The moon went behind a cloud. Emma sank down on to the old stone seat and closed her eyes. She could still see the magic garden in her mind. She knew she was dreaming, but she was unable to break the powerful spell that seemed to have wound itself around her. It was so enticing. She would let it carry her away, for a little while. She put her hand on the cool stone, stroking languidly, wondering what it would be like to stroke a man's taut body, to feel his skin under her fingers—
A strong hand covered hers. She opened wide, unseeing eyes. In barely a heartbeat, she was pulled gently to her feet and into powerful arms. She knew that Hugo had answered her unspoken summons and come to claim her. And now he was going to kiss her, to reawaken those wonderful feelings that had been haunting her, it seemed, for ever.
Shafts of pain were stabbing through Hugo's body but he could not close his eyes against the sight. The woman he loved was melting into the arms of his rake of a brother. By God, Kit had excelled himself this time. One day the pair were almost at outs, the next they were kissing like some latter-day Romeo and Juliet. Well, Kit Stratton was no Romeo, faithful unto death. Don Juan, more like. She would find that out soon enough. And it would be a fitting reward.
Hugo allowed his fury to overpower him, obscuring the pain. He looked round, vainly, for an escape route from his dark corner. There was only one entrance to this tiny garden. He would be seen. He closed his eyes deliberately then, dwelling on the picture they made, trying to fuel his anger yet more. Not only had she come to an assignation with his brother, she had even arranged matters so that he was forced to provide an audience for her wanton conduct. Damn her, she was—
The stillness was rent by a woman's scream.
"Mr Stratton! Miss Fitzwilliam!" The high-pitched outrage came from a slight figure in white muslin who stood, transfixed, between the dark hedges flanking the entrance to the secret garden. "Oh, how could you?" The figure turned and fled in the direction of the house.
Kit and Emma had sprung apart at the sound, but there would now be no hiding their guilt at being so discovered. For a second, Hugo felt intense pleasure at the thought of their fate, especially when he detected a hint of self-satisfaction on his brother's insufferably handsome face. They would be well served, the pair of them.
But the look on Emma's face banished all trace of malice from his mind.
She was stricken. She was looking at Kit Stratton as if she had never laid eyes on him before.
She took several steps back from him, like someone retreating from a horrifying apparition. Her hands had gone to her flaming cheeks. Her eyes were wide, fearful, and very dark in the strange half-light.
"Mr Stratton." Her voice was a low, intense whisper, throbbing with suppressed emotion. "Oh, how could you?" she said, echoing that earlier heartfelt cry. "I thought, I thought I was— Oh, dear God, what made you follow me here?" She turned from him to lean her forehead against the rose arch. Her shoulders were shaking.
Kit made to comfort her but she thrust him away. "Stay away from me," she hissed, turning back to face him like a spitting snake. "How dare you touch me? Would you do me even more harm? You have ruined me. Let that be enough for you."
Kit stood motionless, undecided. Guilt was beginning to show on his features now—at last—but overlaid with a degree of confusion. "Miss Fitzwilliam, I—"
Emma cut him short. "There is nothing you can say to me now. Please leave." As he hesitated, she drew herself up to her full height, in the proud posture of the garden's marble patroness, and cried, "For God's sake, go!"
Kit swallowed hard, bowed with considerably less than his usual elegance, and quit the field, totally vanquished.
Emma stood motionless until his figure was completely hidden from view. Then she crumpled, sobbing, on to the cold stone bench.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was suddenly very cold. Emma wrapped her arms around her bare shoulders, trying to stop the shivering that had taken control of her body. Tears were running down her cheeks, though much more slowly now. She made no attempt to brush them away. She berated herself with the thought that, if someone should come to find her, she would present the proper picture of abject misery, entirely as expected for a lady whose reputation had been ruined.
How had it happened? And with Kit Stratton, of all people?
Emma did not know. It was something to do with the silence of the moonlit night, the hypnotic scent of the flowers in the magic garden and her own folly in allowing herself to dream of Hugo Stratton. The arms that had enfolded her had been Hugo's. She had looked up into Hugo's grey eyes, warm with love. And Hugo had kissed her.
