She examined the niches cut into the stone wall. They were empty, and she was uncertain if they once had held art or sconces. Everything about Wentworth Hall was grand, but tired. When she had ridden over the bridge between the Hall and a small village, she had discovered, on closer view, the large house wore her age like a confident dowager. As Damon had talked of the renovations he planned, she heard an unusual excitement in his voice. It told her he had an affection for the estate that he wasted on little else.
When she left the huge bedchamber suite where Kilmartin was exclaiming about the dressing room that was larger than the parlor on Hanover Square, she had been certain she could find her way to the sitting room where the guests were to meet. Where was everyone? She could be alone in this house, for not a single voice reached her ears. Only the distant resonance of thunder which flowed along the hallway after lightning flashed. She did not want to own to Damon that she had become lost. She could not trust that glitter in his eyes. Nor could she trust her reaction, the yearning to toss aside caution and thrill in the madness of his kisses … just once more.
She was addled to think like this. As long as she held her secrets within her heart, she must not dream of his touch. Such thoughts would only risk breaking her heart and ruining everything she had fought so hard to gain for her sister. Her sister, who was throwing her chance at happiness and a good marriage away by throwing herself at that accursed impostor. Dear God, why was everything as mad as a midsummer moon?
And how was she going to find her way to the sitting room?
Emily paused when she saw a door ajar. “Is anyone here?” she asked as she pushed it farther open.
The light of a single lamp cut through the storm’s shadows in the large room. Two walls were lined with glass-fronted cases filled with books. Arched windows that had been thrown wide to catch any breath of air glowed when lightning exploded through the sky. Emily flinched as thunder crackled, the sound rumbling against the stones of the round hearth in the far corner of the room.
Walking to the desk set in front of the closest window, she edged no nearer to the glass as another bolt of lightning outlined the whipping branches of the trees beyond the driveway. She wrapped her arms around herself.
Her eyes widened as they were caught by familiar bindings in the largest bookcase. Blue leather and gold ink pressed into it to form the title she had devised. She touched the glass door hesitantly. Although Damon had urged her to run tame through Wentworth Hall, she did not know if she should be intruding in this room.
The door opened as if on invisible fingers. Her own fingers shook when she drew out a copy of the first book of poetry she had written. Amazement froze her as she realized a half dozen copies of the same book were stacked on the shelf. Kneeling, she read the titles of the other books. All of them were printed in the same blue with the gold lettering.
She set the poetry book back on the shelf and picked up another. A Season in a Sussex Garden by a Mrs. Charles Lock. Opening it, she carefully turned the crisp pages. Mr. Homsby’s bookshop was listed on the title page along with the name Old Gooseberry Press.
Emily frowned as she put it aside and reached for another with the same binding and printing. An identical imprint was set on the cover page. Spurred by curiosity, she opened several others. Each one contained Mr. Homsby’s name, although only about half listed Old Gooseberry Press.
“Looking for something interesting to read?”
She recoiled at the question that was as deep as the thunder. She glanced over her shoulder and discovered Damon leaning toward her. “I—I—” Words refused to form on her tongue.
“No need to look like a Tyburn blossom caught in the act of heisting books from my office.” His smile broadened as he offered his hand to bring her to her feet.
Standing, she hid her shock at his clothes which better suited a stable than this grand chamber. His boots were scuffed, and the elbows of his black coat were shiny with wear. A loosely tied cravat threatened to escape from his waistcoat, which was missing a button.
Something must have betrayed her thoughts, for Damon chuckled and said, “I trust you will keep my secret.”
“Secret? This is what you have teased me with when you have spoken of a secret?”
“This?” He laughed. “No, that special secret is still to be revealed.” He poked at his elbow. “I accede to propriety in Town and am the epitome of a man in prime twig. Here, in the country, I set aside every illusion of being à la modality.”
“I believe others will take note.”
