Emily and the Dark Angel

by Jo Beverley

  She couldn’t face food. Even as Mary came in with the next course, she stood up abruptly. “You can’t expect me to marry a man who buys children.”

  Mary stopped dead, mouth agape.

  “It depends what he does with them, I suppose,” said Junia. “Put that tray down, Mary, before you drop it.” The maid did so and left in a hurry. “More gossip,” murmured Junia. She eagerly investigated the food beneath the silver covers.

  “I would have thought it was obvious what he was going to do with this one,” snapped Emily.

  “Doesn’t do to leap to conclusions,” said Junia. “You should eat. The pork chops are done as you like them.”

  Before Emily could respond, Mrs. Dobson stalked in, working apron on and stirring spoon in hand. “Miss Emily,” she declared, “I hope I know my place, but I can’t and won’t stand by to see you throw yourself before swine! Mary says you’re going to marry Casper Sillitoe’s nephew. Him as has all those loose women up there. And children too, Mary says.”

  “It’s not true, Dobby,” Emily protested.

  “What isn’t?”

  “Any of it. At least,” she admitted, “there’s one loose woman. But no children and I’m not going to marry him.”

  With that, she fled to the miserable privacy of her room and thought longingly of being wrapped in the angel-wings of Piers Verderan’s love.

  And, it must be admitted, of being wrapped in sables and kissed whenever and wherever the mood took them.

  As the hours chimed away on the hall clock, she imagined the progress of the evening at Hume House, coming to the time when she could no longer delay the thought of Verderan leading his purchase upstairs to finally earn her keep.

  In fact, Verderan had provided Titania with a room with a lock and key, but beyond that he had no intention of interfering in her life. He hadn’t even tried to find out what she and Kevin Renfrew had been up to since her arrival late the previous evening.

  It should have been obvious; yet with Renfrew one never knew, and Titania’s behavior to the young man made it clear she did not regard him as a potential protector, more as a brother.

  Despite the sudden influx of visitors, dinner had been surprisingly adequate. Mrs. Greely had merely produced enormous quantities of well-cooked plain food, which was exactly to the tastes of the six healthy young men. With the addition of Casper Sillitoe’s excellent cellar and the presence of two pretty, charming, and undemanding women, the meal had been a roaring success.

  Verderan had suggested that Titania be asked to dine elsewhere, but Sophie would have none of it and Randal raised no objection, so he had merely kept an eye on her to make sure she behaved. In fact, she did very well, so perhaps Violet had earned her commission.

  He had no intention, however, even if Randal’s tolerance stretched that far, of having the ladies go apart after dinner. He initiated a game of loo for penny points, which most of the company were still young enough to enjoy, after which he sent Titania to bed.

  He hadn’t noticed any assignation being made.

  Shortly after, Sophie went up to the room allocated to the Ashbys and Randal escorted her. Verderan abandoned the young set at that point and sought his own room. He had a fire, some brandy, and books, and at last an opportunity to think of Emily.

  Just how disastrous had the whole scene been? Despite her outrage, despite her blunt rejection of his suit, there was that kiss.

  God, he’d known there was passion in her, but he’d never dreamt they would come together like pitch and flame. If it hadn’t been for Randal and Sophie, inadequate chaperones though they were, he might have surrendered to the fire then and there. . . .

  As if summoned by the thought, Randal knocked and entered, dressed in a cream and gold banjan.

  Verderan grinned and said, “You’ll be putting Renfrew’s nose out of joint.”

  “Impossible to do,” Randal said, subsiding elegantly into a chair by the fire and accepting a large glass of brandy. “You appear to have the only truly habitable room in the house, you know.”

  “Are you complaining? What else can unexpected guests expect?”

  “I’m not complaining. The standard of entertainment so far has been excellent. I’ve come to report on Marcus Grantwich.”

  “It necessitates a midnight tryst?”

  “After a fashion. Took a bit of doing, sorting all this out . . .”

  “Is he alive?”

