Emily and the Dark Angel

by Jo Beverley

  Then he was up and away from her, breathing as if he’d run a race. He went a few steps and leant on his horse. Emily scrambled to her feet and looked down helplessly at the muddy mess all over her habit.

  He turned to face her. “When are you going to marry me?” he asked.

  She looked up helplessly. “I’m not,” she said. “I can’t. I don’t belong in your world.”

  “I will make my world whatever you want it to be.”

  “Respectable?” asked Emily with an edge.

  He sucked in a breath. “That’s a low blow, Emily. I think I can create a degree of respectability for you if you wish. Though why you’d wish, I don’t know. Think of all the people you’d have to spend your time with. Respectability’s like heaven. The big problem with heaven is the people who are so certain they’ll be there. Hell has always seemed more promising to me.”

  “There you are, see,” said Emily in despair. “I can’t marry someone who wants to go to Hell.”

  She walked blindly over to Nelson and looked up, unable to mount such a big horse without some kind of aid.

  He came over and offered his linked hands. She put her foot in and was tossed up. She settled into the saddle.

  “I could give you heaven on earth, Emily,” he said.

  She looked down and knew he could. “That’s blasphemy.”

  “Religion again.” He put his hand up and covered hers on the pommel. His face was serious; his eyes dark and intense. “I can show you delights of mind and body, and learn them from you, too. I will set you free to explore the world, and yourself, and me. And I’ll be a secure haven when you need one. Marry me, Emily.”

  It was as if he truly laid heaven on earth out before her as temptation, but a heaven she could hardly believe in. Life wasn’t like that. Life was duty and responsibility and trying to live up to other people’s impossible standards.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  She saw the pain wash briefly over his beautiful face and that made it worse. She’d believed, despite the evidence of her senses, that this was a game for him, a passing fancy. Now she saw the truth . . .

  Then he masked it with a smile and ran his hand down Nelson’s neck. “A fine horse. I’d like to match him against Beelzebub, both fresh, one day. And,” he added pointedly, “over a fair course.”

  “All’s fair—” Emily stopped herself completing that saying.

  “—in love,” he supplied.

  “You’ll doubtless be able to match Beelzebub against Nelson,” she said quickly. “He’ll be hunted at the first Quorn meet next Tuesday.”

  “I rarely ride Bel in a hunt,” he said.

  “But you were the one who lectured me about keeping fine horses to tame work!”

  “I was, wasn’t I,” he admitted ruefully. “I’m too fond of Bel to risk him in a rough field, but I take him along as a second horse and run him if it’s not too wild.”

  Emily patted Nelson’s neck. “Do horses get injured often?” she asked.

  “It depends a lot on the rider, how many risks he takes and how skillful he is.” He went over and swung up onto his horse. “I’m the only one who ever rides Bel these days, and I know I sometimes ride wild, so I protect him from my baser nature.” Emily wondered if there was a message there for her.

  He walked Beelzebub over to her side. “I purchased him for a mistress who believed a fine black horse would set off her coloring. She proved to be unworthy of him, so I bought him back with a diamond parure. She was so delighted by the exchange that I knew her to be unworthy of me too. Do we take the hedge back?”

  This was showing her his baser side with a vengeance. After a moment Emily found her voice. “It can’t be jumped from this side. There’s not enough ground on the other side between the hedge and ditch.”

  He rode over and studied it, then came back and said, “Nonsense.”

  As he turned to ride at the obstacle Emily shouted, “Mr. Verderan, no! Don’t!”

  He swung his horse back. “My name, among friends, is Ver.”

  “Your name is Piers,” she corrected.

  “I don’t like to be called Piers. Ver.”

  “Ver’s a silly name. It’s French for worm.”

  “I know. Do you find it appropriate? People don’t seem to make much of it, somehow.”

  “Because you’d shoot them,” she pointed out tartly.

  “Very likely,” he replied and turned back to the hedge.

  Emily tightened her lips, but as he urged Beelzebub forward she shouted, “Ver, for God’s sake, stop it!”

