A Summons From Yorkshire (Regency Christmas Summons Collection 1)

by Johnstone, Julie

  “Ah, yes, that’s clear as mud.”

  “Never mind,” Heath grumbled. “Just forget I said anything.”

  “As you wish. If you decide you want my help after all, you only have to say the word.”

  ~*~

  Emma collapsed across her bed. She was the biggest fool ever to take in a breath of air. She still couldn’t believe he was betrothed. Betrothed! She groaned and her heart ached at the thought. Why hadn’t her blasted brother ever said anything? Probably because she never revealed to Drew how desperately in love she was with Heathfield. Still, one would have thought the topic would have come up at some point over the years.

  And now…now she was stuck with Lord Heathfield in the same castle for the next fortnight. Drew would return home, and he’d be surprised to find his friends at the castle. And then it would all come out. That he hadn’t written the letter. That she didn’t have a fiancé. That she was the biggest fool to have ever been born. Emma groaned again.

  Blast it all! Her plan had been so simple. Heathfield should have arrived at Danby Castle, taken one look at her, and fallen just as deeply in love with her as she had always been with him. Then by the time Drew arrived, nothing else would have mattered. Lord Heathfield wasn’t supposed to have brought Mr. Lockwell with him. And he wasn’t supposed to be betrothed. Nothing had gone as planned.

  Heavens, how was she to even show her face the rest of the time Heathfield and Mr. Lockwell were here? Well, she just couldn’t. Perhaps she could feign an illness, curl up in a ball and stay abed through the holidays. She could bat her eyes at Dr. Willis and beg him to keep her secret. Then after Lord Heathfield left for London, Emma could make a miraculous recovery and…

  Her door was tossed open, and before Emma could even tell the interloper to go away, Isabel plopped onto Emma’s bed beside her. “Let me guess, he didn’t drop at your feet and beg you to marry him.”

  “Much worse.” An anguished moan escaped Emma and she covered her head with a pillow.

  Isabel snatched the pillow away and peered down at Emma. “You do realize you’re being a baby.”

  Emma pouted in response. She just couldn’t help it. “He’s betrothed, Izzy. He has been betrothed practically his whole life.”

  “Just blurted that out, did he?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Emma complained, reaching for the pillow once more, but Isabel lifted it above her head. “Give me back my pillow.”

  “So you can mope the rest of the night?” Isabel shook her head. “It’s nearly time for dinner anyway.”

  A distressed squeak escaped Emma. “I can’t go to dinner. Make an excuse for me.”

  “An excuse?” Isabel’s brow lifted in surprise.

  “Say I’ve come down with something. Say I’ve got a fever. Or better yet, just say I’ve died.” She felt like she might die anyway, so it didn’t seem like that big a stretch.

  Isabel scoffed. “I will not say you’ve died. Either come down with me for dinner, or mother will come for you herself. You know she will.”

  “You are the worst sister ever.” Emma scowled.

  Isabel shrugged. “No, I’m the worst hostess ever. That irritating Clara Mason and her brother are dining with us tonight. Please don’t make me entertain those people. They’re your friends.”

  Emma wouldn’t say they were friends exactly—neighbors more than anything else. Still, Emma couldn’t abandon the Masons at dinner. Clara was friendly for the most part and her brother, Sir Thomas, was the local magistrate. It would be quite ill-mannered to stay abed. No, she had to go down to dinner. She’d have to feign an illness or her death tomorrow.

  ~ 5 ~

  Heath had the overwhelming desire to send Sir Thomas Mason crashing right through one of Danby’s highest windows. He’d never seen such a disgustingly ardent display of adoration in his life, and certainly not over dinner. The young magistrate might as well have dropped to his knees before all and sundry to pledge his utter and complete devotion to Emma Whitton. He’d gushed over her gown, her wit, and some needlepoint she’d sent his aunt.

  Purely nauseating.

  Even worse, Emma seemed only to have eyes for Mason over dinner.

