by Jo Beverley
Randal shut the door behind Osbaldeston and Violet, and came to join them. “Of course. Delighted to meet you, Miss Grantwich.” He elegantly kissed her hand. “If you get the picture, you’ll understand that I am your knight errant, come posthaste to stand at your right hand, fiery sword aloft. From whom am I to save you?” His laughing glance took in all the gentlemen in the hall.
Emily was in the now familiar state of total confusion. Chloe had told her that her cousin Randal was spectacularly handsome and charming, and he certainly was. And here he was, golden haired and glorious, placing himself—a duke’s son no less—at her service.
Piers Verderan, dark haired and equally glorious, had just bought a child for his pleasure.
The girl’s family had sold her.
Four young men, including the Daffodil Dandy, were watching everything as if they were, as Lord Randal had suggested, the audience at a play.
And Lady Randal Ashby, an earl’s daughter, didn’t seem to mind any of this a bit.
The ways of Fashionable Society were beyond comprehension and no place for Emily Grantwich.
“Hector,” she said. “We must leave. And we will take the child with us. Come along, my dear.” She moved towards Titania.
Hector, however, was clearly flustered. “Emily,” he said. “This girl is not what I thought.”
Emily stopped and looked at him. “What do you mean?”
Hector went red and searched for words.
“She’s a whore,” supplied Verderan kindly.
Emily looked in horror at the delicate creature, who smiled apologetically, then rounded on Verderan. “Is that your excuse, you vile man? She’s a child!”
“She’s seventeen.”
“If you had a seventeen-year-old daughter, would you think her ripe for any man with a guinea or two in his pocket?”
“If I had a seventeen-year-old daughter,” Verderan retorted, “I’d have been a remarkable prodigy!”
“I don’t go for a paltry few guineas!” declared Titania in outrage. “What do you think I am, a dolly-mop?”
“Titania,” said Verderan chidingly, “there are ladies present.”
“There is one lady present,” said Hector sternly, “but not for long. Come, Emily!”
He grabbed her arm, but his proud exit was stopped abruptly by a hand in his cravat. “I think,” said Lord Randal gently, “you missed being introduced to my wife. Sophie, my dear, apparently this is the local vicar.” He let Hector go. “My wife, sir. Lady Randal Ashby.”
Hector was red in the face and almost speechless. “My deepest apologies, my lady. This whole business . . . disordered my wits . . . It cannot but be a shock to you to find yourself in this—this warren. I am afraid the vicarage is too small to accommodate you, but I am sure Grantwich Hall would offer you hospitality.”
“That’s so kind of you,” said Sophie, eyes twinkling with amusement, “but there is obviously the need of a lady’s gentle touch here. However,” she said, turning to Emily, “I hope I will be welcome to visit tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course,” said Emily blankly. “But Hector, we cannot just go and leave this child with all these men.”
Hector had clearly lost his crusading spirit but gained some diplomacy. “I’m sure we can leave the matter in Lady Randal’s hands, my dear.”
At this point, however, Lady Randal raised an objection. “I think you should take her away, vicar,” she said bluntly. “It will be exhausting to try to keep track of her in a house of bachelors.”
Hector looked as if he was going to choke. “I—I am not exactly sure where I would put her just at this moment ...”
“Well really, Hector,” said Emily in disgust. “You should have thought of that before you came charging up here!” Emily was desperately trying not to be aware of Piers Verderan observing everything with a cynical smile; of how hurt she was to have finally discovered the kind of man he was; of how jealous she was of the ethereal Titania and the beautiful Sophie . . .
“Emily, we will discuss this later,” Hector said forbiddingly, and tried to take her arm again.
“What is the point of that?” she replied, wrenching it free. “We must make a decision now.” She turned to Titania and tried to be kind in spite of her bitter and unworthy jealousy. It wasn’t the girl’s fault that she was just the sort of creature to appeal to a rake. “You may come home with me for a while, my dear,” she said, “and we will discuss your future. I am sure I can find you a suitable situation.”