  He turned back, eyes bright and laughing.

  “Damn you,” she said. “Would you have tried it?”

  “Yes, and your language is becoming less ladylike by the day. I live in hope.”

  “You live in your own portable Bedlam,” she retorted, and set off for the gate at a canter.

  He came to ride alongside her. “Haven’t you ever realized how much fun it is to be mad?”

  “No,” she said repressively, though she knew what he meant.

  “Let me teach you,” he said seductively.

  Emily just urged Nelson to greater speed.

  He rode alongside her all the way home without saying another word, and Emily was aware of him as if he were a fire burning there, heating her without touching. This was impossible.

  At Grantwich Hall he rode into the stables with her and introduced Beelzebub to Haverby.

  “My, he’s a fine one, sir,” said the groom appreciatively.

  “Yes, he is. Just water him when he’s cool.”

  He strolled around the stalls, assessing the horses. “Sound hunters,” he said at last. “Nelson is the best, I’d say. Worth a fair bit.”

  “Yes,” said Emily. It reminded her that he had paid a hundred and fifty guineas for Titania, which was more than she expected to get for any of her horses. She set off briskly for the house.

  When he came up with her she heard herself say sourly, “And how is the girl? Worth what you paid?”

  He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Emily, I didn’t pay for Titania to set her up as my mistress.”

  “Just a temporary convenience, is she?”

  His lips tightened. “Your language is becoming a little too unladylike. I have no interest in the girl at all.”

  “It seems to me,” she declared, “you have a hundred and fifty guineas’ worth of interest.”

  “For a determinedly decent woman, you have a decidedly tart edge to your voice, my dear. She’s free to do as she wishes, and I haven’t touched her. Do you believe me?”

  Emily looked at him, feeling slightly ashamed. “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll never lie to you.”

  “So,” said Emily. “If I find her a suitable position, you won’t stand in my way?”

  He gave a little sigh. “No, of course not, but, Emily, Titania’s views on suitable positions and yours are not exactly in harmony.”

  Emily nodded. “I see she’s ambitious and I admire her for that. She has pretty manners when she tries. Perhaps I can find her a position as a companion.”

  “I doubt it, but even if you could, a companion will not make the kind of money Titania stands to make plying her trade.”

  “Whoring? She can’t want to do that.”

  “Yes, she can,” he said. “With the right protector it’s as good as being married. She’ll have a house and carriage, servants and jewels. Look at Harriette Wilson. And with luck she’ll get to keep most of it when she changes hands ...”

  “Changes hands!” protested Emily.

  “Usually when the man marries. It’s not good form for a married man to keep a regular mistress, especially when newly wed. She’ll have a say as to whom she goes to next and it’s not beyond reason that she marry one of them. Emma Hamilton did, after all.”

  “But it’s wrong,” protested Emily doggedly.

  “So conventional morality says, but it’s marriage without the church and a far bette
r marriage than a girl like Titania could ever dream of. Not as permanent as Holy Wedlock, I’ll grant you, but generally a good deal more honest.”

  “And you have the nerve to ask me to marry you?” Emily snapped.

  He reached out and cupped her cheek. “If you marry me, Emily, I’ll never take another woman to my bed.”

  “I can’t,” she said blindly, pulled away and marched on towards the house. He attempted no further persuasion.

  There she found Randal and Sophie being entertained quite conventionally by Junia in an old grey round gown with a tear in the skirt.

  Junia stared. “My goodness, Emily, you must have had a fall!”

  Emily looked down at her habit and flushed. “Yes, I did. I’ll just change if you will excuse me, Lady Randal, Lord Randal.”

  As she stripped off the muddied garment she wondered how Verderan would explain his soiled clothing. He wouldn’t even bother to try, and anyway, Junia, Randal and Sophie would all guess exactly what had occurred.

  He was like water on a stone—or more likely, fire at a pile of kindling. He was destroying her will and the standards in which she had been reared. Each time they met he made the idea of marriage to him seem a little less ridiculous, and a great deal more pleasant.

