A Valentine Wedding

by Jane Feather

  But it was not a long walk and he was letting himself into the house within half an hour.

  Luiz was dragged out of sleep by a rough hand on his shoulder. He sat up blearily. “Eh, Paolo, what are you doing at this hour?” He examined his surprise visitor and said, “You look sick as a dog. What happened?”

  Paolo told him.

  “You think someone’s onto you?” Luiz shook his head in puzzlement.

  “I don’t see how they can be,” Paolo said curtly. “And if they are, why not do away with me altogether? Why just knock me cold? What could it achieve?”

  “A warning perhaps?” Luiz suggested.

  Paolo snorted with disgust. “What kind of amateur would give the game away like that?”

  “Perhaps these English are amateurs.”

  “Or perhaps this particular agent is,” Paolo mused. “But I still don’t understand how they could know. I’ve made no mistakes. None.”

  “Perhaps someone else made the mistake.” Luiz sounded hesitant, knowing he was propounding heresy.

  “The governor, you mean?” Paolo shook his head and then winced at the sharply renewed pain.

  “Perhaps there’s a spy in our own ranks.”

  “Possibly.” Paolo stood at the window, glaring out at the dawn sky across the jumbled rooftops. A cart laden with produce rumbled along the street below, heading for the market in a neighboring street. The city was coming to life.

  “I think it’s time to move,” he said eventually, more to himself than to Luiz. “If my cover’s blown, then there’s no time to lose. I shall have to take the woman and persuade her to talk.” His mouth took an ugly twist. “It’s so unsubtle, so clumsy, but I don’t see any alternative.”

  “We could try a search of her rooms first,” Luiz suggested.

  “They’re at the front of the house. There’s no way to enter them from the street undetected.”

  “No, but there are glass doors opening onto the garden at the back of the house. It’s secluded. Easy to access over the wall. I did it myself.”

  “We stage a break-in,” Paolo mused. “Once in, it will be simple to find her chamber at the front.”

  “And if you find nothing, then you take the woman. We go prepared with ropes and a gag. We bring her here and you can get what you want out of her where no one can hear.” He shrugged as if to indicate how simple the whole process would be.

  Paolo frowned. Absently he touched the swelling at the base of his skull. The ugly twist to his mouth became more pronounced. He would not be defeated. They’d shown their hand. Always a mistake. He turned to Luiz and gave a curt nod of agreement.

  Chapter Eight

  Emma closed the door of her bedchamber and gave a sigh of relief. Thank God she’d sent Tilda to bed. The fire still glowed in the grate, and there was a tray with milk and a plate of macaroons on the dresser with a little oil lamp over which she could heat the milk if she chose.

  There was something so wonderfully ordinary and comforting about the idea of hot milk. It carried all the reassurance of the nursery.

  She threw off her clothes, casting them onto the chaise longue beneath the window, and poured water into the ewer. It was still hot, so she guessed that Tilda had only recently gone to bed. She washed herself carefully, aware of the slight soreness, the stretched feeling in her groin. It had been so long since she’d last made love, her body had become tight, almost virginal again.

  Had Alasdair noticed?

  Emma dropped her nightgown over her head and lit the little oil lamp. She set the pan of milk over it and watched it dreamily until the first bubble appeared. She poured it into the cup, put a macaroon into the saucer, and climbed into bed. A wonderful feeling of lethargy flooded her limbs as the deep feather bed nestled around her. She sat up against the pillows, the cup of milk resting on her stomach, and at last allowed herself to consider what had happened.

  But all the consideration in the world couldn’t make sense out of it. Alasdair had been waiting for her. He’d taken Paul’s place, dressed in Paul’s domino. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t looked directly at her. And yet he could not have imagined that she wouldn’t know him. Surely he couldn’t have believed he could deceive her with his body? Had he thought she was going to make good her promise to take a lover and substituted himself?

  Or had it been some kind of revenge? Some way of proving to her that she couldn’t do anything without his approval?

  But Emma knew that revenge had not been in Alasdair’s mind. He had made love to her, not assailed her with vengeance or malice. And she? She had let it happen. Had reveled in it. It had been so right. So absolutely right.

