The Trouble with Love (Distinguished Rogues Book 8)

by Heather Boyd

  “Out of duty,” she complained.

  “Out of love,” he promised, knowing now that it was true. Despite Taverham’s anger at Miranda’s disappearance, his friend had always loved his wife. He’d been faithful and had always hoped for her return, he’d said.

  She waved her hand. “What do men know of love?”

  Emily suddenly turned her face away and gave in to another wretched bout of coughing. His sides ached at the tearing sound before she was halfway done. When she finally recovered her composure, she fell back against her pillows, gasping raggedly, her handkerchief wadded up in her hand. “Continue,” she croaked.

  He dealt her a new hand of cards, but had to wonder if they shouldn’t stop altogether for the day.

  “I know love when I see it,” he promised. “Our parents were in love when they wed, and all through the years of their marriage, too.”

  Of late, so many of his acquaintances had found love, which made him wonder about his future.

  Could he feel it for Alice? A woman he’d given his word to marry? A pretty young woman he knew so little of even now. He shuffled his cards, wondering if he could ever know anyone well enough to love them as his parents had each other. He hoped to love Alice one day. But his preoccupation with Whitney Crewe—what she was doing, what she would say next—were a constant reminder that he was torn.

  It was ridiculous that he looked forward to Whitney’s company more than he did Alice’s. He liked Whitney more and more each time their paths crossed, and he did not mind that she put him in his place occasionally. But it wasn’t love he felt for her. It couldn’t be as strong as all that.

  It was desire, a result of one disastrous, glorious night of interrupted passion and a little lingering curiosity on his part.

  He allowed Emily to win their next game purely to keep her from another tantrum.

  “I want to go home,” Emily said quietly.

  “You know that is impossible. Peace and quiet is what the physician recommended for you. At Warstone, you would become busy managing the house, and any visitors might overly excite you into another coughing spell.”

  “You have imprisoned me. I want to sleep in my own bed again, to look out my own windows to the woods of home. Is that too much to grant a dying woman?”

  He looked her way, stunned. Her color was high, cheeks flushed with the light sheen of perspiration. “You are not dying, but you have become fevered again. You should have said something.”

  He called for her nurse.

  “I’ve always known I was,” Emily whispered. She lay back limply, listlessly rocking her head on her pillows. He moved back to let the pair of nurses press cold compresses to her brow and fevered cheeks. “I am not getting better. I am getting worse.”

  The far nurse gave a tiny nod as she came toward him with a crystal dish in her hands. A peek inside revealed Emily’s handkerchief was dark with her blood.

  His gut tightened in dread at that. He’d been warned her lungs would weaken and she might begin to spit up blood near the end. The little hope he’d harbored that she might still recover fluttered and died. Emily would die, soon, and only he would mourn her.

  He steadied himself to give nothing of his feelings away as he returned to Emily’s bedside.

  “I think you’re getting better,” he told her with false optimism as the second woman left the room. He had lied to Emily more in the past month than he had in his entire life, simply to avoid upsetting her. The nurses had told him earlier that she was sleeping more and more each day when he wasn’t around. He sat next to her bed again, caught her limp hand in his and squeezed her fingers. No matter what she’d done, he didn’t want to lose her. He didn’t want any of this to be real.

  Emily pulled away. “Must you always wear those horrible black gloves when you touch me?” she complained. “I hate them.”

  “It is what the physician advised. I apologize again for taking such precautions,” he reminded her. “I want to be able to see you.”

  “I want to see you too,” Emily agreed before she lapsed into silence, studying him. After a time, she tossed him a brief smile. “You must marry, Everett, and have a son to continue the line,” she told him in a complete change of subject. “Our family will die with you unless you marry soon.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to promise he had that situation well in hand, but if he told Emily about Alice now, she would want to meet the woman immediately. He couldn’t have that. “There is always Howard Lynch to succeed me.”

  “Dearest Howard, such a lovely, biddable boy when he was young. He has not visited us in such a long time. I must write to our cousin and enquire after his wife. You must have a son before he does or there will be talk. Everett, fetch me my writing desk and you can post my letter tomorrow.”

  Howard’s wife had delivered a healthy son a month ago. He kept that news to himself, as well. Worrying for the succession, for the future of the family, would do Emily no good. Everett kept so many secrets from Emily now that he sometimes had trouble keeping track of what she did not know. He’d never told Emily about the night he’d met Whitney Crewe for the first time, either. Emily would not have been kind if she had ever learned the identity of his seducer.

  “You should rest, sister.”

  “All I do is rest and wait in this dreary place. I swear I have more conversations with strangers than I do with anyone I know, and you know how uncomfortable I find forward women.”

  He stared at Emily as she bit her lip, wondering if finally, Emily would confess to meeting Whitney Crewe. She hadn’t said anything so far, and he was suddenly worried that Whitney had returned after she’d promised not to visit again. “To what woman are you referring?”

  “Oh, just a traveler, I think she was,” Emily said dismissively. “She accosted our gardener and claimed to be an artist, of all things. You know, one of those uncouth people so prevalent on the fringes of society. Of course, she came at a time when I was not fit to receive anyone, so I sent her on her way immediately.”