“Do you have a brother then?” Titania asked.
Both Randal and Verderan appeared to suffer a choking fit.
“I have, yes,” said Emily, confused. “He is not at home at the moment.”
“Oh,” said Titania. “It’s very kind of you to want to help me, ma’am, but exactly how do you intend to go about it? I’m quite happy here, and it doesn’t bother me a bit,” she added, with a naughty twinkle, “to be in a house full of bachelors.”
“Emily, we are leaving!” declared Hector angrily, and yet again grabbed her arm.
“Unhand that woman,” said Verderan quietly but in a tone that created a shocked silence. Emily found herself free and looking at Piers Verderan for the first time, as it seemed, in eons.
“Emily,” he said, “I wish to speak to you. In private.” He indicated a room. Emily took a step before realizing she was being a fool.
She took the step back. “We have nothing to say to each other,” she said coldly.
“Unless you come and hear what I have to say, you will never know, will you?”
“Emily,” barked Hector, “I am leaving and you will come with me!”
At that moment, Emily disliked all men intensely. “Hector, stop—stop hectoring! You have no right to order me around. If that little—that little tart can do as she wishes, I don’t see why I can’t!”
Sophie gave a cheer and applauded. Hector looked at Sophie with outrage and clearly thought of a sermon on ladylike decorum, then glanced at her amused and indulgent husband and gave up the idea. After a thwarted glare around the hall, he said, “With or without you, Emily, I am leaving this sink of iniquity!” When Emily made no move he stalked away and slammed out of the house.
Emily, however, was not watching his exit but looking with distress at Titania. “I do apologize,” she said. “I’m sure you aren’t really ...”
“’Course I am,” said the girl cheerfully. “I only squawked earlier because you seemed to imply that I’m cheap, which I definitely aren’t, or not anymore. Don’t you worry about me, ma’am. You look after yourself. If he,” she said with a cock of her head at Verderan, “invited me to a private room, you wouldn’t find me hanging around jawing.”
That merely linked her with Verderan in Emily’s mind. “Very well, sir,” Emily said with a glare. “I will come and hear what you have to say, and you will hear something from me. But I will take my knight errant!” She summoned Lord Randal and stalked off to the room indicated, which proved to be a dingy, unused parlor, dusty and damp. The curtains actually billowed under the steady, icy draft from the windows.
Coming to a halt, Emily realized that she had just ordered around the son of a duke. She turned to apologize to Lord Randal, who was following with his wife. He put a finger gently on her lips. “Don’t,” he said with a smile. “Apologizing is a bad habit if you’re going to move in these circles. Brazen it out. Consider us your jury.” He then led Sophie to a frayed sofa and helped her off with her coat. They then sat there side by side, cuddling under the sables, waiting to be amused.
Emily turned dazedly to Piers Verderan.
“Speechless?” he said, with a little smile. He caught hold of her hand and swung her into his arms. Her faint struggles were ignored, and Emily found all her anger transformed into a burning need to kiss and be kissed. Her arms went around his neck, and her lips found fire against his. The flames rippled along her nerves bringing feverish heat.
She gasped and opened her lips and dis
covered the spicy warmth of his mouth was lost in the taste and savor of him as she caught fire and burned free. She heard a moan and realized it was her own but her only need was to press ever closer and burn hotter until she was utterly consumed . . .
He pulled away, lingeringly, at last, and Emily moaned a faint protest. As she rested her spinning head against his chest, his hand came up to cradle it protectively.
He shuddered as he murmured, “Emily.” His cheek came down to rub against her curls, and she felt the deep unsteady movements of his chest as he breathed. They matched her own. She had discovered that passion which had no truck with decorum and morals . . .
Then it all came back—the child, the money, their audience . . . She pushed away, horrified, and Verderan let her go, though his darkened eyes held hers for what seemed like eternity.
