She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Even after two months among them, I am still quite ignorant of the ways of the beau monde, you see. In fact, I find I do not understand them at all.”
Edgar Rankin’s gaze followed the imposing figure of the black-clad duke as he made his way toward the group of chattering women surrounding the Countess of Hargrave. “Think nothing of it, Miss Haliburton,” he soothing her. “I have spent a lifetime studying the strange species, and I still find them beyond belief. “
The evening progressed from bad to worse from then on, in Emily’s opinion. She was sorely tempted to make her excuses and have an early night. But sheer stubbornness made her ignore the humiliation she had suffered and soldier on.
It soon became apparent she was not the only one sunk in the doldrums. Lady Hargrave’s stern edict against conversing with the earl had sent Lucinda into the sulks and she flatly refused to contribute one of her plaintive little country songs to the evening’s entertainment. For once, Lady Hargrave did not press the issue. The reason was obvious; in her eyes, the important issue was already settled.
Two of the blond incomparables had already retired to their chambers, pleading headaches and the third claimed she had misplaced her music. Only Esmeralda Sudsley felt up to performing, and she gave such a lengthy and depressing rendition of a section of Edmund Spencer’ s Cantos of Mutabilitie that two of the titled papas drowned out the last few verses with their snores.
“It appears it is left to you to provide the musical entertainment this evening, Miss Haliburton,” the duke said, removing a small silver snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket. He took a pinch and inhaled first through one nostril, then the other.” I hope you have something spirited in your repertoire. I find I am sadly in need of stimulation.”
Emily rose from her chair. Head high and back straight as a ramrod, she walked to the pianoforte. He wanted stimulation, did he? Well, she had just the thing for him.
She raised her hands, poised her fingers over the keys for the opening bar a Haydn sonata second symphony…and the door to the salon burst open. The duke’s butler, Pettigrew, usually the model of stoic decorum, rushed in, and behind him, without waiting to be announced, Squire Bosley.
“Forgive this untimely interruption, your grace,” the squire panted, “but I have such splendid news, I could not wait till the morrow to convey it.”
He pulled a large square of white linen from the pocket of his greatcoat and mopped the perspiration from his florid face. “We have him, your grace, and it was just as you said it would be. He finally made the mistake of being too sure of himself.”
The duke shot to his feet. “You’ve caught the highwayman?”
“The very same,” the squire gloated. “And the blighter has robbed his last coach this side of hell. Dead as a doornail, he is. Shot through the heart by old Lord Epsley, of all people, when his coach was waylaid on that lonely stretch of the Mayburn Road.”
Emily’s fingers crashed onto the keys in a wild, cacophony of sound. She closed her eyes, but the grisly pictures the squire’ s words evoked danced across her eyelids. Jared’s warm, red blood oozing from the hole in his chest and spreading across his white shirt—Jared’s strong body, limp and lifeless; his beautiful, wicked eyes glazed in death.
Great, shattering waves of shock and grief swept over her, pushing her ever deeper into the black abyss that was opening up beneath her. She felt strong hands grip her arms and for one shining moment, she thought she saw Jared’s face poised above her, thought she heard his voice call her name.
But it could not be. Jared was dead, and the pain inside her was too great to bear. It sapped her strength and dulled her mind until, helpless, she plunged down, down, down into blissful, mindless nothingness.
Slowly, the gray fog swimming before Emily’s eyes parted and the splotches of paler, muted color evolved into eyes and mouths and finally entire faces she recognized as Mr. Rankin and Lady Hargrave…and good heavens, the Duke of Montford.
“Ah, she is coming around.” Mr. Rankin leaned over her, his eyes anxious behind his spectacles, and Emily realized she was lying on one of the loveseats in the Brynhaven music room.
She tried to push herself upright, but Mr. Rankin caught her shoulders in his two hands and gently pressed her back down. “Calm yourself. Give yourself time to get your wits about you,” he said kindly.
“What happened? How did I get here?” Emily asked, feeling utterly foolish and disoriented.