  “As far as anyone knows. Stop interrupting, and let me relate the great efforts I expended on your behalf. Government circles ain’t my usual milieu, you know. In fact,” he confessed, “if Chelmly hadn’t turned up to speak on some agricultural bill, I’d have been stumped.”

  “How is he?”

  “Pretty good and reassessing his life busily. The mere thought that I might have inherited if his injury had proved fatal has given him a new enthusiasm for marriage. The trouble is that he can’t seem to find anyone to his taste. Even attended a few ’do’s, but the sight of all those wide-eyed ingenues salivating over his future coronet panicked him.”

  “Don’t blame him. But what about Emily’s brother?”

  “Chelmly turned a few rocks and discovered amazing things. Captain Marcus Grantwich, you’ll be pleased to hear, is not missing in action at all, Ver. He’s been involved for the past year with something mysterious.”

  “Undercover work?”

  “Very undercover, probably underhand. Something to do with smugglers and highwaymen on the south coast and definitely not to be recorded in dispatches.”

  “Oho. But he must have had word of his father’s accident.”

  “Apparently not. Whatever he’s been doing was going so well that his commanding officers thought it best not to disturb him with trivialities. They’ve been persuaded otherwise by now—one gathers his project was coming to a natural end anyway. You can expect him, I would think, any day.”

  Verderan leaned back with a smile. “Good,” he said. “Thank you for your efforts.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “About it being good,” said Randal. “Talking to people, I got the feeling Captain Grantwich is a fire-eater who’d defend his womenfolk to the death. He may not take to his sister marrying you, and today’s little drama isn’t going to raise your reputation in the neighborhood.”

  “Emily’s of age. He can’t stop her from marrying me if she decides to do so.”

  Randal raised a skeptical brow but made no further comment. “Care to relate the background history to all of this?”

  So Verderan told him the events leading up to the day’s histrionics.

  “I didn’t realize you had a mind to settle down,” commented Randal.

  “Nor did I until the Poudre de Violettes addled my brain,” said Verderan dryly. But then he added, “I think it’s all your fault, actually.”

  “I didn’t fix you up with Violet Vane.”

  “No, but you inveigled me into polite society for your wedding,” said Verderan, lounging back in his chair and watching the dancing flames in the hearth. “It was strange, but I found I liked it. Out of consideration for you, I suppose, I was accepted. I met young women who didn’t shrink in horror or throw themselves at me”—he flashed a look at Randal—“or anyway, not as much as usual. I saw you and Sophie . . .”

  He laughed, and refilled their glasses. “I must admit that at first I thought any man must be mad to let a woman tangle him in such a coil. Now, however, I find it has its own masochistic appeal. Especially with the hope of better days to come.”

  “And do you have such hopes?”

  Verderan slanted him a humorous glance. “Do you doubt me?”

  “I was wondering,” mused Randal, “when you were going to explain all about pudding.”

  Verderan laughed. “Not until my wedding night if I can help it. And I’ll make sure there are no lethal weapons to hand.” But then he sobered and rose to his feet. “I have no doubt I can snare her, Randa
l. I’ve all the tricks of seduction, God knows, and she’s so vulnerable—both naive and passionate. But should I? I’m ready to settle down, but that can never change what I have been. Nor will it wipe out what people think I am.”

  “Perhaps you ought to sort out your grandfather once and for all.”

  Verderan went to lean against the window frame, to look out at clouded dark. “That’s a book better left closed.”

  There was a silence broken only by the tick of the clock and the crackle of the fire.

  “I decided to marry Sophie,” said Randal at last, “because I realized I could never trust any other man to love her as I would love her, to keep her safe and at the same time set her free. Is there another man you can trust to do the same for Emily Grantwich?”

  Verderan turned sharply and met his friend’s eyes. “No,” he said. “There isn’t.” He stood in thought for a moment, then shrugged. “So be it.”

  Randal rose and put down his empty glass. “So be it. And speaking of love, Sophie awaits.” At the door, he kissed his fingers to Verderan. “Sweet dreams, my friend. I, however,” he added, “have the reality. Envy me.”