When she broke that bond and looked at Lord Randal and his wife, however, they were lingeringly finishing a kiss every bit as passionate as theirs. “Dashed awkward to just sit and watch,” said Randal, utterly relaxed, a tender, possessive hand still curled around his wife’s neck. “You didn’t seem to need rescuing yet.”
“You’re all mad!” said Emily, hands to flaming cheeks.
“Then come and be mad with us,” said Verderan, gently drawing her hands down.
“You expect me to join your orgy?” Emily exclaimed in outrage.
“No one is having an orgy here,” he reassured, then glanced humorously at Randal and Sophie. “At least, if there are any orgies, they’ll be private and monogamous. Which,” he added, with a look which made her toes curl, “seems like a very good idea.”
“Indeed,” said Emily. “And what of your little Tit—I mean Tart!”
Emily hid her flaming face on the nearest surface, which happened to be his chest. His arms came around her like angel wings. She heard laughter from Randal and Sophie at her jumbled words, but all he said was, “Little Tit is perfect. Violet Tart, Daffodil Dandy . . . You’ll have to christen everyone else in the house.”
Emily pulled away, though it was the hardest thing she had ever done. “I’m not staying here,” she said fiercely. “I don’t know what’s going on here and I don’t want to—”
“That’s all right,” said Verderan, wrapping an arm around her again. “I don’t know either.”
“Stop doing that!” she gasped, feebly pulling away.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to, and I always do what I want.”
He’d trapped her eyes again. She couldn’t look away. “We’ve had this conversation before,” she whispered.
“How boring for you,” he said softly. “Let’s have a new one. Marry me, Emily.”
“No,” she said instinctively, then instantly regretted it. Then knew it was the right thing.
“Why not?” he asked, undiscouraged. “I can think of a hundred reasons myself, but I had begun to hope you were as mad as I am.”
“I’ve given you no reason to think I’m insane,” Emily protested. “I have always been totally sane and rational until you and that powder—”
“Poudre de Violettes,” he said understandingly. “I know. But I’m sure the effects are permanent and Renfrew’s advice is to just enjoy them.”
Renfrew. The Daffodil Dandy. Felix’s friend. Emily looked over at Lord Randal. “I want to go home,” she said desperately.
With a slight smile, he instantly rose to his feet and came over. “Very well.”
“Randal,” said Verderan in an ominous voice.
“I’m Emily’s knight errant,” said Randal lightly. “If she wishes to leave, she leaves.”
Emily wondered for a terrible minute if a new fight was going to break out over her, but Verderan smiled. “Of course. She’s probably getting rheumatism just standing here. My wits must be addled to try to make love to a woman in such surroundings.”
The last thing Emily had been aware of was cold.
He raised her hand to his lips, and this time there was a speaking look to go with the gesture. “I love you, you know.”
“You can’t,” she protested
“Of course I can,” he said calmly. “Meanwhile, I give my angel charge over thee, ‘lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone.’” Seeing her confusion he said, “Something biblical, which seems to be a theme of ours. Didn’t you know that Randal is the Bright Angel to my Dark? You don’t have a knight errant, my darling, you have a guardian angel. Two, if you want to count me.”
Emily looked up at the Bright Angel in question. “I am not going to marry him,” she said firmly.
“Not if you don’t want to,” he agreed amiably. “But I wouldn’t marry the vicar either.”
“When I finally come to my senses,” said Emily darkly, “he will probably seem a very desirable parti. At least Hector doesn’t shoot people who serve him sago pudding!”
She heard a groan from Verderan as Lord Randal broke into an incredulous grin. “He did what?”
“I did no such thing,” said Verderan.
“You threatened to,” said Emily, swinging around to face him.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Are you going to deny,” she demanded, “that you shot Jake over pudding?”
Verderan sighed. “No. I admit that one. Emily, you’re right. It’s time for you to go home, but I’ll escort you. Randal’s not dressed for riding.”
“I will go alone,” declared Emily, feeling as if the wind had gone out of her sails. She had been making a grand exit, but now she was being dismissed like a schoolroom miss. She expected a fight and looked forward to it. She would show him she was not to be pushed around.
