by The Treasure
Ottoline’s face had gone pale. “Nephew, I really cannot go on with this misery.” She touched his hand and he felt how cold hers was. “You like none of the girls I invited?”
Shaking his head, Valin felt a stab of guilt when his aunt’s eyes filled with tears. He felt even worse when she began to sob. This wasn’t the theatrical crying of a spoiled woman, but the sincere weeping of a lady who felt defeat.
“Don’t cry, Aunt.” Dear God, he was a monster. “I promise, I’ll choose from among the next group to whom you introduce me.”
This only brought a wail and renewed weeping. At a loss, Valin searched for the scent bottle. It had fallen on the carpet, and as he picked it up, Valin’s glance fell upon the papers that incriminated Emily de Winter. An idea leaped into his head, and Valin didn’t pause to examine its consequences. He would pretend to become engaged. Then Aunt would be satisfied, and he could search for a bride without interference, without Society’s glaring attention. He’d been unwise to do anything else.
“Please, Aunt, don’t upset yourself. I—I was going to wait until I’d settled everything, but since you’re so distressed, I’ll tell you now. I’m going to marry Emily de Winter.”
Ottoline’s sniffles ceased abruptly. She blinked wetly at him. “Miss de Winter? Are you mad? She’s almost foreign, and we barely know her.”
“I barely know any of the girls you’ve thrown at—asked me to consider.”
“But, Valin, there are so many other more suitable young ladies.”
“Now, Aunt, you were just in a terrible state because I wouldn’t decide. Well, I have decided, and that’s that.”
Ottoline sat up and sniffed. “I don’t believe you.”
“What? Why not?”
“Emily is presentable, but not nearly the beauty your rank requires in a wife, and she has none of the connections that would recommend her to the family. Why would your eye fall on her?”
“Why?” Valin’s mind went blank for a moment. He hadn’t expected her to disbelieve him. “Why—er … Because we’re in love, deeply and passionately in love.”
Ottoline frowned at him. “You haven’t acted like you’re in love.”
“Been hiding it.”
“Why?”
“Wanted to be sure first.”
His aunt leaned toward him and placed her hand on his arm. “Are you certain, Nephew? I shouldn’t want you to make a bad marriage out of a whim.”
“I’m sure,” Valin said. “I’m in love, like Romeo, Othello, King Arthur.”
“Valin, those people all died, and anyway, they’re not real.”
“I know what I’m doing. Depend upon it.”
“The rest of the family will not approve.”
“I don’t care.”
Fanning her face with her handkerchief, Ottoline rose. “I know you don’t, Valin. But if you’ve chosen the wrong girl, you’ll soon care, very much indeed.”
7
Emmie plopped to the floor in the middle of her crinoline and petticoats, blew a stray tendril of hair off her nose, and groaned.
“What am I going to do, Betsy?”
Betsy was standing on a chair holding a traveling skirt in her outstretched arms. “About what, ’is lordship?”
“No, not him! What makes you say him? Why should I be worried about him? I’m not worried about him. I’m worried about finding the gold.”
“I looked everywhere below-stairs,” Betsy said. “There ain’t no spirals in the servants’ areas. Come on, now. You got to hook it if you’re going to be ready for that carriage drive with yer follower.”
Emmie popped up and glared at her friend. “He’s not my follower. I told you, he has a reputation for seducing women, and I think he pays attention to me out of habit.” Tossing her head, Emmie continued. “I’m not the one making a spectacle of myself over him. All the unmarried girls and half the married ladies here want him. The marquess sets their hearts fluttering just by walking into a room.”
“Wot’s all this about fluttering?”
“It’s how he moves,” Emmie said between gritted teeth. “He does it on purpose.” When Betsy lifted her brows, Emmie stamped her foot. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s—it’s the kind of walk I’d expect from a wolf stalking in a dark forest.”
“Oh, I know what kind he is all right. You look sharp, Emmie, or he’ll do for you. That one will have you in his bed before you know it.”