  But could she live with a man who thought whoring an honest profession and hell more attractive than heaven and who shot people who did not share his taste in food?

  10

  WHEN SHE went downstairs, Emily found Verderan had already left, making his damp and muddy garments his excuse. She was alarmed at how much she missed him. The rot was already deep.

  After tea, the four walked out into the garden and Junia went ahead with Sophie, while Emily followed with Lord Randal. She was aware of a desire, a craving, to bring the conversation around to Verderan. He did it for her.

  “My considered opinion,” he said bluntly, “is that you should marry Ver, you know.”

  “Why?” Emily asked.

  “Apart from the fact you love each other?” he queried, bringing heat to her cheeks. “Ver needs you.” He flashed her a charming smile. “I know I’m supposed to be your protector, but my friendship with Ver goes back a long way. I have to take his needs into account too.”

  “Do you think such a marriage would be to my benefit at all, my lord?” Emily demanded.

  “Of course. It does no one any harm to be loved. Of course, if you set tremendous store on pattern-card respectability there would be problems. I don’t think Ver will settle to that any more than I am likely to.”

  “I have always thought respectability to be very important,” said Emily. She tried to make it sound like a declaration of faith, but he caught the cavil in it.

  “And now?” he asked.

  “And now,” she admitted, “I don’t know ...” Emily quickly turned to another subject. “Lord Randal, do horses often get injured in the hunt?”

  “Assuredly. Some men regard it as an exercise in derring-do and will fly at anything.”

  “What of Dick Christian? Do you know him?”

  “Of course. He’s a fine rider and a good judge of horse and obstacle. Still, his job is usually to make the horse look like a prime hunter, to push it. If he thinks a horse could really shine he’ll challenge it. Why do you ask?”

  “I need to sell my father’s hunters,” she admitted. “I have hired him to ride them.”

  He looked slightly startled. “Is that wise—selling them, I mean?”

  “There is no one to ride them,” she pointed out.

  “But still. Your brother ...”

  “My brother is almost certainly dead or badly injured, Lord Randal. My father wants them sold.” She found herself adding, “The successful sale is the price for me keeping control of the estate out of Cousin Felix’s hands.” What was it about Lord Randal Ashby that broke through her natural reticence?

  “Hm.” He seemed very thoughtful. “And the one you rode today. Is he to be sold first?”

  “No,” Emily said. “I wanted to see how Christian worked out. He is to ride Wallingford next Monday—a good sound hunter—then Nelson the next day. Will you be at the first meet? It’s the Cottesmore, I believe.”

  “No. I’m not hunting this year.” The tender glance towards his wife told Emily the reason. She envied Sophie that kind of devotion and wondered if Piers Verderan would give up hunting for her.

  “That’s a shame,” she commented on his decision. “I need someone to negotiate for me. I can do it, or Father—though he’s so tetchy these days. A Meltonian would be better.”

  “Ask Ver.”

  It was the obvious solution, but one her instincts screamed against. “That wouldn’t be wise.”

  Randal let the matter drop. He found this eagerness to sell the horses amusing, considering the imminent return of the son of the house, but he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about Marcus Grantwich’s goings-on.

  Later that day, however, he reported the conversation to Verderan.

  “I had the impression the sale of the horses was some sort of wager,” said Verderan. “It sounds a dim-witted one. Typical of Sir Henry, I suspect.”

  “What do you think is going to happen when Captain Grantwich comes back to find his stables bare?” Randal asked with amusement.

  “Serves him right,” said Verderan callously. “I’ve taken the man in dislike in absentia. He never seems to have valued Emily as he should and has shown a callous disregard for his family in the past year. Even if his activities were secret he could have assured himself of their well-being. In fact, I’ll be happy to do my best to sell all the horses as quickly as possible.”

  “Then Emily will need someone to handle the sale for her.”

  Verderan smiled. “Indeed she will, and it will give substance to rumors of closeness if I do it. As well,” he added wickedly, “as giving me an excellent reason to visit her tomorrow.”