But it had not been Hugo, none of it. Surrounded by childish fantasies of her own weaving, she had persuaded herself that she was melting into Hugo's arms, but no amount of dreaming could turn Kit's kiss into Hugo's. Kit's was a practised, seductive kiss. But it was empty, nonetheless. And then that benighted child had appeared among the yews, screeching like a demented harpy, before Emma had had time to tear herself away from the wrong brother. She could never face either of them again.
"Miss Fitzwilliam. Emma. May I do something for you? Some water, perhaps?"
Hugo Stratton was standing before her, like some dread apparition come to haunt her. Where had he appeared from? Surely no one had come through the gap in the hedge? Dear God, he must have been there all the time. He must have seen—
Emma's tears stopped abruptly, overtaken by a surge of scorching anger that threatened to deprive her of speech. Blazing with fury, she stared up at her tormentor. How dared he look pityingly on her plight, when he was responsible for it? For all of it. Not only had he beguiled her heart, he had sat by, savouring her downfall, as she took the fateful step that would ruin her life. Hugo Stratton was utterly hateful.
"How dare you address me, sir, when you have behaved in such a dishonourable manner? You are not worthy of the rank you bear. And as for your brother—" Emma shook her head in disgust. She could find no words terrible enough to describe Kit Stratton. "You will have the goodness to leave this place, Major Stratton." With those cold words, bitterly spoken, Emma turned her back on Hugo Stratton and every vestige of love she had ever felt for him.
"Emma? Emma, where are you?"
It was Aunt Augusta's voice. Emma rose a little shakily to her feet and swallowed hard. She had hoped for more time. At least her tears had long since dried. No one, not even Aunt Augusta, should see how weak she had been.
"Emma, child, you are frozen." Aunt Augusta tenderly placed a warm shawl round Emma's shoulders and then pulled her niece into a quick hug. She had never done such a thing before.
"That woman," she began, with venom, "that woman has absolutely no breeding. And as for her daughter—"
Emma put her hand on her aunt's arm. "Tell me what happened, dear Aunt. I must know what they are saying of me before I return to the house."
"Yes, of course. Yes, indeed." Aunt Augusta looked flustered, and more than a little embarrassed. It took her some time to marshal her words. "Miss Mayhew came running back into the drawing room and promptly had a fit of the vapours. As far as anyone could make out, she had come upon you and Mr Stratton alone in the garden, and had seen that he was behaving in a libertine fashion. And that you were doing nothing to deter him. Oh, I did my best to throw cold water on her story. After all, she is barely out of the schoolroom. How could she know what she saw? And, in any case, what was she doing alone in the garden at that time of night?
"Unfortunately, everyone in the room had already put the worst possible complexion on her hysterical outburst before I could say a word. If only the dowager had been there." Aunt Augusta sighed. "There was only myself. And Mrs Mayhew, who immediately took it upon herself to pronounce you—" She stopped abruptly.
Even in the half-light in the garden, Emma could see that her aunt was mortified by this part of her tale. "What did she say of me, Aunt?" she said quietly.
"Her words do not matter. And I would not repeat them. But, my dear, she
took great delight in saying that you were ruined. And that her daughter, and the other three young ladies, would leave first thing in the morning, lest they be corrupted by further contact with the Fitzwilliam household."
It was even worse than Emma had feared. Within twenty-four hours, the story would be repeated all over London. No member of society would even acknowledge her in future. She was indeed ruined. And it could all be laid at Hugo Stratton's door. Hateful, hateful man.
Only one thing could make matters worse. "Is Papa very angry?" Emma said in a small voice.
"Yes. I doubt even you can sway him this time, Emma. It matters not what you did, only what the world will say of you. Your father feels it very much. He is in the library." Aunt Augusta took a deep breath. "And Mr Stratton is with him there."
"Mr Stratton? Mr Kit Stratton?" At her aunt's nod, Emma turned quickly away in an attempt to conceal the horror that must be written on her face. If Kit had been summoned to the library, it could mean only that her father was demanding he marry her to save her reputation. Kit would never agree, surely? Would he not laugh it off as another of his many indiscretions? His reputation would not really be damaged by the tale. He would probably continue to be received by the ton as if nothing had happened.