Emmie didn’t reply. She was having a difficult time maintaining her adversarial attitude toward “ ’is lordship,” especially since hearing so much about him from the servants’ gossip Betsy imparted. It was cursed hard to summon up contempt for a man who seemed to spend most of his time fighting for the welfare of wounded veterans, widows, and their children. Why couldn’t he have been selfish and stupid? Then playing her role would have been so easy. She had to preserve an attitude of detachment. Everything depended upon it.
“Wake up and stir yourself, my girl,” Betsy said.
Emmie held up her arms, and Betsy dropped the skirt over her head. She fought her way into it, then slipped into the bodice. Betsy turned her around and began fastening the buttons in the back, and muttering at the same time.
“What are you grumbling about now?” Emmie asked, still wallowing in her ill humor.
“This here dress. I never see’d no ladies in wine-colored traveling dresses. Black is what’s respectable.”
“The whole idea was to get myself noticed and attract the interest of the marquess.”
“Well, you done that, all right.”
Throwing up her hands, Emmie rounded on her friend. “How was I supposed to know he’d be so difficult to handle. All the other men I’ve dealt with have been manageable. They’ve been gentlemen.”
“Yes, but this one’s not just a gentleman, he’s a lord and used to getting what he wants.”
“I’ll manage him.”
“So far it looks like he’s managing you,” Betsy said as she fought Emmie’s unruly curls to mastery with hairpins.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He’s got you dithering and distracted, he has. Who was it who came back to her room all flustered last night saying as how the marquess had got her alone after dinner and tried to kiss her?”
Emmie avoided Betsy’s amused gaze and sat down at the vanity so that her friend could put a bonnet on her head. She stared into the mirror, then scowled at her reflection when she realized her face was crimson. North had indeed got her alone after dinner, but Emmie could have escaped him had she tried hard. Instead, a strange compulsion had kept her there as surely as if the marquess were a sorcerer who drew her to him with some black magic incantation. Was this how he seduced all those other women she’d heard about? How dare this foul-tempered aristocrat turn her into a goggle-eyed slave? To cover her bewilderment Emmie burst into speech.
“He’s a sneaking varmint. I left the ladies after dinner to fetch a shawl, and he was waiting for me by the stairs.” She pounded the vanity. “He doesn’t care about me. He’s just amusing himself because he’s bored with the other women his aunt invited. I’d like to throttle him.”
When Betsy sniggered, Emmie turned slowly and asked, “What are you giggling at?”
“You like his attentions.”
“I beg your pardon?” Emmie said as she drew herself up.
“If Dolly was here she’d give you the truth of it, too.” Betsy finished tying the bonnet and rested her hands on her hips. “I ain’t never seen you all bothered and alarmed over any man.”
“Exactly.”
“Until now.”
“I’m not bothered!”
“Oh, the devil,” Betsy said with a grin. “Your heart is fluttering worse than any o’ them fine ladies’, only you know how to hide it, being from the streets and all. But he’s in your blood, Emmie. It’s all you can do to keep from staring at him whenever he’s about.”
Fumbling with the bow at her chin, Emmie sniffed. “Y
ou’re imagining things. I’m simply annoyed because his attentions have interfered with my ability to search for the gold.”
“Oh, I don’t blame you, mind. He’s a right handsome devil. I think it’s the way he don’t seem to be trying to woo the ladies that makes ’em want him all the more. There he is, his pretty face all screwed up in a fearful scowl what makes you realize how much power and passion is locked up inside him.”
“Betsy,” Emmie said as she rose to leave, “you’re depraved.”
Ignoring Betsy’s guffaw, Emmie marched out of the house to find a light gig waiting for her. Its top was down and a groom held the pair of horses that drew it. She had understood that Lady Fitchett and Miss Kingsley were to make up the party, but the others weren’t here, and the gig would hold only two people. There weren’t going to be any drives alone with Valin North. She was halfway up the steps when North charged out of the house, caught her firmly by the arm, and hurried her toward the gig.
