hiding from yourself,” she accused Emma in soft tones. “And you know that to become the Countess of Hartshore means you have to face the world and admit the truth. That you are Emma Cresswell, daughter of the Devilish Dandy.”

  Emma took a step backward, her stomach heaving in an unpleasant fashion.

  “No.”

  “Yes.” Sarah relentlessly refused to be denied her say. “It is difficult, I know. I was terrified at the thought of announcing my engagement. I was accustomed to being with those who already knew who I was and accepted me. Suddenly I had to face Chance’s family, his friends . . . I knew they might very well turn their backs on me.”

  With a small cry Emma abruptly turned around. Was it true? Could she have attempted to hide her own weak fears behind the noble cause of saving Cedric from scandal?

  Her stomach heaved again, and she battled to keep herself from being sick all over the floral carpet.

  She had been so certain she was doing what was best for Cedric. That her flight from Mayford would give him the opportunity to discover a proper maiden to be his wife. One who would bring with her a spotless reputation.

  Now Sarah was ruthlessly forcing her to face the notion that her motives had been utterly selfish.

  The image of Cedric’s dark, handsome countenance rose to her mind. She shuddered at the thought of never seeing him again. Of spending the rest of her life as a dreary servant in some dreary household. Of dreaming night after lonely night of a pair of warm golden eyes and sweet roses.

  “What have I done?” she whispered in a shaky voice.

  Sarah moved to place a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “Nothing that cannot be undone. Go back to Lord Hartshore. Tell him that you love him.”

  This time Emma did not even attempt to deny that the chill that raced through her was anything but pure fear.

  “What if it’s too late? What if he cannot forgive me for running away?”

  “Then you will at least know that you tried,” Sarah told her firmly. “Surely that is better than a lifetime of regret?”

  Emma suddenly wiped away the tears that were freely running down her face.

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  The current Earl of Hartshore was in a foul mood.

  Not an unusual occurrence over the past fortnight.

  Since arriving at Mayford like a lovesick fool, only to discover that his intended had fled at the break of dawn, he had gnashed his teeth and stormed around Hartshore Park like a caged lion.

  Egads, had there ever been a greater simpleton?

  He had thought it was fear that made Emma keep him at a distance. That once he managed to uncover her secrets, she would welcome his love with open arms.

  A humorless smile twisted his lips as he entered the library and headed directly for the decanter of brandy.

  Obviously that had not been the case at all.

  Not only was she not welcoming him with open arms, she had bolted rather than be embarrassed by his intended proposal.

  And to add exquisite insult to injury, she had left behind her rightful salary.

  As if she could not bear to accept a single thing from him.

  He cursed beneath his breath, pouring a healthy measure of brandy and swallowing it in one gulp.

  Reaching to once again fill his glass, his attention was suddenly captured by an ivory sheet of paper propped upon the mantel.

  With a puzzled frown he crossed to pluck the note from its resting place and read the brief words sprawled across the parchment: Meet me in the woods. Five o’clock.

  “What the blazes?” Striding to the corridor, he bellowed for his butler. “Winters.”

  With commendable speed the efficient butler appeared in the doorway, his expression holding a hint of surprise at the imperious summons.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  Cedric held up the mysterious note. “Where did this come from?”

  The butler held his hands up in confusion. “I fear I do not know.”

  Cedric frowned. He had presumed that Winters had placed the note in the library. Certainly none of the other servants would have entered his private sanctuary. Not in his current mood anyway. In the past two weeks they had all made a concerted effort to avoid him.

  So where the devil had it come from?

  For a brief moment he considered consigning the letter to the fire. Certainly no respectable individual would slip into his library and leave such an odd message.

  Then he paused as he realized that it might have been left by a tenant who was too proud to be seen begging on the doorsteps of Hartshore Park.

  If that were the case, then he had to make an appearance.

  Damn. He pulled out his pocket watch to discover it was a quarter to five.

  He would have to hurry if he was to make it on time.

  “Have Greenly saddle Firefly. I shall meet him at the door in ten minutes.”

  “At once, my lord.”

  Going in search of his greatcoat and hat, Cedric paused long enough to slip a loaded pistol into his pocket. He did not believe that anyone would set such a ridiculous plot to harm him, but he was not going to take foolish risks.

  A quarter of an hour later he had entered the center of the woods with no sight yet of the mysterious letter-writer.

  Gads, he sighed in annoyance. Surely he was not on yet another fool’s errand?

  Coming around a bend in the path, Cedric abruptly realized he was at the spot where he had first encountered Emma lodged in the mud. He unconsciously brought Firefly to a halt, a savage pain ripping through his body.

  Even now he had only to close his eyes to smell her scent, to see her ridiculous gray gown and shadowed emerald eyes....

  “Hello, Cedric.”

  He blinked as a vision conjured by his fevered brain stepped from behind a tree. Good Lord, was he becoming unhinged?

  Then a sudden breeze rippled through the opening and the black cape swirled close
to her frame.

  No. No vision, he acknowledged in disbelief, slowly dismounting. It was Emma, standing precisely where he had first seen her.

  “Emma.” He gave a shake of his head, attempting to gather his stunned wits. “You are the one who left the note?”

  She slowly moved forward. “Yes.”

  “What is it? Your father? Has he been captured?”

  “He is well and in London,” she swiftly reassured him.

  His brows drew together as he studied her pale face. He could not deny a fierce flood of pleasure at seeing her. Or the tempting urge to pull her into his arms. It had been far, far too long since he had seen her. But the memory that it had been her own choice to leave Kent brought him up short.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Her tongue peeked out to wet her lips, as if the sight of his set features made her uneasy.

  “You said that you loved me.”

  He flinched at her soft words. “Yes, after which you promptly fled,” he harshly reminded her.

  The emerald eyes seemed to darken. “I was frightened.”

  “Of me?”

  “Never,” she denied, taking another step closer. Close enough that he could smell the warm scent of her skin. He clenched his hands at his sides. “I was afraid of myself.”

  “Why?”

  It took a long while before she met his gaze squarely. “I was in London when my father was arrested and his true identity became known. It was . . . horrid,” she confessed in uneven tones. “I could not walk out the door without my supposed friends turning away in disgust or having their laughter following behind me. I simply wished to disappear.”

  “So you came to Kent,” he finished, battling his instinctive surge of sympathy. On the last occasion his sympathy had led to a battered heart.

  “Yes.”

  “You have not told me why you are here.”

  She lifted her hands in a helpless motion. “Because I love you.”

  He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes narrowing at her unexpected declaration.

  Love?

  Women in love did not bolt in terror rather than accept a gentleman’s proposal.

  “And?”

  She blinked at his clipped tone. “And I wish to be with you.”

  “Rather an abrupt change of heart, isn’t it, my dear?” he forced himself to mutter.