“Invite you!”
“And Papa and you.”
Miriam shook her head. “I do not wish to go. Why don’t you and Papa go without me?”
“Miriam, you know you cannot stay here alone. You must be reasonable.”
“Why should I?” She jumped up, a swirl of white muslin flowing about her. “I know why Papa agreed to this. He is so determined to win back what he lost to Demon Wentworth—”
“Please do not call him that.”
The tears flooded from her eyes. “You would agree to almost anything to keep Papa happy, even if it means you will be destroying my life.”
“Miriam, be …” She did not finish, for her sister clearly would not be reasonable now. “I thought you would enjoy this chance to travel. It shall be fun.”
“Impossible!” Wringing her hands, she whispered, “How could you choose Papa’s happiness over mine?”
Emily grasped her sister’s hand and drew her down to sit on the bench again. Wiping the tears from Miriam’s face, she said softly, “I would never do anything that I thought would hurt you, Miriam. You must know that.”
“Yet you agreed for me to leave London just now when I have never been happier.”
“Never been happier? You cannot mean—?” She could not even speak the name which once had been amusing.
“Of course. André asked if he might escort me to the next reading he is giving.” Standing again, she scowled at Emily. Tears fell in a rapid shower along her face as her voice broke. “Now I shall not be able to go to his reading because you are dragging me away from Town to that dashed viscount’s dirty acres. You care nothing for me. Nothing at all.”
“Miriam, you know that is not so.”
“I swear I shall never speak to you again! You have ruined my life!”
Before Emily could speak, her sister fled into the house. She stared about her garden. Once this had been sanctuary, but now her troubles buzzed about her like bees among her flowers.
“Emily, ma chérie?”
She affixed a smile on her face as she looked at Papa, who stood in the doorway. He was wearing a saucy grin that suggested he was well pleased with himself. “I trust you are dealing with everything so we might leave for Wentworth Hall as planned.”
“Yes, Papa.” She almost winced as she spoke the words Damon had chided her for.
“Good.” He settled his hat on his light hair and smiled. “I knew I could depend on you.”
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
“Miriam is—um—” She was not sure how to explain, for she did not want to distress Papa over what might be no more than calf love.
He patted her arm. “I know Miriam regrets missing the duchess’s party, but she will come around.”
“I am not so sure of that.” Her stomach cramped, for she understood why Miriam was doubly distressed. Miriam had been hoping for an invitation to that gathering for the past month.
“Do not fret, ma chérie. You always manage to work things out.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Smile, for you do not want to etch frown lines into your face, do you?”
“No, Papa.”
“Are you unwell?”
She knew her wince must have been visible. How could she tell Papa what Damon had said? Such words were certain to wound him.
“I am fine, Papa.”
“Good,” he said again.
She followed him into the parlor. Untying her bonnet, she said, “Papa, we must talk.”
“Of what?” He gave her no chance to answer. “Bollings, where’s my walking stick? I cannot call on His Grace without proper accoutrements.”
His harried valet rushed up the stairs.
“Papa,” Emily tried again, “I need a few minutes of your time before you go out.”
“Drat! Where did I put my cartes de visite?” He looked at her and smiled. “Be a good girl, ma chérie, and tell Bollings I need my calling cards, will you?”
Emily took one step toward the stairs, then faltered. She squared her shoulders and motioned to a serving lass.
“Caroline,” she whispered, “please have Bollings bring Mr. Talcott’s calling cards.” As the girl went up the stairs, Emily added, softly, “Papa, what I have to say to you will take only a few minutes.”
“That is good, for I have but a moment before I must leave.” He brushed a speck of dust from his gray gloves. “What is putting that uncomely frown on your face?”
Again she hesitated and wondered why she could be candid with Damon, but not her father. “Papa, we need to speak of the household accounts.”
