by Mary Nichols
‘Yes, it is.’ His mind was still on Emma and her sudden flight. What had startled her? Had he said something which touched a raw nerve? Was he coming closer to the answer to the puzzle? He did not want to know the answer if it meant he must think less of her. He wanted his illusions to remain intact.
‘The young lady who was here a moment ago, dressed in an Indian sari,’ she said. ‘Who is she?’
‘Miss Emma Woodhill, ma’am, a distant cousin. She is staying with us as my sister’s companion.’
‘Miss Woodhill. I thought…’
‘What did you think?’
‘Oh, no matter. Doubtless I was mistaken. It was the costume, I suppose. I went to India four years ago to visit my son’s grave, he died out there, you know, and…No matter, it was a grieving woman’s fancy, no more. Think nothing of it.’
She departed, leaving him standing with a puzzled frown on his face. When Sophie appeared at his side and reminded him he had promised her the next dance, he excused himself. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie, something’s come up. Bertie will dance with you, he’s kicking his heels by the door. There is something I must attend to.’
He hurried from the room and did not hear the invective she directed after him before she glided over to Bertie. ‘Dominic is the outside of enough, Bertie. He has gone dashing off and left me standing. Do dance this cotillion with me, before everyone starts chewing over it, there’s a dear.’
‘Delighted, my dear Sophie,’ he said, executing a leg.
Dominic could not find Emma in any of the first-floor rooms. He climbed the stairs and made his way towards her bedchamber, determined to stop prevaricating and demand the truth. Mrs Morton had recognised her, he was sure of it.
The door of her room was wide open and she stood just inside with her back to him, staring down at a tigerskin rug which he had never seen before, but which he supposed she had brought with her from India. She did not appear to hear him approach.
’emma.’ Her name again, softly spoken, full of hurt.
She had run to her room, fighting back tears, and been brought to a halt by the sight of that rug. It brought back memories of her dear father, reminded her most forcefully of why she and Teddy had come to England. Dominic’s voice immediately behind her startled her. She whirled round. ‘Oh, it’s you, my lord.’
‘Who else would it be? Unless you expected an admirer.’
‘I did not!’ she cried angrily. ‘How could you think that I would do such a thing…?’
‘Then why did you leave so hurriedly? Are you ill?’
‘No, I am not ill. Please go away.’ She tried to push him out of the room and close the door on him, but he would not be moved. Instead he grasped both her hands in his.
‘Not until you tell me why you fled from the ballroom.’
‘I didn’t flee. I was overcome by the heat, that is all.’
‘Forgive me if I do not believe you. There is something troubling you and I want to know what it is.’
‘Please, my lord…’ She pulled her hands from his and hid them in the folds of the sari. ‘You must go back to your guests.’
‘They won’t miss me. I want to know the reason for your hurried departure. What are you afraid of? Was it Mrs Morton?’
‘Mrs Morton? Who is she?’ She remembered just in time that she was not supposed to know the lady. Why had she not noticed the name when she and Lucy were writing out the invitations? They were doing them the day of Sophie’s arrival and she had left the room before the task was completed—Mrs Morton’s name must have been towards the end of the list. Lucy had finished them herself.
‘The lady who approached us at the end of our dance. She seemed to know you.’
‘She was mistaken. Unless, of course, we have met at a soirée or a tea-party where I have gone with Lucy. I have no recollection of it.’
‘India, she said.’
Emma gave a cracked laugh. ‘Oh, that was the sari, I expect.’
‘Yes, perhaps so,’ he agreed, though he was far from convinced. ‘Then why take flight?’
‘I didn’t take flight, my lord. Why would I? I was tired. I am tired. I want to rest.’ If only he would go away. Sir Walter Scott’s lines came unbidden to her mind: ‘O, what a tangled web we weave. When first we practise to deceive!’ How right he was! She was caught in a web of her own making and the only way out was to compound her sins with more.
‘I have been working you too hard. Oh, how inconsiderate of me!’