  It didn’t help that the damned magistrate had inexplicably ended up beside Emma at the dining table while Heath had been placed between the Marchioness of Norland and the ancient Aunt Somebody further down the table, too far away to overhear most of Emma’s and Mason’s hushed conversation. Emma didn’t once—not once—look in Heath’s direction. The fictional Balthasar Blommen would have been green with envy over the display.

  When it was time for the gentlemen to enjoy their port, Heath quietly excused himself from the other men and followed the ladies from the dining hall. Emma’s arm was linked with Miss Mason’s, their heads tilted together as though they were the closest of confidants.

  He quickened his pace to reach the pair and his heart lifted a bit when Emma cocked her head to the side, looking at him for the first time that evening. Then she nearly stumbled, but Heath caught her elbow to keep her upright. “My lady, are you all right?”

  She glanced anxiously back over her shoulder. “Why aren’t you with the other gentlemen?”

  Because if he had to sit in the dining hall with that damned magistrate one more moment, Heath might be forced to break the man’s skull. “I was hoping for a word.”

  “That’s highly improper,” Miss Mason said with a scowl.

  The enterprising chit could go hang right alongside her brother for all Heath cared. He ignored Miss Mason altogether and leveled his gaze on Emma, imploring her to see him. “Just for a moment, my lady.”

  Emma took a steadying breath, but finally agreed with the nod of her head. “I’ll join the rest of you momentarily, Clara,” she muttered to her companion.

  Heath didn’t give Emma a chance to change her mind and towed her towards the closest salon, away from the prying ears and eyes of Miss Mason. Then he closed the door behind them and leaned against it.

  Emma gasped. “Are you trying to ruin my reputation, my lord?” And though fire burned in her hazel eyes, at least she was looking at him.

  “What’s all that about?” Heath gestured to the corridor with a flick of his head.

  “What’s all what about?”

  “Mason and his sycophantic sister.”

  “I have no idea what you could possibly mean.” She shook her head as though he was mad. She might even be right about that, but Heath had no intention of conceding so easily.

  “Tell me, what would your Mr. Blommen think if he saw the way Mason pays court to you?”

  Her mouth fell open and her cheeks flushed pink, whether from shock or anger he couldn’t quite tell. “I-I,” she stammered. Then she straightened her back and stood her tallest. “Sir Thomas was hardly paying me court. Besides, Mr. Blommen is not the jealous sort. Is that all you wanted to speak with me about? If so, I should get back to my guests.”

  “Not the jealous sort, hmm?” Ha! Mr. Blommen was whomever she decided at any given moment. Heath stalked towards Emma, and she backed up a few steps until she bumped into a brocade chair that blocked her escape. He quickly closed the distance between them and tipped her chin up with a crooked finger until she met his eyes. “He wouldn’t be jealous if he saw me standing this close to you?”

  “You should back away,” she replied quietly.

  “Or risk being called out by Blommen?”

  “He’s much too refined for that.” She swallowed nervously. The muscles in her slender neck made more than one erotic image pop into Heath’s mind. What he wouldn’t do to experience that fantasy. “Mr. Blommen would never do such a thing,” she continued imperiously.

  “Then he’s a fool.” Heath dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers. Emma’s sweet honeysuckle scent enveloped his senses, and Heath slid his arms around her waist, needing her closer, needing her lithe body pressed against his.

  She shivered in his arms and he smiled against her mouth in
victory. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. He could feel it in the way she clutched his jacket and sighed against him. Heath nibbled on her bottom lip, urging her to open for him. When she finally did, he slowly introduced his tongue to the haven that was her mouth.

  Dear God, she tasted better than she smelled, and Heath needed more of her. Emma moaned when she tentatively touched her tongue to his, making his cock strain against his trousers. Emma Whitton had turned him into a lust-crazed libertine.

  Heath squeezed her rounded bottom and drew her closer to his hard length, needing to feel every part of her. “Ah, sunshine,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”

  Her hazel eyes opened when he spoke, and Emma took a staggering step backwards until she bumped, once again, into the brocade chair behind her.

  ~*~

  Emma stared at Lord Heathfield in alarm. Heavens, what had he done? What had she done? He was betrothed. He had a fiancée, for pity’s sake. And, and…she touched a hand to her well-kissed lips and let out a horrified squeak. “Don’t come near me.”