Lady Hargrave edged Mr. Rankin aside. “You had an attack of the vapors and draped yourself all over the pianoforte. That’s what happened. And the poor duke was obliged to carry you across the room.
The duke! Emily darted an embarrassed glance in his direction. The color had washed from his face leaving him ghastly pale and there was a strange, almost haunted expression in his silver eyes. Swooning women were obviously not his grace’s cup of tea.
“Whatever could you have been thinking of, girl?” Lady Hargrave continued her tirade. “No sooner had Squire Bosley announced that dastardly outlaw had reaped his just reward, than over you keeled.”
Emily gasped as once again the horror of the squire’s words washed over her.
“Miss Haliburton has a gentle nature. Talk of such violence would naturally upset her,” Mr. Rankin said quickly, searching her face with the same troubled expression he’d worn since she’d recovered consciousness.
“By Jove, I surely didn’t mean to shock you with my blunt talk, ma’ am,” Squire Bosley boomed. “Don’t know what possessed me to rush in here like I did. Should have known it would upset the ladies.”
Lady Sudsley gave a disgusted snort. “Most ladies would rejoice in the news you conveyed. It appears to me there’s a missish streak throughout the entire family.” She gave the duke a meaningful glance. “Such things are known to run in families, if you know what I mean.” Even in her dazed state, Emily could tell Lady Sudsley was implying the something running in the Hargrave family could be far more serious than a tendency toward vapors.
“Nonsense. A great, healthy girl like Emily. She’s no more given to swooning than the kitchen cat,” Lady Hargrave said indignantly. “It must have been something she ate at dinner. Probably the lobster. I have a cousin, once removed, who swells up like a toad with the first bite; likely Emily has the same problem.”
“She ate lobster all right; I saw her do it.” This from Lord Sudsley.
Emily sank back onto the pillow of the loveseat, grateful Lady Hargrave had come up with an explanation, no matter how erroneous, for her fainting spell. At the moment, she felt incapable of speaking on her own behalf.
Her relief was short-lived. No sooner had her head touched the pillow than she heard her aunt give a surprised gasp. Glancing up, she saw the duke clearing a path through the assembled spectators. Without a word, he bent over and scooped Emily up in his arms as easily as if she had been a rag doll.
“The cause of Miss Haliburton’s indisposition is irrelevant,” he declared firmly. “The fact remains she should be taken to her chamber at once.”
“Your grace!” Pettigrew sounded shocked beyond belief. “I beg of you, let me summon a footman to carry the young lady.”
“Miss Haliburton is my guest and, therefore, my responsibility. I shall see her to her chamber,” the duke replied in a voice that brooked no opposition.
Emily cringed at the thought of being carried like an invalid—and by the duke at that—but she was still too numb with shock and grief to protest.
Across the vast hall and up the massive staircase he carried her, a grim expression darkening his handsome features. Because she had no choice, Emily relaxed and he instantly tightened his grip, making her all the more aware of the muscles rippling in his strong arms and the hard, male feel of his chest.
“Which is your door?” he asked, and when Emily pointed it out, he set her on her feet in front of it, retaining a firm hold on her upper arms.
“There is something I must sa
y to you,” he said, gazing down at her from his great height. He cleared his throat. “Something for which I am most heartily sorry. “
Emily stared at him in dismay. His exertions had rumpled his precisely tied cravat and a lock of jet-black hair had fallen over his forehead. For the first time, the stiff-necked duke looked almost human, and his resemblance to Jared was so strong, Emily was hard-put to keep from bursting into tears.
He appeared to be trying to apologize for something. What, she couldn’t imagine. Unless. Good heavens, did he think that demanding she perform had upset her to the point of bringing on her vapors?
Emily blinked back her tears. “Thank you for your concern, your grace, but you have no cause to blame yourself in the least,” she said wearily. She gazed longingly at the door to her chamber. Her head was still spinning and her stomach felt as queasy as if it had in fact developed an antipathy to the innocent lobster Lady Hargrave had impugned.