‘No, no, it isn’t that.’
‘Then tell me.’ He put his hand on her shoulder and felt her flinch beneath it. Whatever the trouble was, it went a great deal deeper than he had thought, so deep that she was petrified. His annoyance at her reluctance to confide in him turned to sympathy. ‘Don’t be afraid I’ll be angry. I want to help you.’
‘There is nothing wrong,’ she lied. ‘Please go, my lord.’ Once again, she tried to eject him. ‘If anyone should come…’
He knew she was right, but he could not bring himself to leave her. ‘Then come into Lucy’s sitting-room and we’ll talk.’ He grasped her hand very firmly and, brooking no argument, led her along the short stretch of corridor to his sister’s rooms. He kicked the door shut behind them and made her sit on the chaise longue.
’emma, do not be afraid,’ he said, sitting down beside her, holding both her hands, watching her face, the green eyes, softened by weeping, the brilliant tears standing on her lashes, the pallor of her complexion. ‘I would never let anyone or anything hurt you.’
She could stand no more and burst into tears. He took her in his arms and held her. ‘It’s all right, Emma dear, please, don’t cry. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter at all. I can’t bear to see you so unhappy.’
He knew then what he had been too blind to see before, that he loved her. It was a revelation both joyful and exquisitely painful. He forgot Mrs Morton, who had only been invited to the function because she was a close friend of his Aunt Agatha; he forgot that he meant to quiz Captain O’Connor because he had a shrewd idea he was the officer who had stopped the runaway Brutus; he even forgot Sophie, abandoned on the dance floor. He forgot it all in the pleasure of holding a slip of a girl in his arms and trying to comfort her.
‘Can’t you tell me what it is that is troubling you?’ he asked softly. ‘Am I such an ogre?’
‘No, of course not.’ Her tears had subsided and she was making a valiant effort to regain control of her emotions. ‘Why are you being so kind to me?’
‘Why not?’ he queried. ‘You are brave and beautiful and far too independent for your own good. I have the greatest admiration for you. I…’ He stopped suddenly, unable to go on, to say what had been on the tip of his tongue. But he did, didn’t he? He did love her. Oh, what a fool he had been! He was not free to speak of it and they both knew it.
She pulled away and looked at him sharply, her surprise etched on her face and he realised he had almost given himself away. ‘I should never have come here,’ she said.
‘To England? To my house? Or to this room?’
‘None of them. All,’ she said. ‘Oh, you confuse me.’
‘Do I?’ The shock was subsiding a little and he forced himself to speak lightly. ‘Now, I would have said you are not easily confused. Most of the time you carry yourself with great poise.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘When you are not giving a good imitation of a watering-pot, that is.’
‘Oh, you make me angry,’ she said suddenly. ‘Can’t I have a little weep without you making a drama of it? Perhaps I am a little homesick.’
‘Are you? We have tried to make you feel at home, Lucy and I, but I can see that you would sometimes think of what you left behind.’
‘Oh, you have been kindness itself, my lord, but I cannot stay.’
‘Cannot stay? Oh, I am not having that, not without good reason. We are cousins, remember? You are my kin and my responsibility.’
‘But that is not true, you know it is not. I ca
nnot think why you fabricated such a Banbury tale.’
‘Neither can I, except that you are so unsuitable as a companion for Lucy I had to think of something, or be known as a gull-catcher.’ He had smiled a little wearily. ‘The things we do to save our pride!’
That was all it was. Pride. His pride. Hers. She straightened her back. ‘Do you think, if I had any choice at all, I would be here, earning my living as a lady’s maid?’
It was the nearest she had ever come to a confession and his pulse quickened. ‘Not a lady’s maid?’ he queried.
She realised her mistake at once and for a second she was tempted to tell all. How could she? If he had not been engaged to marry her cousin, she might have done. But no one would believe she had not known of the engagement and had insinuated her way into his home with the express purpose of destroying his happiness. ‘No, I meant not in England.’