  If he did she’d only kiss him again, and she just couldn’t do that to his fiancée, or to herself. She’d never forget the last kiss, as it was. And…

  “Emma,” he began, confusion flashing in his eyes.

  But she didn’t give him time to use his charming tongue to say anything else as she darted past him, threw open the parlor door, and raced through the castle back to her chambers as fast as her legs would carry her.

  Thank heavens she hadn’t encountered Grandpapa along the way. If he’d chastised her for running in the corridors, she would have dissolved into a puddle of tears right then and there. That would never do.

  Emma wanted to collapse on her bed and cry her eyes out, but she didn’t deserve to feel sorry for herself. She was a terrible person. She had kissed—kissed—another woman’s fiancé. It didn’t matter that she’d loved Lord Heathfield since she was in leading strings. He wasn’t hers and would never be hers. It was a terrible, awful thing to do. And she’d done it. And she’d never forgive herself for doing so.

  She paced the floor, berating herself, wishing she could remove the memory of Heathfield’s kiss from her mind. But she couldn’t. She’d never been kissed before. A few gentlemen had tried, of course, but she’d always managed to put them off. She’d never wanted to kiss anyone except for Lord Heathfield.

  And now that she had… Her heart still quickened at the memory. The way his strong arms felt around her, his wine-scented breath across her lips, the toe-curling, mind-numbing, soul-searing kiss he’d given her.

  She stopped mid-step as an idea struck her. The answer was right in front of her, though she would have never considered it before now. But was there any other way? She didn’t think so. And it might not be so bad. In fact, it could be just the thing to erase the memory of Lord Heathfield’s kiss from her mind forever.

  She’d have to kiss someone else. After all, if kisses were so powerful, a kiss from another man—one without a fiancé, preferably—would be the very best antidote.

  Mr. Lockwell looked as though he would be interesting to kiss, but he probably wasn’t the best candidate, as he was a friend of Lord Heathfield’s… And of Drew’s. Heaven help her if her brother learned he had a wanton for a sister who went about kissing all of his friends. No, not Mr. Lockwell.

  But perhaps Sir Thomas.

  Lord Heathfield thought Sir Thomas was paying her court. Perhaps he was correct. If so, it shouldn’t be too difficult to get Sir Thomas to kiss her, would it? Hopefully not.

  Emma rushed across the room to look into her beveled mirror, glancing at her appearance. Thank heavens she hadn’t allowed herself to cry, or her cheeks would be red and puffy. Sir Thomas wouldn’t kiss a girl with red, puffy cheeks, would he?

  She smoothed a hand over her hair and was surprised at how presentable she actually appeared. “One kiss,” she said aloud. “Just one.” One kiss from Sir Thomas to erase the memory of Lord Heathfield’s kiss. And the sooner the better. After all, she might never get rid of the memory if she let it linger in her mind too long. And then where would she be? Rotting into her old age, pining for a man who belonged to another. That couldn’t be her future. It just couldn’t.

  No, Sir Thomas it would have to be. And tonight, if at all possible.

  ~ 6 ~

  Dazed, Heath stood in the parlor, not quite sure how long he’d even remained rooted to the floor after Emma’s hasty departure. What the devil had happened to make her bolt from him? Their kiss had been nothing short of amazing. It was the most intense kiss he’d ever shared.

  In fact, his ardor was still on display. He certainly couldn’t join the others in his current state. But even if he could, he wasn’t at all in the right frame of mind to be social. He could barely put two thoughts together. He’d sound like a stuttering oaf if he was forced to entertain.

  An irritated snort from the threshold caught his attention and Heath turned his head to face the interloper. His eyes rounded in surprise when he discovered the Duke of Danby scowling at him. What was left of Heath’s ardor vanished in an instant.

  The old man snorted. “You are an idiot.”

  Heath wasn’t certain how to even respond to that. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Didn’t think I’d notice that you made calf-eyes at my granddaughter all through dinner, did you?”

  “I-I did?” he stammered.