“I shall change before dinner.” He leaned back against the heavy oak desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “In fact, I was on my way to do exactly that, but I was curious to discover who was in my office.”
“I did not mean—”
He put his finger to her lips, and she fought the craving to take his hand and lead his arm around her. “Emily, why do you always see wickedness in my words?”
“Mayhap because I always see the wickedness in your eyes.”
“Not wickedness.” His voice softened to a caressing whisper as he took her hand, drawing her toward him. “Just imagination. An imagination which urges me to presume that you are thinking much the same as I.”
When he pressed his mouth to the curve of her neck, she slid her arms up his back. His strong muscles moved smoothly beneath her hands as he stood, enfolding her into an inflamed embrace. Her fingers splayed along him as he etched sweet fire across her cheek and onto her lips.
Her breath was no more ragged than his when he drew back. His hands framed her face as he whispered her name. Putting her fingers over his, she steered his mouth back to hers. Each kiss only whetted her desire for another.
Thunder burst through the room, and rain splattered against the window like fine pebbles tossed up behind a speeding carriage. Emily flinched.
With a laugh, Damon tapped her nose. He released her. Going to the windows, he drew them closed and latched them securely. “Afraid of a bit of rain?”
“No, of course not.”
“Just jumpy.” He drew off his worn coat and folded it over his arm. “Guilt mayhap?”
She raised her chin. “You told me I could explore the house freely.”
“True.” He bent and picked up one of the books which had fallen, unnoticed, to the floor. “Did you want to read one of these?”
“No. I was simply curious about all the books looking so much like my—like my copy of the marquis’s books.”
“Mayhap because they all come from Homsby’s bookstore.”
“You patronize only his store?” she asked, pleased that he had not noticed her slip.
Damon smiled and closed the glass door. “To own the truth, I seldom visit his shop. He arranges to have books delivered to me.”
“Even the marquis’s books?”
“He believes I wish to be conversant with what is bandied about by the Polite World.”
Wrapping her arms around her, for his words were suddenly as cool as the rain against the window, she said, “Do not be angry. I did not mean to invade your private chambers.”
“I would not, I assure you, be angry if I found you in my private chambers.” He turned to the desk to straighten some pages that had been blown about by the storm.
When she picked up a page from the floor and handed it to him, he took it without comment. Had he thought she was perusing his business papers as well as the bookshelf? Pain twisted in her center. She went to the door, wanting to escape this room before tears escaped her eyes.
“Emily?”
She should not look back. She should not let the heat of his eyes sear her like quicksilver flames. She should not let those eyes lure her into his arms with the unspoken promise of his kisses. She turned and was riveted by longing mixed with grief.
He crossed the room in a pair of steps, but did not grasp her hands as she had hoped … as she had feared. Holding her gaze, he whispered, “What is it?”
“You do not trust
me.”
He seized her arm as she whirled to leave. Bringing her back to face him, he asked, “Do you trust me?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know well what I mean.”
She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. She knew exactly what he meant, but, if he discovered the truths she had fought to keep secret, he surely would not welcome André—or Emily Talcott—to Wentworth Hall.
“Emily,” he said in the same low, intense tone, “I told you I would not play cards with your father while on our visit to Wentworth Hall, but you watch me like a duenna guarding her charge, sure I will break that vow at the first opportunity.”
She lowered her eyes before he could see her reaction. He must not guess that, of all she had tried to keep concealed, this mattered the least to her rebellious heart. “You are right, Damon. Old habits die hard.”
“Old habits? I have made you no vows before.”
She met his gaze squarely. “Others have broken them when Papa was insistent and gold was on the table.”
“I am not like others.”
She was certain of that as she was of nothing else. If she traveled the length and breadth of the world doing research for her books on gardens and exotic flora, she never would meet another man like Damon Wentworth. No other man could be a fusion of irritating arrogance and tender compassion. No other man could set her soul alight with his wit and her skin afire with his touch.