“Good afternoon, Miss de Winter.”
“I cannot drive without Lady Fitchett. Perhaps tomorrow—”
Without slowing down, North said, “Lady Fitchett has a slight headache, but she said to go without her.”
The groom steadied the matched pair of grays as they reached the gig. In spite of Emmie’s protests, North propelled her into the vehicle and took his place beside her.
“Really, my lord, I must insist that we wait.”
Emmie gathered her skirts and tried to get up, but North slapped the reins. The gig jumped into motion and Emmie was thrown back into the seat.
“Stop this carriage at once.”
“Not now,” North said without looking at her.
“If you don’t, I’ll jump,” Emmie said.
“I wouldn’t. You’ll break your neck at this speed.”
The gig bounced over a rut, and Emmie clutched at the door for balance with one hand and held her bonnet on with the other. They careened down the drive, turned onto one of the paths that crossed the park, and plunged into a wood. Holding on to the gig so that she wasn’t bounced against North, Emmie darted glances at her abductor.
His harsh profile registered more than his usual annoyance. Something had happened to make him furious. His eyes reminded her of cold polished marble and his movements were quick and sharp, as though he were containing a violence he dared not release.
Suddenly North swung the gig off the path and walked the horses through the trees until they came to a stream that twisted and danced through the wood. Tying the reins, he turned and subjected her to a disgusted examination as though she were a piglet that had taken a bath in dung. No doubt his aunt had been hectoring him about his choice of a suitable wife. Whatever had made him angry, he had no right to take it out on her.
“This is most improper, my lord. I insist you take me back at once.”
North allowed his gaze to slice down her figure, linger on her bosom and hips, then rise to her face again. Such behavior would have flustered most women. Emmie had punched drunken navvies for lesser insults. She lifted a brow and stared back at him.
“By God, you’re a bold piece!”
Emmie’s brows met in the middle of her forehead. “Don’t shout at me.”
“Pestilence and death!”
He grabbed her by the arms. Pulling her close, he held her so that their noses almost touched and shouted, “Who are you!”
Emmie had been fighting him, but at this question she went still. She retreated to the cold, calm place in her mind. It was where she always went when in danger. The cold place enabled her to smooth her features into a mask of slightly amused derision.
“There will be no further conversation until you release me.”
Blinking in surprise, North let her go. Her tone seemed to have brought him out of his rage for the moment, for he spoke instead of shouted.
“Who are you?” He shook his head as her mouth opened to form a denial. “Don’t waste my time. I set an inquiry agent the task of finding out all he could about you. He’s of the opinion that the Honorable Miss Emily de Winter doesn’t exist.” North leaned toward her, causing Emmie to put her back against the carriage door. “If you don’t like me touching you, tell me the truth.”
Emmie remained silent and evaluated her chances of making him believe another lie. They weren’t great. And if she angered him, he might lose control of that volcanic temper. She was about to speak, but North was ahead of her.
“Don’t bother to lie. I already know part of it. You’re a lady adventuress out to trap a wealthy husband.”
Luckily for Emmie, her mouth was already open. She stared at him for a moment, then popped it shut.
“I’ve already realized that you must have had some sort of genteel upbringing. You’ve comported yourself excellently, considering your background. Was your father a clerk, or was he a solicitor?” North paused, but his impatience drove him on. “Well? Don’t goggle at me like a scandalized parlor maid. Answer me.”
“Oh, gracious mercy.” She was thinking fast.
“It remains to be seen whether you’ll get mercy or not. Now speak up, woman.”
“Very well.” Emmie relaxed, smoothed her rumpled skirts, and gave a rueful sigh, her eyes downcast. “You’re right, of course. I should have known I wouldn’t be able to deceive someone as clever as you, my lord.”
“I can do without the shy maiden performance, and the flattery, too.”
She shot an angry look at him but dropped her humble attitude.