  She dipped the macaroon into the milk and carried the soggy morsel carefully to her mouth. She savored the milky almond sweetness. Every sensation seemed heightened. The warmth and softness of the bed, the brush of lawn against her skin, the honeyed taste in her mouth.

  What had happened to Paul Denis? Had he given up his domino and mask at Alasdair’s request? Ridiculous! Why would he do such a thing? She was his prize. And there was no vanity attached to that acknowledgment. He wanted her money, and if he enjoyed her company and found her attractive, then that was merely a bonus. Emma had no illusions. But he wouldn’t step out of the lists at the request of another man. Not Paul Denis. He was too strong, too determined, too self-assured to stand aside tamely.

  So what had Alasdair done with Paul Denis?

  Interesting though that question was, it was nowhere near as vital as the issue of what was to happen now between herself and Alasdair. Would he acknowledge that explosion of passion? Could he possibly fail to? And if he didn’t, should she?

  And once again she wondered, what in the name of Satan had been his motive? If he had intended to show her that they remained somehow inextricably connected, then … then he’d succeeded.

  There was no point denying it. But she didn’t have to like it. Didn’t have to accept it meekly. Had anything changed?

  Everything.

  Emma lay back, gazing up at the ceiling, watching the flickering shadows thrown by the candle on her bedside table. She’d sworn to have a lover by the feast of Saint Valentine. Alasdair had made sure she was not forsworn.

  But it had completely defeated her own purposes. Instead of freeing her from Alasdair, it had tied her to him with a Gordian knot.

  She set her empty cup on the bedside table and leaned over to blow out the candle. Then she lay, still wide awake, listening to the hiss and pop of the fire, enjoying the soft golden light it threw.

  She would have to wait and see what Alasdair did. And she would have to follow his cue.

  He was the most infuriating, damnably unpredictable, totally controlling man! He’d engineered the whole situation so that she was somehow hopelessly entwined in his coils, forced to dance to his tune. And his damned tune was the most irresistible music.

  Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

  Her eyes closed beneath an inexorable wave of sleep.

  Alasdair rode up to Mount Street the next morning, at the correct hour for visiting. The elation that had followed loving Emma was still with him. He couldn’t wait to see her. To see how she was. Of course, she had known it was him. His little game of an incognito lover had never been intended to deceive her, only to heighten the experience for both of them. He knew Emma so well, knew that the risk of discovery, the exotic situation, the aura of mystery, the silence of the encounter, would have fueled her passion and given her the excitement she craved. And he had no intention as yet of bringing the game to a close.

  He dismounted and handed the reins to Jemmy, who was riding the pretty roan mare Alasdair had bought for Emma. Without haste, he mounted the steps to the front door and pleasantly greeted the butler who opened it for him.

  “Good morning, Harris. Are the ladies at home?”

  “Lady Emma and Mrs. Witherspoon are in the salon, sir. They are at home to callers this morning.” He took Alasdair’s hat and whip.

>   “Who’s here?” Alasdair inquired, drawing off his gloves.

  “The duke of Clarence, the Misses Gordon, Lady Dalrymple, Lord Everard, and Mr. Darcy, sir.” Harris reeled off the names of society’s elite with distinct relish.

  Alasdair nodded. It rather suited him to find her in the midst of visitors. There would be less temptation to drop the pretence. After the first meeting, the facade would be easier to maintain. “I’ll announce myself, Harris.” He went to the stairs.

  Emma was standing at the far end of the salon, talking with the duke of Clarence. She had her back to the door, but as Alasdair entered she felt the fine hairs on the nape of her neck lift, and a current of electric excitement brought goose bumps to life along her arms. She raised her head to the mirror above the fireplace, and her eyes met Alasdair’s. Immediately he turned his eyes away as if he wasn’t aware of her gaze and went to greet Maria.

  So that was how he wanted to play it, Emma thought grimly. It had never happened. Well, she could play that game as well as he could. She turned the full force of her attention on the duke, who was so unnerved by the suddenly fixed golden gaze that he lost his thread for a minute and stared blankly at her, wheezing slightly in his creaking corset.