“I trust you to run the household. You are like your mother.” He smiled sadly as he did every time he mentioned his first wife. “She could squeeze another penny out of an empty purse, although I swear she never bothered me with tiresome details. Do be a sweet child and stop worrying yourself nigh to sickness. Come, Emily, and smile. You need to put more joy in your life.”
“But, Papa—”
“Life is short, ma chérie. We must enjoy it while we may.”
“We shall not enjoy it if we are as poor as Job’s turkey.”
His grin vanished. Pulling at his cravat, he said in an irritated voice, “Nonsense! I shall hear no more of this.”
“You must listen.”
At her rare vehemence, he returned, “Have our debts been paid this month?”
“Yes, except for—”
“Then why are you bothering me with your anxieties?” He smiled as he took his walking stick and calling cards from Bollings. “Egad, Emily, you shall end up with wrinkles before we can find you a husband.” As she opened her mouth to retort, he added, “Concern yourself with getting a new gown and mayhap a new hat, so that you can look your best when you go to the next rout.”
Emily considered arguing, but it was useless. If she told her father she doubted there was enough money left to buy a new hat, let alone a feather or a ribbon, he would pooh-pooh her again. She saw the understanding in Bollings’s eyes, but said in a near whisper, “Yes, Papa.”
“I shall see you on the morrow. If you need anything from me, I shall be at the club.” He smiled broadly and strode away.
As his lighthearted whistle drifted back to her, Emily closed her eyes and sighed. She prayed this was not the day when Papa succeeded in bringing them to ruin. Papa was right. He could depend on her, and he did.
But as they traveled to Wentworth Hall, she must depend on Damon to keep his promise that he would not play cards with Papa. She had not been dependent on anyone for longer than she could recall. She did not like it. Not at all.
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of an inn. Dusk wove through the thatch roof and cloaked the stone walls. A barn behind the inn was edged by a yard where a single, swaybacked horse and a pair of goats grazed among the chickens.
Emily shifted on the seat which had become uncomfortable with the passage of the miles from London. Another long day of riding awaited them tomorrow, and she hoped she would sleep well tonight. She was the only one within the carriage who had not succumbed to slumber.
On one side, her father snored as softly as Miriam did on the other. Shaking his shoulder to rouse him, she grimaced as she readjusted herself on the seat while Papa, grumbling something she could not understand, stretched.
Muscles protested as she turned to wake her sister. The exasperation that had been seething inside her all day threatened to boil out. Damon had abandoned them after only an hour to take to the saddle.
Half a dozen other vehicles pulled to a stop behind them in the inn’s yard. The Talcott carriage, which was top-heavy with their bags, carried Kilmartin and Bollings. Three additional carriages held Damon’s other guests. More wagons followed. Emily was sure none of the pleasures the ton enjoyed in Town had been left behind.
She picked up her small bag from the floor. In it, she carried the journal which contained the poems for her next book. Her fingers tightened on it. Why was she continuing to labor over these little rhymes
when that blasted impostor would take credit for her work again? She sighed. Nothing had changed. Miriam needed money to wed, and, since Papa had joined that club, his gambling debts were doomed to increase.
The carriage door opened to flood the interior with heavy scents from the barnyard. Papa leaned forward to peer out.
“I thought we had given up this rough life when we returned to England,” he grumbled as he stepped down and held up his hand to assist Emily.
“’Tis only one night,” she answered, trying to keep her yawn imprisoned behind her teeth. “By tomorrow, we shall be luxuriating in Wentworth Hall.”
“Be careful what you assume,” Damon said as he offered his hand up to help Miriam out. “Did I fail to mention Wentworth Hall will never be confused with Hampton Court?”
Emily smiled. “Is that the secret you have promised to divulge upon our arrival?”
“That secret is yet to be told.” His brows arched when as soon as her feet touched the ground, Miriam backed away from him and hurried into the inn with Papa. “No one would doubt your sister’s opinion of this journey.”
“Please forgive Miriam’s lack of courtesy.”