He felt disappointed, hurt, a little angry. ‘I am sorry you do not care for us,’ he said gruffly.
‘Oh, my lord, naturally I did not mean you or Lucy. I am grateful to you both…’
‘But not grateful enough to confide in us, it seems.’
‘There is nothing to confide.’
‘Very well.’ He sighed heavily. ‘But you must promise me something. Promise me you will not think of leaving until we have talked again. I must satisfy myself you know what you are doing and you have somewhere to go. I can’t turn you out on the streets to fend for yourself, however resourceful you may think you are. Besides, Lucy would never allow it.’ He smiled at her. ‘So do I have your promise?’
He would not leave until she gave it, she knew. And he was right, where would she go? She nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘Good.’ He could see she was near to tears again and he did not want to distress her further, but he would not rest until he had found out what it was she was hiding. There was no thought in his mind of punishing her; he wanted desperately to help her. Impulsively he gave way to temptation and, taking her face in his cupped hands, bent and lightly kissed her lips. ‘Now, we will have no more talk of leaving.’
It took all her self-control not to burst into tears again; the kiss had been so bitter-sweet, so much a taste of what might have been but could never be. She must not cry again. She must not. Instead she gave a cracked laugh. ‘Kissing cousins, my lord?’
Her spirited response surprised him and made him smile. ‘Kissing cousins,’ he agreed. ‘Now, do you wish to return to the ball? I cannot neglect my guests any longer.’
‘No,’ she said. She was exhausted, physically and mentally, by all that had happened and she could not face anyone, not Lucy, Sophie or Mrs Morton. Besides, she knew her eyes were puffy and red from weeping and how could she explain that away to Lucy? ‘I would rather go to bed, if you don’t mind.’
‘Would you like me to send Lucy up to bear you company?’
‘No, you must not drag her away, she is enjoying herself so much and it is her come-out. Please don’t say anything to her.’
‘Very well.’ He stood up and relinquished her hand. ‘I’ll leave you now, but if you ever feel the need for someone to talk to,’ he said, as gently as he could so as not to frighten her, ‘you must come to me. Some burdens are too heavy to be borne by one person and sharing them halves them, you know.’
It was not until the door had closed behind him that she burst into tears again.
Dominic returned to the ballroom, where the music and gaiety were in full swing. The supper dance, which he had undertaken to dance with Sophie, had just begun. He looked about for her and discovered her dancing with Bertie, laughing up into his face, eyes a-sparkle. He wondered whether to go and claim her, but decided against it; she was not above giving him a jobation for neglecting her and she would not care who heard her. He turned in search of Lucy. But she was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Captain O’Connor, whom he had every intention of quizzing about the ride in the park. Did he know Emma’s secret? Did everyone know it except him?
He wandered into the dining-room to make sure everything was ready for his guests for the supper interval. It was quiet in there, and cool. He picked up a pasty and went to the window, biting into it, as he looked out on the garden.
It was raining slightly, pattering on the window and running down the pane. He could see nothing of the garden, no moon, no stars, nothing but his own mirrored image in that ridiculous Indian costume. Emma. Oh, Emma, why have I found you too late?
‘There you are, Dominic. I have been looking for you everywhere.’
Sophie’s shrill voice shattered the soft memory of Emma’s lips on his. He sighed and turned to face her, just as everyone followed her into the room and began piling plates with food, chattering noisily, shattering the quiet of the room.
‘I am sorry, Sophie. I had something to attend to.’
‘I hope it was important. I was never so mortified as when you rushed off and left me standing.’
‘I am sorry, my dear. But I noticed you soon remedied the situation.’
‘Goodness, you are jealous of Bertie!’ She went into peals of laughter.
‘Not at all,’ he said stiffly. ‘I was merely pointing out that you were not alone above a minute and I doubt anyone else noticed, so saying you were mortified, is an exaggeration, surely?’
‘How can you stand there and scold me, when it is I who have been wronged?’