“You wanted the truth, my lord, and you’re going to get it. My parents are dead. My father was a doctor with a successful practice in Shrewsbury, but he had squandered his fortune and my inheritance on liquor, cards, and horse racing by the time I was twelve. I have nothing, but I was raised to be a lady. Penniless ladies have no recourse for earning a living except being a governess or a companion to some wealthy elderly lady. Either means a life of undependable servitude and certain loneliness. In desperation I sought another avenue by which to escape destitution.”
“By lying and trying to trap me into marriage.”
Emmie flushed. “You self-righteous prig. Have you ever been poor? No. Ever gone for days without anything to eat? No. Slept in a doorway in the freezing rain? No. Pray pardon me for not liking such conditions, but some of us baseborn criminals are odd that way.”
She jerked herself around to face forward in the gig. Her gloved fingers drummed on the door frame, sounding loud in the silence that fell between them.
“I’m sorry.”
Turning her head, Emmie eyed the marquess with distrust. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“I said I was sorry. I know what it’s like to be cold and hungry and in fear for your life.” At her questioning look, he gave her a slight smile. “The Crimea, you see.”
“Oh.”
His smile vanished. “However, you don’t have the right to invade my life and—blast. This isn’t what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to make a bargain with you.”
Suspicious, Emmie asked, “What kind of bargain?”
“I want you to pose as my fiancée.”
“You just said you didn’t want to marry me,” Emmie snapped.
“I don’t, but I need someone to whom I can be engaged so that all the husband-hunting mamas and their daughters will leave me alone.”
She hadn’t expected her heart to hurt when he admitted he didn’t want to marry her. She felt a stab, as though a shard of glass had pierced her chest. Drat and damnation, she couldn’t reveal herself! What abject humiliation, and how foolish and absurd of her. She didn’t want to marry this evil-tempered devil.
“I think not, my lord. You’re quite capable of defending yourself against the onslaught of an army of mamas. I shall leave in the morning and cause you no further inconvenience.”
“I won’t allow you to leave.”
“I shall leave.”
To prove her point, Emmie turned the handle on the door of the gig and opened it. As she
got up, North grasped her arm and hauled her back against him. Emmie reacted as she had hundreds of times before in the rookeries. She twisted snakelike and rammed her fist into North’s stomach.
He released her with a gasp, and she jumped to the ground. Lifting her skirts, Emmie sped toward the path. She hadn’t gone far before hands fastened on her waist and she was lifted off her feet. She landed over North’s shoulder, her head dangling at his back.
Emmie pounded on her captor’s back. “Let go of me, you bloody bastard!”
“What language, and from the daughter of a respectable doctor.”
“I’ll throttle you, I will,” Emmie shouted. “I’ll do you a mischief, see if I don’t. I’ll have you scragged.” She tried to kick him, but North had hold of both her legs.
Arching her back, Emmie tried to writhe out of his grasp, but North only slapped her on her bottom through the substantial padding of her petticoats and skirts. “Be still or I’ll drop you, and watch your language, or everyone will soon discover you’ve been frequenting places you shouldn’t have.”
“Curse you for a sodding—ow!” He’d slapped her on her bottom again. “You hit me, you bloody—ow!”
Emmie felt herself being tossed in the air. She landed in North’s arms, her bonnet askew. Red from being jounced and held upside down, she glared up at her tormentor only to find him grinning at her. Before she could swear at him again, he deposited her into the gig. She scrambled to the other door, but her skirt caught. Emmie turned to free it and found North had grabbed a handful of the fabric. She tried to yank it free, but he resisted without effort, smirking all the while.
“Let go o’ me, you blood—” She thought better of her choice of words. “You sneaking devil.”
“When you’re playing my fiancée you’ll have to remember not to get upset. When you’re upset, your language suffers, and I detect a hint of the gutter.”
“Oooo!”
Emmie kicked him. North yelped, but lunged at her before she could get away, landing on top of her. Emmie began to twist and writhe again, but her struggle only tangled their arms and legs and then plunged her beneath him on the seat. He was heavy, and with the binding of her corset and her exertions it was hard to breathe.