“I admire her honesty at not being afraid to reveal she is furious with me.”
“Not with you.” Emily’s smile grew sad. “With me.”
“Why?”
She walked with him toward the inn where his guests milled in relief at being done with the long hours of riding. Lowering her voice, so it would not reach their ears, she said, “Miriam is convinced the whole of this was planned to keep her from spending more time with the marquis.”
“Egad! She should be grateful as lief angry.”
“She believes he is sincere in his interest in her.”
“Which you don’t?”
“Why are you making it a question? I doubt if that man has ever been sincere about anything.”
“You have distrusted him from the first. I wonder why.”
Her steps faltered. Would she never learn to guard her tongue when Damon was about? He seemed to perceive other meanings beneath her trite words.
Because he knew the truth?
No! She would not believe that. If Damon suspected the truth, he would have spoken to her of it. He would not chance divulging the secret to another by accident without telling her his suspicions first.
Wouldn’t he?
“Emily?”
She prayed her laugh did not sound as brittle in his ears as it did in hers. “I had hoped to leave chit-chat about the marquis behind us in Town.”
“Agreed.” His voice took on the husky warmth which delighted her, urging her to lower the barriers she had spent so many years erecting. Warmth twirled within her like a country reel as he murmured, “I would enjoy a comfortable coze while we speak of how the prettiest roses in your garden are almost as lovely as the roses in your cheeks.”
“I pray you do not mean the yellow ones.”
He chuckled. “I should know better than to try to compliment a woman who uses words with more skill than our frog poet.”
“Damon!”
“I know. I promised no more gab about that gaby while we are away from London.”
Emily did not move as he took a step toward the inn’s porch. When he turned to face her, she said, “I want you to know that I am very grateful for your invitation. Mayhap some time in the fresh country air will bring good sense back to Miriam.”
“You are grateful?” His hand settled on her waist. His ride in the sunlight had added another layer of bronze to his skin, and his hair was brushed back by the day’s breeze. He leaned toward her until his forehead touched the brim of her bonnet. With a lecherous grin, he asked, “How grateful?”
Her heart struggled as if it were trying to flee from within her. With her gaze held by the silver fire in his eyes, she fought her arms which longed to sweep up to his shoulders. The aromas of sunshine and dust from his ride were as sweet as the scent of her favorite roses and as enticing. She wanted his lips on hers, the potent caress of his mouth luring her to lose all of herself to his alluring touch.
Edging away a step, she forced a jaunty tone. “You truly are a demon, my lord, to speak so.”
“You are not answering my question.”
“I am very grateful.” She linked her arm through his. “As grateful about that as I am about your promise not to play the flats with Papa.”
“You will unquestionably owe me a duty or two.”
Better a duty than a debt of mint she could not repay, she told herself as they walked up onto the porch to be surrounded by the others traveling to Wentworth Hall. To no one, not even herself, did she want to own how few guineas the Talcott family had left before her father publicly was deemed a gentleman of three inns.
In debt and with no way out.
Emily had been pleased to discover that, inside, the inn was as neat as the yard. As she descended the stairs to the dining room, she admired a row of plates set on a shelf near the ceiling that was stained with smoke and dust. Whitewashed walls were bright in the glow of the candles. As she crossed the stone floor to where a bearded man wearing a long apron over his breeches and full-sleeved shirt came toward her, she smiled.
“I be yer host Mr. Dengler,” he said in a heavy country accent. “Wanted to inquire if yer room is comfortable, miss.”
“It is very nice.” The room she was sharing with Miriam was cozy, and she had been tempted to drop onto the iron bed and let sleep sweep away her cares. Instead, she had washed the dust from her face and hands with the water in the ewer and bowl set atop the chest of drawers that was nicked and scratched as if a vindictive cat had attacked it.
When his full chest swelled with pride, he said, “My missus thought ye ladies would want a room far from the stables. My missus, she said that be right. Wouldn’t be suiting for fine ladies to sniff the droppings in the yard.”