Why had he ever thought he loved her? Beside Emma she was shallow and cruel. ‘I did not mean to scold, my dear, please forgive me.’
‘Yes, but you must be extra attentive for the rest of the evening to make up for your neglect.’
‘Of course, my dear.’ He forced himself to smile and take her arm. ‘Let me help you to some of this chicken in aspic.’
The rest of the evening was a blur of lights, conversation in which he must have taken part, though he did not remember it, forced laughter and dancing. It was four in the morning before he tumbled into bed.
He was tired enough but he could not sleep and spent the hours until dawn going over and over in his mind the conversation he had had with Emma, the words they had said, and more importantly the words left unsaid; the feel of her hands in his; the look in those expressive green eyes, paler when they were filled with tears; the softness of her mouth against his. He must never let it happen again.
He was engaged to Sophie; the wedding was being planned. Her parents approved and had settled a generous dowry on her. Oh, how could he think of weddings and dowries when his happiness, the whole nub of his existence, lay in two small brown hands? It was too late. He was not free and there was an end to it.
He fell asleep as the cock crew and did not stir until midday when his valet brought his shaving water and a pot of coffee. His head was thick, as if he had drunk too much the night before, but as the host he had been particularly abstemious. He rose and went to the window.
The sun was shining and the street was busy with traffic and street vendors, calling their wares. The chestnut trees in the garden were just beginning to come into bud. In a week they would be in full flower, filling the air with heady scent. He had to pull himself together and go on with his life as if nothing momentous had happened. But it had. Oh, it most certainly had!
Chapter Six
Although Lucy behaved towards her exactly the same as she always had, Emma found she was excluded more and more from the outings and entertainments the young lady attended. It was explained to her that as Dominic and Sophie were almost always present at the same functions, they were able to act as chaperons. Emma’s services were only required to help Lucy dress and when she was going out alone, and that meant daytime calls on her friends, visits to the library and milliners, and an occasional hack in the park with Martin in attendance and both girls riding side saddle, which Emma found decidedly uncomfortable.
In some ways she was glad of the curtailment of her duties because being in the same room as Dominic was torture to her. Every look, every smile, turned her heart over;
every touch, however accidental, set her limbs on fire. She felt naked, her every nerve end exposed for all to see.
But no one behaved any differently towards her, no one accused her. And Dominic himself, on the rare occasions when she saw him, was as considerate as always, apparently oblivious of the tumult which heaved and rolled inside her. He must never know; she must concentrate on her duties, on being a friend and companion to Lucy and stamp out all errant thoughts.
It was very difficult, almost impossible. Seeing him with Sophie hanging on his arm, made her throat constrict so that she found breathing difficult and ordinary conversation impossible. Adding to her misery was the thought that Sophie had everything, a place in society, great wealth and, most of all, Dominic’s devotion.
If her father had not been banished, he would have been his brother’s heir, and it followed that, as the present Viscount had no sons, Teddy would become the next Viscount Mountforest. Instead of inheriting the Mountforest fortune, Sophie would have been dependent on Teddy’s generosity. The thought made her smile to herself, but the smile was short-lived.
Teddy would soon work things out for himself, if he had not already done so, and he might be foolish enough to make his claim public. After all, they had come to England to clear their father’s name. To do that, they had to declare themselves and have their true identity accepted. Not only that, they must find proof in the shape of witnesses to what had really happened all those years ago and ones who were prepared to speak up.
Teddy would take great pleasure in doing that, as she would have done a few months before, but now the thought of what it would do to Dominic filled her with alarm. She was not such a ninny as to be unaware that he needed Sophie’s dowry; Emma had heard her making plans for the refurbishment of both his town house and his country mansion.
Sophie would fight tooth and nail to keep what she had and she would be aided and abetted by her fiancé. Dominic, whom Emma loved with an intensity which was almost a physical thing—manifested in shaking limbs, a wildly beating heart and a tendency to jump out of her skin whenever he addressed her—would come to hate her.