  Verderan laughed. “‘A brave man or a fortunate one is able to bear envy,’” he quoted. “And I am brave and hope to be fortunate. Go away before you tax my tolerance.”

  As soon as the door closed he leant his head against the cold window glass and relived that extraordinary kiss, cursing softly. He’d not felt such burning frustration since his school days.

  After a restless night Emily arose the next day clear about one thing only. She must be out of the house when Piers Verderan called. She knew it would be no good to merely deny herself. A man like that would ride roughshod over poor Mary.

  The sun had returned and the outdoors beckoned. She would go to High Burton and attend to the matter of the broken hedge. Surely after that she could think of other business to keep her away from home. She chose to ride Nelson since he would so soon be sold.

  At least that was one matter which was in order. Griswold would want his money by the middle of the month, but by then all three horses should have been ridden by Dick Christian in a hunt, and hopefully sold well. Next Monday would see the first run of the season, a Quorn meet, and that would be Wallingford’s turn.

  She didn’t feel easy until she was on Nelson and well away from the house. She wouldn’t put it past that man to turn up before decent folk were through with their breakfasts. It wasn’t so much that she was afraid to meet him, but she had said she wouldn’t be in when he called, and was determined to keep her word.

  As she galloped across a field she saw the red flash of a fox, late home to its earth.

  “Enjoy the day,” she said to herself. “By next week you will only be amusement.”

  At High Burton, she found the sheep mostly in their proper places and inspected the fence with the shepherd. It was a simple matter and couldn’t be stretched out to take the morning, even with a prolonged chat about the flock’s illustrious breeding lines.

  Next she remembered a minor problem to do with a tenant farmer four miles away and set off at a gentle pace to attend to it. Hopefully, as it was in the opposite direction to Hume House, the gossip wouldn’t have reached there.

  The farmer’s wife, Letty Edwards, had an outstanding claim against the Cottesmore Poultry Fund for chickens lost to foxes nearly a year ago. As landlord, Emily promised to take the matter up with the fund manager. She also accepted an invitation to eat, and shared a hearty steak and kidney pie with the family. As she hadn’t eaten dinner or breakfast, she enjoyed this thoroughly.

  Until Farmer Edwards said, “Hear tell you’re to marry that Lunnon man, as has taken over Sillitoe place, Miss Grantwich. Take you away, I reckon. Sir Henry put in a manager, you reckon?”

  “No,” said Emily, reflecting that at least the man only seemed interested in the matter as it would affect him. “I mean, I am not planning to marry anyone, Mr. Edwards. I will manage the estate until my brother comes home.”

  She saw the skeptical look flash between the man and his wife, but nothing was said other than a noncommittal grunt. Did they not believe Marcus to be safe? That was reasonable. Emily’s sensitivities, however, were all turned towards Piers Verderan and she was sure they were skeptical about him.

  After that stop, she could not think of another errand, so she merely took a long way home and took her time about it.

  She was trotting along a lane down to the village when she heard a shout. She looked up and saw three riders on a rise—Lord Randal, his wife, and Piers Verderan. Verderan set Beelzebub into action to canter down towards her.

  In a spurt of pure panic, Emily hauled Nelson around and urged him flat out in the opposite direction. After a little while she glanced back, half hoping that Verderan would have taken the hint and gone his way. He was hard in pursuit.

  Was it fear she felt now? Or was it challenge? Whatever it was, it burned in her blood like a fever.

  “Right, Nelson,” murmured Emily. “We can take that black devil.” She turned the horse towards a gate into a field, cleared it, and set across towards the next fence. Nelson stretched, and the horse’s thrill of the race seemed to surge through into her. Emily leant forward and encouraged him on.

  Another glance showed her Verderan clearing the fence with elegance. Beelzebub was a fine mount and probably fresher than Nelson, but Emily knew this land like her own back garden. She rode Nelson fast at a hedge and cleared it ready for the unexpected dip in the ground beyond. As they flew on through a field of cows to the next barrier she glanced behind her and saw Beelzebub peck on landing and be masterfully collected.