Emily thanked the innkeeper and walked into the dining room. She wondered if Damon had ordered every candle in the shire put to use here. A trio of tables were empty save several bottles of wine, and she sighed. She was hungry and tired and ready for the day to come to an end. Mayhap if Miriam fell to sleep swiftly, there might be time to work on that troublesome line with the new poem.
L’amour … la chanson d’amour … à coeur joie … She sighed. Heart’s content? Mayhap once she might have believed a heart could be content, but not now, not when her heart longed to flee her breast and find a place next to Damon’s. She clenched her hands at her side. The secret that pumped through her with every beat of her heart would ostracize her from the purists of the ton swiftly.
Hearing footfalls, Emily turned. She could not keep from smiling as she saw Damon framed by the doorway. Wearing more casual clothes than he donned in Town, for trousers dropped over his boots, he had chosen a green coat and a brown striped waistcoat. He raised a single eyebrow as he came toward her, but she already knew her cream-colored frock was too fancy for the country inn. She did not have the luxury of one wardrobe for London and another for the country.
“Miriam will be down in a moment.” She glanced about the room. “I had thought Papa would be here.”
“The gentlemen are enjoying a few glasses in another room.” His nose wrinkled. “It is stuffy in here.”
“Mayhap because of all the candles.”
“Dengler is going out of his way to help me impress my guests. I wonder what I have done to invoke his beneficence.” He held out his arm. “Would you enjoy a taste of fresh air before we find ourselves confined to this room with our fellow travelers and the joint which should be nearly done roasting?”
Emily let Damon’s gentle humor steal away her fatigue as they strolled into the early-summer darkness. Along a path from the back door, stones led through a shadowed garden. Lush fragrances stirred on the breath of a breeze which also brought the sound of voices from the inn, warning her of the many eyes that might take note of this walk.
She stopped to admire the flower
s amid the blooming hedges that edged the small garden, but her gaze refused to remain on the blossoms. Her eyes were drawn again and again to Damon as he wandered about with the ease of a man who had no cares. As if he had peeled off an abhorrent skin, Damon had left behind the coolly wry, cavalier behavior he wore in Town. He could not hide his fascination with each plant and how it was planted.
“You truly love gardens, don’t you?” Emily asked.
He faced her, wiping his hands of the dirt he had been poking in beneath a bushy rhododendron. Smiling, he said, “I didn’t think you would need to ask that after you were a witness to my brangle with Cozie at the conversazione about forcing roses to blow out of season.”
“But you don’t have a garden in Town, do you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Time is an unfortunate factor. I am too busy in London to have the time to tend properly to a garden.”
Regret pinched her. She had thought he enjoyed gardens more than playing cards. Had she misread him so thoroughly? Mayhap he was no more than the demon Miriam called him. No, she could not believe that. The man who had argued with Dr. Cozie so vehemently and with such knowledge could not be satisfied to squander his life away at the card table.
“Why are you wearing such a dolorous expression?” Damon asked as he peered under another rhododendron. “You are not the one who must tend to duties of business instead of the pleasures of a garden. I—” He cursed and took a step backward as a shadowed form burst from behind an arbor.
A young woman with a thick, brown braid dipped in a curtsey. “Pardon me, yer lordship.”
“Pardon us,” he said with a graciousness he did not often use with titled ladies in Town. “We have intruded on your quiet. Do you tend this garden?”
“Yes, yer lordship.” She gave him a tentative, gapped-tooth smile.
“Your excellent husbandry shows. Do you have only flowers, or have you planted herbs as well?”
“Both, yer lordship.”
He grimaced at repetitious answer. “We shall be leaving shortly after dawn, but I trust we may visit your garden in the sunlight.”
A call from the inn halted her answer. The young woman giggled and scurried away.
Rhyme and Reason Page 15