But what if he did agree? What if her father presented Kit Stratton to her as a future husband? What would she do? She did not love him. She could not begin to trust him. He would be unfaithful, she was certain. He would take her dowry to fund his gambling. And, once forced into an unwelcome marriage, there was not the slightest reason why he should show her even a modicum of kindness.
Such a future would be bleak indeed. But could she endure the alternative?
Hugo was standing by his bedroom window, fully dressed and staring out at the night sky, when Kit finally made his appearance.
Hugo cast a quick look round at his loose fish of a brother and then went back to gazing out at the stars. Kit's reflection was all too clear—he looked like a man who had had a very bad night at the gaming tables, or with the bottle, or both.
Kit threw himself down into a chair by the empty grate and sank his chin on to his chest. After several moments, he broke the heavy silence. "Nothing to say to me, then, brother?"
Hugo shook his head. "I am sure Sir Edward has said all that needs to be said." He had his temper well in hand, he was almost sure, but it would be best if he said as little as possible. Emma had been a fool. And Kit even more so. Kit must never find out what Hugo had seen, or how he felt about Emma Fitzwilliam. That knowledge could only make matters even worse.
Kit jumped to his feet again and started to pace. "You are right there, brother," he said angrily. "Oh, how very right. Sir Edward laid all my iniquities before me in the starkest possible terms. How I had taken advantage of an innocent young lady when I was a guest in her father's house. How I had ruined her before the world. And precisely what he thought of my morals." He laughed harshly. "I will not bother you with a recital of that, Hugo. Your imagination can furnish all the necessary details, I am sure. However—" He laughed again.
Hugo shuddered. The devil himself might be in his brother at that moment. He sounded half-mad.
"However," Kit continued with heavy sarcasm, "the abject state of my morals does not prevent my being a fit husband for his only daughter. And the sooner the better. The announcement of our impending nuptials will be sent to the Gazette in the morning. I was only surprised that he didn't roust out the stables to send a messenger on the spot."
Hugo said nothing. He could not. He half turned from the window but could not bring himself to look his brother in the face. Kit was going to marry Emma. And Kit did not love her in the least. He would make her the worst possible husband. Having been forced into marriage, he could well come to hate his wife, and blame her for what had happened to him. The best she could hope for would be indifference, but Hugo did not expect that of Kit. Not at twenty-two, when he had thought he had years of single self-indulgence in front of him. No, Emma's marriage to Kit could well become a life-long penance.
Kit stopped pacing and stared into the grate for a while. Keeping his back to Hugo, he said, "You're very quiet, brother. I'm surprised you don't want to know how it came to this pass."
"Mmm?" Hugo hoped he sounded encouraging. It was the best he could do.
Still without turning round, Kit said in a flat, puzzled voice, "I had gone out into the garden for a smoke. Billiards was downright boring in any case, with Frobisher prosing on all the time. Saw Miss Fitzwilliam, Emma now, I suppose, going into one of the gardens. She— You won't have noticed, Hugo, but this place is full of strange little gardens surrounded by high hedges. Absolutely perfect for a spot of love-making." Kit gave a snort of anger, or perhaps it was disgust. Hugo could not be sure. He forced himself to remain silent.
"Shouldn't have followed her, I know that now, but I was intrigued. Couldn't believe such a pattern-card of respectability would dream of making an assignation with one of the guests. But she must have done—"
Hugo clenched his jaw to stop the cry of "liar" that rose to his lips. He had seen her with his own eyes. She had been revelling in the beauty of the garden, nothing more. She would never have consented to the kind of clandestine meeting that Kit had in mind.
"She must have done," Kit said again. "She was sitting alone in that garden, I admit, but her face was such a picture of desire. God knows she's beautiful, but when her face is lit up with passion, she's the most perfect woman I've ever seen." There was something approaching awe in his voice. "Whoever she was waiting for, he's a lucky man to inspire such devotion."