  Thus Emily was brought the news at the breakfast table that Mr. Verderan wished to see her. As she was alone—Junia was breakfasting in bed—she indulged in sheer bravado and had him brought to her at table.

  “You’re about so early,” she said meaningfully, “you are probably hungry. May I offer you anything?”

  He sat down opposite her, completely at his ease. “Anything?” he queried, causing her to blush. “I have eaten,” he went on smoothly, “but I would like some coffee if there’s any left in the pot.”

  Emily prayed for cool cheeks as she rang for an extra cup. “A little early for a call, is it not?”

  “You’re such an active young lady,” he riposted. “I was afraid you’d be out again. I’m getting too old to be always haring around the countryside after you.”

  Emily choked on a piece of toast at such an obvious bouncer.

  Instead of Mary, Mrs. Dobson stalked into the breakfast room with a cup and saucer in hand. She banged it down on the table dangerously hard and surveyed Verderan, tight-lipped. He flashed Emily a questioning, even alarmed, look. She had to fight a case of the giggles. How exactly did one introduce a rakish suitor to an overprotective housekeeper?

  “Eh, Dobby, this is Mr. Verderan. Casper Sillitoe’s heir. Mr. Verderan, this is Mrs. Dobson, our housekeeper. She’s been with us forever,” she explained.

  He turned on one of his most charming smiles and rose to his feet to bow. “Mrs. Dobson, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  Dobby actually blushed. If it wasn’t a flush of anger. Her words made it clear she was no more immune to his inveigling than any other woman. “Well, I never. Pleasure I’m sure. Not but what it’s a mite early . . . but then again ...” She looked around at a loss and grasped her true business with relief. “Perhaps you’d like some toast, sir. Or ham. I’ve lovely fresh eggs ...”

  “Having tasted your cooking recently I’m very tempted, Mrs. Dobson, but I’ve already breakfasted.”

  “Yes, well,” said the woman hazily. “I’ll be on my way, then.” She showed she was not totally bamboozled by
adding, “I’ll just leave the door open, Miss Emily.”

  “Well,” said Emily, as she poured coffee into his cup. “What a disgraceful exhibition.”

  “You shouldn’t be so harsh on the poor lady.”

  “I was referring to you, Mr. Verderan,” said Emily frostily. “Have you no shame?”

  “No,” he said with a smile. “I like this.”

  “What?” Emily asked warily.

  “Sitting across the table from you in the morning.”

  Emily smiled tightly. “And you without a hangover. How remarkable.”

  “Emily, darling, put some sugar in your coffee. I never have hangovers.”

  She suppressed all awareness of the “darling” and raised a skeptical brow.

  “I told you I’d never lie to you. I don’t get hangovers. These days I rarely drink enough to even get bosky.”

  “Next you’ll be telling me you don’t gamble.”

  “Certainly I do, but that’s one reason I don’t drown my wits. If I gamble I keep my head straight.”

  Emily remembered some of the stories her brother and father told of their nights at the tables. “Isn’t that a little unsporting?”

  He chuckled. “Doubtless. But I don’t force others into the fourth bottle.”

  Emily was finding this all too beguiling. She too could imagine the joys of regularly taking breakfast with him. “So, Mr. Verderan,” she said firmly, “what is your reason for this early visit? If you are concerned about the sheep on High Burton, I have arranged for the repairs to be made.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the sheep on High Burton,” he said amiably. “For all I care, they can eat the covert and the foxes too.”

  Emily gasped.

  “I came for the simple pleasure of seeing you, my ruling passion, my all-consuming flame.”

  Emily felt a proper lady would flee, but it seemed foolish to flee mere words. Some words, however, did not merit the description “mere.” She heard herself gasp a pathetic, “Please don’t!”

  “Emily,” he chided gently. “Throw off this dull conformity. You don’t want or need it any more than you want your grandmother’s stomacher. I’m taking pleasure from just sitting here across the table from you. Can you deny you are pleased to have me here?”