“Trust me, Emily,” he whispered.
“I will try. Be patient.”
“Patience? I suspect, as lief, I will be trying yours.” He opened the door wider and smiled. “You are far from the sitting room where we planned to meet. Could it be you are lost?”
She met his bold grin with her own. “Just exploring, but, if you would be so kind as to point me toward the nearest staircase to the lower floors, I would be grateful.”
“Grateful?” He brought her to him again. As she locked her fingers behind his nape, he murmured, “I ask again: how grateful?”
The best answer, she was sure, was none as she let her kiss speak for itself. This happiness must be fleeting, so she wanted to enjoy every bit while she could.
Chapter Fifteen
As Emily came down the wide oak stairs, she ran her hand along the bannister. She stopped in the door to admire the sitting room, for the chamber was as wondrous as the rooms of a royal palace. The ceiling might need a new coat of paint, and the stone floor was scratched and uneven, but her eyes were captured by a mural that covered three walls. The trompe l’oeil design suggested the room was set amid a glorious garden where rose vines were strung from fruit trees. Beneath every tree, bushes were laden with berries. Blackberries, blueberries, gooseberries, and raspberries twisted together in an invitation to gather a handful. Lattices outlined views of distant fields where animals grazed.
Even with a score of people in the room, it did not seem crowded. Emily was amazed to see Valeria and Mr. Simpkins amid the guests. She had not guessed they would be joining Damon here. Why had Valeria said nothing of this invitation?
Before Emily could speak to them and ease her curiosity, Papa motioned for her to join him and Miriam. “Look at this glorious mural!” he said as she walked to them. “This is what we shall have some day.”
“When you are victorious at the card table?”
His smile wavered at the bitterness she had not been able to silence. When Miriam chided her, Emily sighed and said, “Forgive me. I am fatigued after the day’s long ride.”
“If you had joined us in the carriage instead of riding cross-country like a hoyden,” Papa reprimanded gently, “you would be more of a mind to converse tonight.” He turned as footsteps approached.
Emily’s spirits sank further when André appeared in the doorway. The man seemed incapable of simply walking into a room. He had to make an entrance as if he were taking a cue on stage. As well he should, she reminded herself. He was playing a rôle with every breath.
Miriam rushed to him, her pink silk skirts bouncing to reveal the openwork on her white stockings. “Do join us, André.”
Stiffening, Emily saw a flash of disquiet in Papa’s eyes before his smile returned. She was surprised. If Papa did not favor a friendship between Miriam and this fake marquis, Emily wished he would halt it.
“What a charming scene en famille,” André said, his gushing tone making every word seem even more insincere.
Or it might be nothing more than her ears hearing the truth, Emily decided. She took Miriam’s hand. “Come with me. I want to give Valeria a scold for not telling me she was joining us here.”
“Emily—”
“Do come.”
When Miriam opened her mouth to protest, André kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Go, ma chérie, and greet your amis. That will give me and your père a chance to speak of subjects that would bring your feminine ears ennui.”
Emily had not thought she could dislike the fake marquis more, but she had been wrong. How dare he act as if her sister had no more wit than a slowtop! Linking her arm through Miriam’s, she tugged her sister across the room.
“Emily, you were most uncivil to André,” Miriam chided.
“Me?” She shook her head. “If you wish to let him insult you, I should leave you to fry in your own grease.”
“He didn’t mean to be a sad vulgar. He is French.”
“Which should make his manners more polished, not less.”
“You look for fault in him in every way you can.”
“It does not take much looking.”
“Emily!”
“Emily!” cried Valeria at the same time. Rushing to them, her gown as ruddy as the sun at dawn, she hugged Emily and Miriam at the same time. “I am so glad to see you. I feared you had become lost in this draughty mausoleum.” She gave a genteel shudder as she turned to include Mr. Simpkins in the conversation. “Who would have guessed Beelzebub’s Paradise would look like this? Not a fitting place for a demon, is it?”