Kit swung round suddenly to face the window. Hugo was grateful that his own face was in shadow. Kit's face, dimly reflected in the window pane, was a picture of torment, but Hugo was pretty sure that his own would be worse. The vision of Emma in the grip of passion…
Kit laughed, a hollow, hate-filled laugh. "I should say, rather, that he is not a lucky man. For he will not have her now, whoever he is. And if I ever find him out, I'll kill him with my bare hands. He is the cause of all this! She thought I was her lover, and the moment I touched her, she pretty well threw herself into my arms."
That was nothing like the scene Hugo had witnessed. He had seen something a great deal more like seduction on Kit's part. Emma had not—
Hugo took a deep breath and tried to bring his rational mind into play. He must try to see things from Kit's point of view, or they would probably come to blows. On the other hand…
He looked towards his brother. "Really?" he said.
Kit had the grace to look a little shamefaced. "Well, perhaps not exactly. The truth is, I don't know what happened. One moment I was standing over her, and the next she was in my arms and I was kissing her. I couldn't help it, Hugo." He sounded positively bewildered now. "I didn't intend it to happen. On my oath, I didn't.
"And then that poisonous little Mayhew toad appeared, screeching like the devil himself had her by the tail. Must have seen me go into the garden and followed me." At Hugo's start of surprise, he said venomously, "She's been trailing after me like a puppy ever since we arrived. God, I wish I'd kicked her away when I had the chance, but you and John had me too well trained. 'Young ladies just out of the schoolroom have to be treated gently,' you said. 'They may appear gauche and stupid, but if they are treated with kindness, they will learn,' you said."
"Kit—"
"I'm sorry, Hugo. That was unfair." He ran his hands through his hair which was already considerably dishevelled. "I've made my own bed, and I must lie on it. God, what a coil! I never dreamed I'd be leg-shackled like this."
Hugo found that he was beginning to feel sorry for Kit, in spite of what he had done to Emma. Brotherly feeling must have something to do with it, but still, very strange.
"If only she'd refuse me," Kit said despairingly, "but she won't. Her father will see to that. He's even insisting on a special licence. God, what a coil!"
"You said that before," said Hugo, not
quite managing to conceal his simmering anger. "I take it the announcement will be made in the morning?"
"Yes," said Kit, "before the Mayhew party leaves. Sir Edward intends to warn Mrs Mayhew against spreading malicious rumours, since his daughter's engagement is on the point of being announced. He'll take satisfaction in telling her that, I'm sure."
"True," said Hugo quietly, "but he can derive precious little satisfaction from any other aspect of this affair."
"I have already apologised to him," Kit replied with dignity, "and I will apologise to Emma, too, as soon as I have the chance. I will do my best to make her a good husband, I promise you that."
"I think you should make that promise to Emma, rather than to me. Have you spoken to her?
"No, not yet. I will, though. Soon. Tomorrow, I suppose. Oh, if only Sir Edward were not intent on having us riveted so quickly. We could be engaged, all right and tight, and then, in a few months, when all the gossip had been forgotten, Emma could announce that she had decided we would not suit. And then we should both be free."
Kit's words took Hugo by surprise for a moment. Kit was right, of course. In his aimless ramblings, he had lit on the only solution to save Emma from a disastrous marriage. But someone would need to persuade Sir Edward. And Emma herself.
Hugo took a step into the middle of the room and looked squarely at his brother. "If you wish it, Kit, I will put your suggestion to Sir Edward. Now."
"Hugo—" A glimmer of hope flared and then faded from Kit's eyes. "No, it would never work. The old man is too furious to listen to you or anyone else. He's made up his mind to a wedding next week."
Hugo took a deep breath. "If Sir Edward is as determined as you say, then only one person can move him. I will put your plan to Emma herself."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Emma reached up impatiently to rip back the bed-curtain and let in the early morning light. She had had very little sleep, and she knew she must look hogged. The new day had changed nothing. She was still betrothed to Kit Stratton. She lay back on her pillows and stared up at the canopy. God, what a coil!
Marrying the Major: Passion and peril in Regency London (Unsuitable Matches) Page 10