  “Newmarket, duke?” Emma prompted politely.

  “Oh, yes … yes, indeed. My horse, Needlepoint. You’re a horsewoman, ma’am, you’d have enjoyed watching him win. He flew … flew on wings. Like … like …” A frown crossed his amiable if somewhat red and mottled countenance. “That Greek horse … can’t remember the name.”

  “Pegasus,” Emma supplied helpfully.

  “That’s the ticket!” he said. “I wouldn’t have put you down for a bluestocking, ma’am.” He beamed at this pleasantry and managed to bend his stout frame in the semblance of a courtly bow. His corset creaked even more noticeably.

  “Emma a bluestocking, sir!” Alasdair exclaimed from just behind them. “I assure you she was never overly fond of her books.” He bowed to the royal personage before giving Emma a pleasant smile. “Isn’t that so, Emma?”

  “Perhaps,” Emma said with a cool smile of her own.

  “Ah, well, you would know, Chase, lucky dog,” the duke boomed. “Known the lady from the schoolroom … trustee too, I gather. Yes, lucky dog!”

  “The role of trustee gives me few privileges, sir,” Alasdair responded blandly. He glanced sideways at Emma, a wicked gleam in his green eyes, a tiny quirk to his straight mouth. “Isn’t that so, ma’am?”

  “Since I don’t know what privileges a trustee might expect to have, I can’t really answer you,” Emma replied. She turned back to the duke. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I see that Mrs. Dawson has just come in. I must greet her.”

  “Yes, yes … play the hostess … of course,” the duke said heartily. “Do the pretty with your guests … don’t mind me. No need to stand on ceremony, y’know.”

  Emma bowed, smiled, and withdrew. She had the feeling that the duke was going to propose marriage one day soon, as he did invariably whenever a new heiress appeared on the social scene. It occurred to her that when she’d compared Alasdair and his liaison with his opera dancer to Clarence’s situation with Mrs. Jordan, she had been unfair. But the provocation had been great; it was no wonder she had struck to hurt.

  The image of Lady Melrose came to mind. Had he kept his engagement with her the evening after their visit to Tattersalls? Oh, it was madness to torment herself in this way. What had happened between them last night had been a dream … an aberrant dream. And she would forget it and continue exactly as she’d been intending. Alasdair Chase was not the lover she wanted for Valentine’s feast.

  As if on cue, Harris announced Paul Denis. Emma froze. Now what? Something had happened between Paul and Alasdair last evening. She glanced quickly at Alasdair, who was still talking to the duke and appeared not to have noticed Paul’s arrival.

  She went swiftly to greet the newcomer, inspiration coming to her. Last night had never happened. None of the participants wished to acknowledge it, so neither should Paul have to explain his own part in a situation engineered by the Machiavellian Alasdair.

  She spoke in a low voice before he had a chance to open his mouth. “Oh, Mr. Denis, can you forgive my bad manners? I do beg your pardon for not returning to the conservatory last evening, but poor Maria was suffering so badly, I couldn’t leave her.” She smiled brilliantly. “Do say you forgive me.”

  Paul bowed over her hand. “Madame, you could never be at fault,” he murmured. “Of course you had to attend to your companion. My own claims were insignificant.”

  “I trust you didn’t wait long for me.” She waited curiously for his response. Did he know what was going on? Did he believe that she hadn’t returned after he’d been induced or persuaded to leave?

  Paul believed it. But he couldn’t believe his good fortune. There was no need now to produce an excuse for his own hasty departure. “An eternity, madame,” he said jocularly. “Every minute out of your sight is an eternity.”

  “Now you’re being absurd again,” Emma accused. “Oh, I believe the duke is leaving. I must make my farewells.”

  “Mr. Denis, I haven’t run into you for a couple of days.” Alasdair greeted him with a smile. “Not since we met at Tattersalls. I trust you found a horse to your liking.”

  Emma, while seeing the duke to the door of the salon, strained her ears to catch their exchange. They were both behaving perfectly normally. Chatting like old acquaintances who hadn’t had seen each other for a while. And there was no constraint between them. But they must have met last night. And how could it have been a pleasant encounter? Her head was beginning to ache with the puzzle. They must both be supreme actors, carrying their parts without a misstep. But why? Were they in some kind of partnership? Was she a factor in that partnership?