“That is no way to speak of our host,” Mr. Simpkins said quietly.
Emily fought to hide her shock. She had never heard him disagree openly with Valeria. Seeing amazement on Miriam’s face and a softening in her smile, Emily wondered if her sister might have perceived something in Graham Simpkins that others had missed.
“Mr. Simpkins,” Emily asked, “will you and Valeria join Miriam and me in admiring the murals?”
“Delighted, I am sure.” He bowed toward her and nearly upset himself on his nose. His fingers fumbled as he reached out.
Before he could touch Miriam’s hand, if that, indeed, had been his intent, André grasped it. The faux marquis pressed it to his sleeve before flashing Mr. Simpkins a superior smile.
“Lady Fanning,” he gushed, “it is ever a pleasure to see you. I should have guessed ma chére Miriam would rush to your side to share with you all the tidbits of luscious conversation we enjoyed en route to this austere place.” His nose wrinkled to reveal his opinions of Wentworth Hall.
Emily said coolly, “Mr. Simpkins was about to escort us to the murals.”
“He is,” the marquis said, his eyes as cold as two unlit coals, “without question, welcome to join us in a tour of the tableaux.” He took a step away, pausing when Miriam did not follow like a well-trained pup. “Miriam, ma chérie?”
Emily held her breath as she watched her sister stare at Mr. Simpkins, who, for once, seemed to be returning her gaze. She resisted the yearning to put her hands on Mr. Simpkins’s shoulders and give him a shove toward Miriam. Was the man half blind that he could not see how Miriam eyed him with longing? Mr. Simpkins need do no more than give Miriam the least hope that a relationship was possible, and her sister would toss aside the false poet like a child throwing away a broken stick.
When Mr. Simpkins mumbled something and turned to Valeria, Emily was certain she could hear her sister’s heart shatter. Miriam said nothing as she went with André toward the far wall. Emily wanted to sha
ke some sense into Graham Simpkins. Could he not see how much Miriam wanted his admiration?
She had no chance to put her thoughts into words or action, for Damon strode into the room. He was once again the well-dressed man who would draw every feminine eye in Town. His dark coat was without a spot of lint, and his silver breeches glittered in the light from the sconces on the wall. When she heard him whistling, she was astounded. She could not have imagined him being so light of spirit in Town.
“Where are the rest of our friends?” he asked to no one in particular.
From across the room, she heard Papa answer. “Mayhap they are gathering their thoughts before the challenge of the evening’s entertainment begins.”
When he saw Emily tense, Damon scowled. Dash it! Did Talcott think of nothing save his flats? The man still owed him a century or two from their last encounter at the card table.
His gaze returned to Emily. By Jove, he enjoyed the chance to admire her, even when she was as stiff as a corpse. He preferred her soft and willing in his arms. Looking past her, he saw a straggling, weak sunbeam glittering on the rain left by the swiftly moving storm. Twilight soon would descend on Wentworth Hall, but there still might be time to share with her the secret that drew him back to this tumbledown collection of stones whenever he could put business in London behind him.
As he walked toward her, drawn to her as surely as lightning was lured to the peaks of the house, he tossed over his shoulder, “Resting is not necessary, Talcott, for the entertainment here is simple and revolves around the sun’s rising and setting.” He folded Emily’s fingers between his palms and smiled when they softened against him like a newly burst petal. “If you wish, my friends,” he added, raising his voice, “lemonade is waiting you on the terrace before we enjoy an early dinner.”
“Lemonade?” scoffed de la Cour.
Although tempted to teach the frog poet some manners with his bunch of fives, Damon said only, “I trust you will find the brandy there better suited to your taste, de la Cour.”
His guests drifted toward the door leading to the terrace that had been rebuilt only the summer before, but he tightened his grip on Emily’s hands as she turned to follow. She looked up at him with a question in her sapphire eyes.
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