  “You looked like a deranged dolt.”

  How very complimentary. He was an idiot who looked like a deranged dolt. Was it any wonder Drew had abandoned England for France even with a war going on? “I will take that under advisement, Your Grace.”

  Danby’s eyes narrowed on Heath. “You should take something else under advisement as well, Heathfield.”

  “Indeed?”

  “If you are chasing Emma’s skirts, which I can only assume you are considering you never took your eyes off her, you should know that if you make any sort of improper advances I’ll stick your head on a pike outside my castle.”

  Well, that was a far from a pleasant thought and more than a bit medieval. “And if my intentions are honorable?” Heath wasn’t even certain where that comment came from, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he knew they were true. Something about Emma called to him, like a flower seeks the sunlight. She was enchanting and beguiling. Deep down, he sensed she could fill the emptiness in his heart to overflowing. And if the heat of their kiss was any indication of how they would get on together… Well, he would gladly wake every morning the rest of his life to see what sort of mischief she was up to, and he’d happily join right along.

  “If your intentions are honorable—” Danby sighed— “then I would say you should make your way to the drawing room before that featherbrained Mason steals her out from under your nose.”

  Heath’s heart clenched. That damned magistrate. He truly would toss the man from Danby’s tallest turret if it came to that. He hadn’t even known he was missing anything in his life, hadn’t realized how empty his heart was, until Emma had summoned him to the castle. And now that he did know, he wasn’t about to lose her to an imaginary fiancé or some self-important magistrate. “Thank you for the advice, Your Grace. I believe I will do that very thing.”

  The duke actually smirked and a twinkle lit his dark eyes. “I usually frown on people running in my corridors, but in your case, you really should hurry along, Heathfield.”

  Thank heavens Heath still remembered the layout of the castle from his earlier years spent with the Whittons. He dashed down one corridor and rounded a corner until he came upon the duke’s formal drawing room. But he was too late.

  He scanned the small crowd, only to discover Emma was not amongst their numbers. And neither was Sir Thomas Mason. Where the devil were they?

  “Ah, Heathfield!” boomed Lord Norland. “We thought you must have gotten lost.”

  Heath feigned a smile for the marquess’s benefit. “Just got distracted, sir.” He glanced a
round the room once more, making certain he hadn’t missed Emma somewhere, even though that would be impossible with the way his eyes always found her. “I, uh, was hoping to have a word with Lady Emma.”

  Across the room, Miss Mason snorted.

  “Sir Thomas offered to escort her to the portrait gallery just a moment ago,” Norland replied.

  Had he, indeed? And Norland had just let his daughter stroll away with that damned magistrate? Heath couldn’t prevent his hand from curling into a fist.

  “But I’m certain she’ll be back soon,” the marquess continued.

  “Yes.” Damien clapped a hand on Heath’s back. “Lady Norland insisted she accompany them as well.” A look of warning flashed in his friend’s eye, to which Heath could only interpret as ‘Unclench your hand and don’t smash your fist into Norland’s face. Are you a bloody idiot?’

  Damn it all, he was a bloody idiot. Hadn’t Danby just told him so? Heath cleared his throat. “I see. Perhaps I’ll just find their little party then.”

  “Is something wrong?” Norland asked, his brow furrowed as he stepped closer to Heath and Damien.

  “Of course not.” Heath tried his hardest to sound nonchalant. “I simply remembered something Drew penned in his letter that he wanted me to relay to Lady Emma. How poor of me to have forgotten.”

  On the settee, Lady Isabel nearly choked. Heath’s gaze shot to Emma’s twin. Ah, so she knew the letter was a fake too, did she? He dared her to call him a liar, as doing so would reveal whatever ruse the two of them had concocted.

  “Isabel, are you all right?” her father asked.

  The lady nodded quickly. “Just surprised Drew would send a message to Emma in such a circuitous fashion.” Her brown eyes shifted to Heath. “I’m certain she’d love to know whatever message our dear brother sends. Do you know where the gallery is, my lord?”

  “Indeed, I do.” Heath started for the threshold without another look back.