She reached for the doorknob, desperate to escape the duke ‘s presence before the full impact of the squire’s dreadful news hit her and she made an even greater fool of herself than she already had.
“No, wait.” He put out a hand to stop her. “Please, you must listen to me. I…”
But before he could finish his sentence or Emily could turn the knob, the door burst open, revealing Maggie Hawkes’ formidable figure and behind her a frightened-looking Lucinda. “There you are, my poor miss,” Hawkes exclaimed. “Lady Lucinda came looking for me all in a pother—said you was ailing something awful.”
She wrapped a protective arm around Emily’ s shoulders. “Now don’t you fret, Miss. I’ve turned down your bed nice and comfy and sent a footman to the kitchen for peppermint tea with a drop or two of laudanum in it. Nothing like it to sweeten a sour stomach and make you sleep like a babe. “
Without a backward glance at the duke, Emily relinquished herself to Hawkes’s motherly care. She could feel the tears she could no longer control welling at the corners of her eyes and knew she was just seconds away from collapsing in sorrow. All she wanted was to be left alone.
Vaguely she heard the duke utter a protest, heard Hawkes’ brief, no-nonsense reply and the decisive click of the door as the elderly maidservant closed and locked it. Then she heard no more. She sprawled across the bed, buried her face in the cool freshness of the lavender scented pillow and gave herself up to her grief over the untimely death of the charming scoundrel, who, along with all his other thefts, had stolen her heart.
In the darkened hallway, Jared stood alone in stunned silence, rooted to the spot where a mere servant had relegated him, the Eighth Duke of Montford, and then slammed the door in his face. Had the world gone mad? It surely must have, he decided, as he stood outside Emily’s door, feeling more like a green stripling who ‘d been put in his place than a powerful peer of the realm.
His first inclination was to kick the damned door down and toss Lady Lucinda and her officious maidservant into the hall. He needed to be alone with Emily, needed to take her in his arms and confess his shameful duplicity so he could beg her forgiveness.
His booted foot was raised and ready to strike when he thought better of it. He had already wounded Emily’s generous heart; he could not risk ruining her reputation as well. And it would indeed be ruined if even the faintest hint of the havey-cavey game he had played with her this past fortnight became public knowledge. Such a scandal could be so titillating to the gossipmongers, it could even follow his little country sparrow to her village in the Cotswolds.
He pressed his fingers to his aching temples. But now he must face the long night ahead, knowing Emily was grieving needlessly and he was powerless to keep her from shedding a single tear. He only hoped Cook would have the sense to put enough laudanum in the tea to sink Emily into a deep and dreamless sleep.
He was not surprised to find Edgar waiting for him when he made his way to the library a few minutes later. “No, I did not get the chance to tell her the truth,” he said before Edgar could ask. “Some ancient she-devil in a mobcap snatched her away and tucked her into bed before I could get a word out. I had to choose between saving her from a night of unnecessary grief and protecting her reputation. Under the circumstances, the latter seemed the wisest choice. But come what may, I will speak to her first thing in the morning.”
Edgar crossed to the sideboard and poured two stout brandies. “I should hope so, your grace,” he said in that tightlipped way Jared had come to think of as Edgar’s voice of disapproval. “Because rightly or wrongly, Miss Haliburton believes she is in love with you—or I should say with your alter ego.”
Jared cringed as if Edgar’s barbed words had drawn blood. “I have come to realize that,” he said quietly. “I doubt I shall ever forget the look on her face when Squire Bosley declared that I…that the highwayman was dead.”
“Nor I, your grace. Nor I.”
Jared downed a healthy swig of brandy. “Fool’s courage” he had heard it called, and if ever a man needed the courage to say what should be said, he was that man. “As know, my friend,” he began, “I have not always led the life of a saint in the thirty years I’ve walked this earth. “
Edgar said nothing but the look in his dark, myopic eyes spoke volumes.
“And strange though it may seem to an upstanding fellow like you, I have few regrets.”
“To feel regret over one’s actions can be rather humbling, and humility is not a trait one normally associates with a duke,” Edgar remarked dryly.