  “Did she return?”

  His breath caught as Emily took her time answering.

  “Thankfully not. I would have had her sent on her way if she had.”

  He relaxed. Whitney was in no danger. At least he could count on her to take care of herself once she understood where the real danger lie.

  “Besides, I’m still waiting on my new season’s gowns from London to be delivered.”

  He laughed softly. “When did you have a chance to order new gowns when you were in London?”

  “When I was there last. I told you about them. I’m sure I did.”

  He stared at her, doubting her word. “Before you came to see me?”

  She rubbed her brow. “Well, it couldn’t have been after, since you’ve confined me here ever since,” she accused.

  He smiled quickly, but he was troubled. Had she gone to see the seamstress or merely imagined she had? Some of their conversations of late had been very confusing. “I will send for them immediately when I return to Warstone.”

  If the gowns had actually been ordered, he would have his man in London collect them.

  He saw Emily was tiring, he gathered the cards and set them aside. “I won’t be able to see you tomorrow.”

  “Why not!” she pouted.

  “They are finally ready to put a roof over the newly repaired cottage. I want to be there. You know how dangerous that sort of thing can be.”

  “True,” Emily said, and then smiled up at him and offered her cheek. “Be careful, too.”

  “I always am.” He nodded to her instead of pressing his lips to her fevered skin. Emily did not always make it easy for him to keep a distance. She sometimes forgot the danger she was to his health.

  Emily sighed heavily and snuggled down in her bed as Everett slipped out the door, leaving her to the care of servants he trusted to do what was right where she was concerned.

  He rode back to his home. For a change, Emily had been more or less herse
lf again. The sister he knew and loved, not the brokenhearted schemer angry with the world at large. He did not expect the peace to last of course, but he’d gratefully take any respite.

  It was very late by the time he was changed into fresh clothes and returned to the house. He was fit to mingle with his guests again, but only a few lamps were lit at this hour. He checked his pocket watch for the time as he stepped through the morning-room doors that had been left unlocked for his return.

  “Where have you been?”

  He glanced up in surprise at Alice Quartermane’s demand. He put his pocket watch away before he answered. “I’ve just come from the stables,” he said carefully, determined to give nothing away as to where he’d really been.

  Her brow furrowed. “But I went there.”

  He smiled quickly but was surprised she’d gone looking for him. “We must have only just missed each other then.”

  He looked for her ever-present parents, but they were nowhere to be found or heard in the distant halls. “Is anything wrong? Are your parents all right?”

  Alice smiled. “My parents are very well. They retired some time ago, my lord. I wasn’t sleepy, so I thought you might like to keep me company.”

  “Ah,” he said, then smiled and headed for the door. “We can finally play that game of cards we spoke about. Let me fetch my housekeeper to act as chaperone.”

  “I don’t want a chaperone,” she said, quickly moving to intercept him.

  He came to a halt, and slowly turned to stare at her. “You don’t?”

  That was quite the turnabout. Usually Alice was the bastion of propriety and decorum. The rules stated that unmarried men and women shouldn’t be alone, and she had stuck to them like glue until now.

  As if reading his thoughts, Alice shook her head. “We are to be married.”

  “Indeed.” But he swallowed down sudden nervousness at the thought of that future, and surprised himself by taking an awkward pace back. “You’ve never sought me out before.”

  She brushed her palms against her legs and then moved toward him. “Are you not happy to see me?”

  “Of course I am,” he promised, nervousness turning to genuine alarm. In all the time Alice had been promised to him in marriage, she’d always hidden behind her parents’ protection, never giving him a moment to even steal a kiss. That she sought him out now seemed highly out of character. He wondered at her motive, her sudden change of heart.

  But then he recalled his last conversation with Whitney Crewe. What had she said about Alice and tonight? Don’t forget about Alice? As if he could. “You are going to be my wife soon.”

  And that event seemed much too soon all of a sudden.

  “I am looking forward to beginning my duties as your countess,” she promised him. “That is why I thought it best that we talk together in private now.”

  Duties? Whitney had mentioned Alice would be waiting for him, but hadn’t hinted at what the conversation might entail. He had assumed it to be about the wedding day festivities, not their future life together.

  “We don’t need to wait to be alone to talk to each other about the future.”

  “I know this must seem forward,” she began, drawing closer. “But if we are to be man and wife, I think the rules could be bent a little, don’t you agree?”

  She settled her fingertips on his arm, looking up at him with a rather bold stare for the first time ever. As she slid her hand upward to his shoulder, he realized talk was the last thing on her mind tonight.

  “Yes, but…” He suddenly felt the need to scramble for the door and shout for a chaperone—any person would do—and it had very little to do with protecting Alice’s health.

  He took a steadying breath to calm his panic, but he was very curious about why Alice would approach him in such an eager manner so suddenly. “Tell me why you agreed to marry me?”

  Miss Quartermane looked lost. “I don’t understand, my lord.”