  Oh, she wanted to scream with the frustration of it all.

  Instead she went to talk to Lady Dalrymple and listened to a minute account of that lady’s latest ailment and the revolutionary treatment of her new physician.

  “Yes, only think, Emma,” Maria said in awe. “Two days ago, Lady Dalrymple was laid upon her bed, unable to lift her head. And now see how well she is. And it’s all thanks to sheep’s blood and vinegar. Isn’t that truly amazing.”

  “Truly amazing,” Emma concurred faintly.

  “I trust you’re feeling more the thing, Maria.” Alasdair spoke amiably from behind Emma’s shoulder.

  “Oh, yes, thank you, Alasdair. Just the headache, you know. But it soon passed.” Maria looked a trifle flustered.

  Alasdair nodded, exchanged a word with Lady Dalrymple, and turned to Emma. “I understand you’ve purchased a racing curricle, Emma.”

  She looked startled. “How could you know that?”

  “I received the bill,” he said dryly. “You’ll cut quite a dash.”

  “That was my intention,” she returned coolly.

  Alasdair met and matched her tone. “Your horses were delivered this morning. Jemmy has set up stabling for them in a mews off Park Street. Perhaps you would like to take a look at the mare. I don’t believe you saw her at Tattersalls.”

  “She’s here?” Emma dropped the cool facade.

  “In the street with Jemmy.” A smile lit his eyes at her eagerness. Until three years ago, she had always been so enthusiastic about everything, so utterly open in her responses. It was good to see the wariness that seemed to have replaced those qualities no longer uppermost.

  “Do you care to come down and make her acquaintance?”

  “Oh, yes, immediately!” Emma was halfway to the door even as she spoke.

  Alasdair followed, that enigmatic smile still alight in his eyes. She was ahead of him on the stairs, her floating muslin skirts gathered in one hand as she almost jumped down the last steps. She hurried across the hall. A footman, looking a trifle startled at this inelegant haste, jumped to open the door for her.

  Emma ran down the steps to the street. “Good morning,
Jemmy. Oh, isn’t she pretty?” She took the mare’s face between her hands and stroked the velvety nose, before walking around her, examining her carefully. “Lovely lines,” she murmured appreciatively.

  “Aye, Lady Emma. See those sloping shoulders.” Jemmy sounded as proud as if the mare was his own possession. “She’ll have rare speed, I’ll lay odds.”

  “Mmmm.” Emma rested a hand on the horse’s hindquarters, letting her know she was behind her, as she ran a hand down her flanks. “She’s beautiful, Alasdair.”

  “Did you expect me to buy you a jobbing hack?” he protested, teasing her.

  She looked over at him. He was smiling, a warm smile certainly, but even with the greatest self-deception and the best will in the world, one could see no particular significance in his expression. Emma returned the smile with a fleeting one of her own.

  A northeasterly wind gusted suddenly from around the corner of Audley Street. Emma shivered and the mare lowered her head.

  “You’ll catch your death in that flimsy muslin,” Alasdair said swiftly. “Get back inside. If you wish to try her paces, then change your dress and we’ll go to Richmond.”

  His hand closed over the back of her neck. The clasp was warm and firm and brought back a host of memories. It was one of his favorite ways of touching her, and it dated from their earliest acquaintance. When she’d been a small girl, he’d often held her in this way. Sometimes to propel her along his desired path, other times just because she was standing close to him and his hand had seemed to find its way to her nape with a possessive familiarity that had always seemed quite natural.

  Emma’s mouth was suddenly dry. The pit of her stomach seemed to drop and her loins tensed, the muscles of her thighs clenching in involuntary response. She resisted the pressure for a second and he moved his other hand to the small of her back.

  “Inside, Emma! It’s freezing out here and that gown, height of fashion though it is, offers little more protection than a nightgown.”

  He urged her back to the house, his hands firm on her back and neck. There was nothing overtly sensual about his touch, and yet Emma found its easy familiarity, its casual possessiveness arousing.