Jared gritted his teeth. Edgar wasn’t making this easy. He finished his brandy, set the glass on the table beside his chair and took a deep breath. “But I confess I deeply regret deceiving Emily Haliburton about my identity. She deserved better treatment than that from me.”
Edgar raised his glass in a brief salute. “There may be hope for you yet, my friend.” He eyed Jared speculatively. “Miss Haliburton is an extraordinary woman. One who would make any man, even a duke, a fine wife.”
“A Duke of Montford marry the dowerless daughter of an Oxford don? You cannot be serious. My blue-blooded relatives would never recover from the shock. Nor, I think, would the Regent and the rest of the Royals. Why, even you once remarked that she would never be accepted in polite society.” “Is that so important, Jared?”
“To another man—possibly not. But I hold a title which is nearly as old as England herself. I have no choice but to take such a consideration into account when I choose my duchess.”
Jared stared morosely into the bleak, soot-coated interior of the cold fireplace. “You are the family historian, Edgar. Tell me, has any Duke of Montford ever taken less than an earl’s daughter to wife?”
“No. Nor, to the best of my knowledge, has any Duke of Montford ever married for love. But that is not to say it cannot be done.”
“Love?” Jared laughed bitterly. “A fairy-tale spun to entertain the common folk. Such gullibility was bred out of my aristocratic genes long before the first Tremayne crossed the Channel.”
Edgar pushed his spectacles higher onto the bridge of his nose. “Good!” he declared. “Then you can have no objection to my pleading my cause with the lady in question once she recovers from her present insanity. “
A picture of Emily’s lush, warm body pressed against another, Edgar ‘s hands on her full breasts, his mouth tasting the sweetness of her soft lips flashed before Jared’ s eyes, and a stab of fierce, hot jealousy shot through him.
“Do so,” he snarled, “and though I look on you as the brother I never had, I swear I will see her a widow before I see you take her to the marriage bed. “
“As I thought,” Edgar chortled, and his laughter still rang in Jared’ s ears long after the annoying fellow had taken his leave to wish the houseguests a peaceful sleep on their last night at Brynhaven.
CHAPTER NINE
The black, storm-tossed night had finally come to an end, giving way to a dawn as bleak and dismal as Jared’s mood.
He had stood for hours by his
bedchamber window staring into the inky darkness and listening to the wind howl through the ancient oaks for which Brynhaven was famous. For a brief time, hours earlier, he had watched jagged streaks of lightning slash across the sky so close to the manor house the answering thunder rattled the window panes in their leaded casements—and all the while his jumbled thoughts chased each other around his brain like so many befuddled rats in a cage.
All was quiet now at Brynhaven except for an occasional rumble of distant thunder, but it was a strangely expectant quiet, as if nature were simply gathering her forces for another spectacular assault on the ancient estate.
Jared’s gaze lingered on the banks of dirty gray clouds gathering on the horizon and he frowned darkly. For the last hour or two, brief spits of rain had lashed the window like carelessly tossed pebbles—forewarnings of the coming deluge destined to turn the nearby roads into seas of mud that would bog down the strongest of horses and sturdiest of carriages.
This was more the weather of early March than late May and, as a proper host, he would be expected to extend his hospitality until such time as his guests could safely travel back to London. He groaned. From the look of things, this infernal house party he’d foolishly initiated could drag on indefinitely. Well, that would be Edgar’s problem, because weather be damned, he fully intended to leave for Staffield the minute he finished his talk with Emily.
He would stay there until autumn, and hopefully by the time he returned to London Emily would be safely back in the Cotswolds and Lady Lucinda safely betrothed to young Percival.
But that was all in the future; right now he faced the unpleasant task of divulging the truth of his duplicity to Emily. The very thought made his blood run cold. She already held the aristocracy, and him in particular, in disgust; she would probably thoroughly despise him once she learned the true identity of the highwayman she had championed. But the task was one which must be done. He was first and foremost a man of honor, and he could think of nothing less honorable than letting a woman mourn needlessly.
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