  He smiled quickly to hide his dismay. “It is as straightforward a question as it could be. Why marry me?”

  “Because you asked,” she murmured.

  “Is it only because I am an earl that you accepted without knowing a thing about me?”

  “My father vouched for you. He said I could not do better, and he was right. We met, and I liked you very much.”

  Was Whitney correct? Was this marriage bound to disappoint him?

  He wasn’t attracted to Alice. Not even half as much as he was to Whitney Crewe. Alice Quartermane professed to only liking him so far, and he’d secretly hoped for so much more.

  He forced his smile to grow wider, even if inside he was desperate to find an excuse to leave the room. “Miss Quartermane, I am glad you accepted my proposal, but I have no wish to tarnish your reputation.”

  Her face fell.

  “Your parents speak very highly of your virtue and would become very angry with me if they ever found out we were alone together before we were married,” he said gently, hoping to ease the sting of his rejection. He could never behave with Alice the way he had with Whitney. They would share a bed on their wedding night, and not before. “They might become disappointed in you, and I cannot have that. I want to be on good terms with them, for your sake particularly. I know they mean the world to you, and I hope they will visit us often in the future. I would not like them to feel you had been compromised before we wed.”

  “They do like you,” Alice promised. “They would indeed be angry with me for seeking you out like this. I should have considered their feelings, too.”

  “We’ll keep this to ourselves then,” he said, then Everett gestured Alice to an armchair beside a card table and hurried to ring for the housekeeper.

  He sat opposite her, but his stomach was in knots at the prospect of future encounters when they were man and wife. Forming an intimate connection with Alice didn’t seem so appealing anymore, when that was all he should be wishing for. There was nothing wrong with Alice. The fault lay within himself. The fire, passion, wasn’t there when he looked at her. He’d only ever felt it once in his lifetime.

  With Whitney Crewe.

  It made no sense that he could still want the eccentric, opinionated, frustrating woman he’d once dallied with instead of the proper young woman he’d offered for.

  He fought to keep his expression clear of the shock and hopelessness of his discovery as he shuffled the cards. What was he to do? He was engaged to marry the friend of the woman he yearned for, and there was no escape if he wanted to be considered a gentleman. Only a woman could end an engagement, and he had no reason to believe Miss Quartermane would suddenly change her mind about marrying him.

  Unless you give her a reason to be dissatisfied before the wedding day.

  His head cleared of confusion. If he no longer desired to marry Alice, although he still liked her very much, he had to do something—and now. He was no monster, but he wasn’t being fair to her, or even faithful in his private thoughts. They were ten days away from marriage. He would have to act swiftly if he had any chance of escape.

  He would have to find a way to make her dislike him enough that Alice would want to call the whole thing off. He’d have to become very disagreeable, something that went against the grain and might sabotage the inroads he’d made with his best friend’s wife if she learned of his behavior later.

  When the housekeeper slipped into the room, he had her sit near Miss Quartermane. After tonight, he would make sure they spent even less time together.

  Alice studied her cards and then glanced his way. “Have you had any word from your sister yet?”

  He winced. “No, none.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The nearest village to Twilit Hill was a warm and wonderful place, nestled at the edge of a large woodland area. Small and somewhat rundown, it reminded Whitney of the place that had become her first home after her parents’ deaths. She’d gone to live with Uncle Willard when she was only nine. He had been a man of few words, but strong and proud a
nd unfailingly honest. A blacksmith by trade, he’d had little idea of what to do with a weeping orphan girl of limited strength except put her to work around the workshop.

  She smiled at the sounds emanating from the distant smithy and turned her feet in that direction. She had not minded the work she’d been put to by her uncle. The distraction of being busy had lessened her grief somewhat. Her uncle had given her the task of tallying his accounts when she proved capable later, sweeping floors and keeping his house in order, and even performing some of the delicate work his customers expected of him.

  She had become quite adept at pouring molten metal to fashion nails, too, a job that required a very steady hand and patience.

  She paused at the doorway, lost in the rhythmic sound of the blacksmith’s strikes on the anvil, and sighed. She missed her uncle very much. He’d been a good man who’d made her feel safe and loved and wanted.

  She took a few steps into the workshop, curious to see any differences between her uncle’s old establishment and this one. As far as she could tell, the two places were much the same. Heat blasted from the forge, and an untidy and oddly comforting array of tools lay scattered about. The smell of hot metal strong in the air. She felt instantly at ease and waited to be noticed before venturing farther inside.

  The blacksmith was a great hulking fellow, who clearly knew his work well and focused solely on what he was doing. He wore a thick leather jerkin over his clothes, and his forearms bulged with the force of each strike upon the anvil.

  She sighed again. Such a man, such a physique.

  She jerked her gaze from him as a tiny red-haired woman hurried in through a distant door, two tankards of ale in hand.

  The woman froze when their eyes met.

  “Hello,” Whitney said in her friendliest tone, eyes darting to the blacksmith, who’d finally noticed her, too. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  The lady set the tankards down and gave the blacksmith a pointed look. He quickly went back to work and ignored Whitney’s interruption.