  She felt a twinge of guilt at putting the horse in such danger, but hoped it would teach Piers Verderan caution and slow him down.

  The next barrier was an oxer—two fences with space between. An in-and-out. Nelson took it in style and then set off up a gentle slope. Emily had to ease him a little, for this was the end of a long day for him. A worried glance showed her Beelzebub cruising up the hill as if it was the flat.

  Once over the top, though, she raced down towards an unusual obstacle—a hedge with a ditch on both sides. It could be jumped from this side by clearing both ditch and hedge at the precise spot where the latter was low, then taking precarious footing on a bit of firm ground to leap the far ditch. She and Marcus had mastered it once, and she knew she could do it again. Verderan would have to go a quarter mile to the gate.

  She set Nelson firmly at the barrier despite his doubts, and he cleared it. The horse faltered slightly at the far side when he saw the second ditch, but she held him steady and took him over it.

  “Good boy,” she praised the fidgety horse once they were on firm ground. Nelson was obviously having grave doubts about her sanity.

  She turned to wave a cheery goodbye to her pursuer.

  And saw Piers Verderan setting his horse at the jump.

  “No!” she cried.

  He’d obviously watched her technique. Beelzebub hopped over the fence short, which was the only way to land right on the far side, then tried to jump the ditch. His footing slipped and he pecked badly, sending his rider crashing to the ground even as the horse recovered and found firm ground.

  Verderan lay still. Beelzebub stood close by, head lowered as if apologizing.

  Emily cantered Nelson down, flung herself off, and ran to Verderan’s side.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered, as she searched his body with her eyes and hands for broken bones or swellings.

  His blue eyes opened, smiling, his arms came around her, and he dragged her on top of him. “There’s no place you cannot get over with a fall,” he said with a grin. “Tom Assheton-Smith definitely knows his stuff.”

  Emily struggled. “You crazy man! You could have killed yourself!”

  “Then I’d have died for love of you,” he said.

  Emily stopped fighting and lay plastered over him, head to foot. “You can’t really love me,” she protest
ed.

  “And you can’t be such a widgeon. Love isn’t rational or ordered, Emily. It’s mad and wonderfully crazy.”

  “Then you don’t want to love me,” she said sadly.

  He kissed her. “I didn’t sit down one day and say ‘I want to fall in love with Emily Grantwich.’ But I am in love with you, and it is utterly delightful. Are you in love with me?”

  “No,” said Emily, instinctively keeping her head down on his chest. He said nothing and she eventually had to peep at him.

  He raised a skeptical brow. “I’m the world’s most conceited fellow,” he said. “You’ll have to work hard to convince me of that.”

  She struggled again, but the angel wings had turned to bands of iron. “I don’t want to love you,” she said, collapsing once more onto his chest. With a smirk she added, “You’re going to be awfully muddy.”

  “I’ll doubtless get rheumatics,” he agreed. “Will you minister to me, Emily? Rub liniment into my shoulders ...” His hands moved to massage her shoulders, sending a shiver of pleasure down her spine. “. . . My poor aching back ...” His hands moved down to press and rub in the small of her back.

  Emily took a deep shuddering breath and wriggled. He took a deep shuddering breath beneath her.

  “And lower?” he murmured, moving his hands lower to cup her bottom.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “Getting carried away,” he admitted softly. “One of us is going to have to put a ruthless stop to this, or take the consequences. And you’re on top.”

  Emily began to scramble off him, but then she looked and saw his darkened eyes, the touch of color in his cheeks, saw the way he breathed. A sense of power came over her that she could do this to a man, to this man. Slowly, against the screaming of her conscience, she lowered her lips to his.

  His hands came around her again, and the fire burst into flame. He rolled them halfway, and her hands sought the lines of his back, the smooth skin of his nape, the crisp edge of his hair. She felt a hand slide around her and up to her breast . . .