She wasn’t even to be given that. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll come to speak with you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be out,” said Emily uncompromisingly and finally managed to sweep out of the room.
Crossing the hall she heard merry laughter from another room and hesitated. It was clear Titania was in there with the young men and should be rescued. But Emily couldn’t fight that battle at the moment. The girl would obviously be in no significantly lower state tomorrow than she was in today and Emily had more urgent problems to tackle.
Such as convincing herself that marrying Piers Verderan would be a very bad idea.
9
EMILY RETURNED home to find Junia out on one of her nature walks—unlikely as that seemed on such a blustery, soggy day—and so not available to be told just what evidence had been presented to Emily’s own eyes as to Piers Verderan’s true nature.
Even as she paced her room, shredding a lace handkerchief, seething with frustration at having no one suitable to talk to, Emily was haunted by the lingering heat of that kiss. And the simple way he had said, “I love you, you know.”
How could she know anything so ridiculous? Especially when he had just bought an exquisitely beautiful young woman.
Emily skulked in her room, unable to do any meaningful task and unwilling to risk an encounter with Mrs. Dobson. At dinnertime, however, she went down so as not to appear too peculiar. Junia swept in late and windblown.
“Got caught up,” she explained as she attacked her soup. “Some lovely grasses over near the river. And gossip everywhere. What did Hector want?”
“If you’ve been listening to gossip,” said Emily, “you know just what Hector wanted.”
Junia chuckled unrepentantly. “Let’s see. When I first went out, Mrs. Ferryman told me there was a wild party up at Hume House, full of Meltonians and Cyprians. When I passed Greenwood Farm I heard a couple from town had been pursuing their daughter, who’d been lured up there with promises of heaven-knows-what rewards. When I stopped at the Belvoir Arms I heard their drayman had dropped a girl yesterday evening at the drive to Hume House. Pretty little thing and he was sorry to leave her to walk the rest of the way with the rain coming on. How am I doing?”
Emily scowled. “Does the whole county know everything?”
“Don’t they al
ways?” Junia spooned up some soup, then continued. “What next? A bit of a dry patch—nothing but rumors, which appear incidentally to have been spread by our Felix—then I hear you and Hector were seen galloping towards Hume House ventre à terre and that later the town couple were seen heading back to Melton at a fancy pace without their daughter, if daughter she ever was . . . ?”
“Daughter indeed,” said Emily, pushing away her scarce-tasted soup. “She’s a whore. A tartlet. Junia, he bought her for a hundred and fifty guineas, then had the nerve to ask me to marry him!”
“Hmm,” said Junia. “I did get a garbled tale to that effect. That’s what caused me to be late. Betty Wrigley is Mrs. Greely’s niece and she’s only in day service. Just as I was passing she arrived home with a tale of Piers Verderan paying the girl’s parents for her. And you, apparently, sending the vicar off with a flea in his ear when he tried to intervene. Then you stayed in the place and disappeared with the author of all evils.”
Emily hid her face in her hands. “I’ll never live it down.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Junia. “On the whole, people think it’s fine to have some excitement and Hector’s not very popular, you know. He disapproves of so many country amusements. In fact the greatest impression on Betty Wrigley’s mind seemed to have been made by a fur worn by some other young woman.”
Emily looked up. “Sables,” she said wistfully. “Absolutely ravishing sables. Lord Randal Ashby turned up with his wife. I thought she was a whore too, at first. He’s Chloe Stanforth’s handsome cousin, younger son of the Duke of Tyne.”
Junia ignored most of this ramble. “If you marry Piers Verderan, he’ll doubtless deck you in ravishing sables too.”
Until that moment Emily had not admitted how Randal and Sophie had affected her. They so clearly adored one another and their love had set them free. Randal delighted in his wife’s every action; Sophie moved through life, his care a golden shield between her and all unpleasantness. Emily just knew carping criticism and improving guidance had no part in their lives. But she could not believe such magic was for her.
