Outwitting the Duke

by Deb Marlowe

  “Ah, someone told you about Hartsworth, then?” Lady Hartford said, watching her over the rim of her cup.

  “Hart told me that it is an estate, and it made me remember some whispers that I’d heard—but I thought they were talking about some sort of tiara.”

  “Hart told you?” his mother repeated. Why did she sound incredulous?

  “Yes.” Hart had told her—and clearly it meant something to them, although she couldn’t figure it out. He was being everything kind and solicitous and Emily began to wonder if he was trying to convince the ton of his regard—or her.

  It was useless to know which she hoped it would turn out to be.

  She doubted he would turn up at tonight’s entertainment. It was a literary salon hosted by Lord and Lady Ellesworth. She hadn’t thought anything of the invitation when it came, save for being pleased to be one of the ladies asked to read, but she’d paused at her first glimpse of the baroness.

  She knew her. Miss Glenna Bolton, she had once been. They shared blood.

  Lady Ellesworth was the legitimate granddaughter of the Duke of Danby’s sister Georgina. Emily was her illegitimate counterpart.

  A baroness now, Glenna had once been a shopkeeper, just like Emily’s parents. She’d kept a bookshop. Emily had stopped in once, giving in to curiosity. Glenna had run the shop and looked after her grandfather, who had slept in a chaise by the window during her visit.

  Emily relaxed now, remembering. The girl had not known her then, of a certainty she would not, now.

  She couldn’t help but be tense, though, when Lady Ellesworth approached to thank her for taking part in the readings, but the baroness was everything welcoming.

  “How did you make your selection for tonight, Miss Latham? I was surprised by your choice. An American devotee of Mr. Burns?”

  “I am indeed a devotee, my lady. He speaks to something inside of me.” She paused. “Thank you for the loan of your copy of his works. I’m glad there is someone else here tonight who enjoys him.”

  “Oh, I do. I was wondering, however, if you have traveled to Scotland?”

  “I hope to, very soon,” she hedged.

  “You will love it, I feel sure. In the meantime, are you enjoying your stay in London?”

  “I am. London is a wonderful city—full of so many layers.” She wasn’t strictly lying, but still, she hated the subterfuge. The baroness did not deserve it.

  “It is, at that.” The other woman cocked her head. “Do you find yourself homesick?”

  Emily gave her a crooked smile. “I miss my mother dreadfully.”

  The baroness nodded. “Family is a wonderful thing, is it not?” She watched Emily closely, as if the question were an important one.

  “Family is everything,” Emily answered that one easily.

  “I am glad I am not the only one who thinks so.” Lady Ellesworth nodded toward the surrounding crowd. “But friends are important too.”

  “Some friends become the family that you choose,” Emily agreed, thinking of Jasper.

  “Indeed—as do husbands.” The baroness gave a melting look towards her own, across the room.

  Emily flushed and buried a sharp pang of longing. “If one is lucky enough to choose the right husband.”

  Lady Ellesworth’s gaze snapped back. “Did you not choose Lord Hartford?”

  She hesitated, unsure what would be best to say. “He was chosen for me,” she said at last, “but I accepted him.” She sighed and gave a shrug. “And I’m glad I did.”

  The baroness raised her glass. “Here’s to family and friendship.” She drank, and then smiled. “I like you, Miss Latham.”

  Emily tipped her own glass. “Likewise, Lady Ellesworth.”

  The readings began and soon enough it was her turn. She took her spot on the dais and opened her book of poems by Robert Burns.

  “I’ve chosen one of my favorites, The Flowering Banks of Cree,” she told the audience. “I hope you will enjoy it.”

  The room grew quiet as she began and she tried to do the sweet words justice. She had reached the line

  At once ‘tis music and ‘tis love

  when she felt the first tingle. All the hairs on her neck and arms stood up in a sudden, sensual awareness. She glanced up to see Hart at the back of the room, his gaze intent on her. She read on, and when she reached the lines welcoming love, she raised her gaze again, to meet his full on.

  She took her bow at the end, but the polite applause was dulled by a thick fog. He was here—and the shimmering, dancing energy between them was the only thing that cut through the haze.

  He came forward and took her hand as she descended, leading her to the back of the Lady Ellesworth’s music room. When she would have taken a seat in the back row, he tugged her onward.

  She followed and he led her toward the back of the house to a tiny parlor.

  “This is likely for the family’s use and not a guest room at all,” she objected in a whisper.

  “Yes, which means that we’ll be left alone here,” he returned. “I have a gift for you and I wished to give it in private.”

  “A gift?” She frowned past a surge of excitement. “That wasn’t part of our agreement, my lord.”

  “I think you’ll forgive me. Close your eyes.”

  She did, her heart pounding. And he set something big, solid and heavy in her hands.

  A book. “Ivanhoe,” she whispered, her eyes filling.

  “So you can start your own collection again,” he said softly.

  A tear leaked out and she closed her eyes against the rest. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  His thumb traced the tear, then his hand cupped her jaw and he was kissing her. The book impeded them, but she clutched it tight and refused to let go, leaning in and opening her mouth to his as a different path to intimacy.

  For that’s what they were creating with each sigh and every pleasurable stroke of their tongues. Heavens yes, they desired each other, but this was deeper than a kiss, beyond mere desire. They were spiraling into sensual, heady depths of knowing. Of certainty. Of the promise of everything more.

  “Hart,” she breathed at last. “This is a mistake.”

  He leaned his forehead against hers. “Very likely. But still, we are going to make it.”

  “Are we?” she asked.

  “Together.”

  “How?” She grew near tears again, from frustration and longing. “It’s impossible. We’ve made it so.”

  “We’ll find a way.” He said it fiercely. A vow.

  She only nodded, letting in a first, small tendril of hope.

  “I can’t stay. I have a late committee meeting. But I couldn’t keep away, not entirely.” He kissed her again, quickly, and set her away.

  “Thank you for the gift.”

  “And thank you for yours.”

  She hadn’t given him a gift. But she knew what he meant. And it filled her heart.

  He bowed over her hand and left.

  And she sat, holding her book and dreaming . . . for who knows how long.

  It was footsteps that roused her. Soft, but steady. Emily arose from the plush chair where she’d been drifting. She didn’t want to get caught in here. She didn’t really wish to talk to anyone at all, but she supposed she would go and put the book with her wrap and go back to the readings—once whoever was in the passage had passed.

  Except the footsteps slowed. Were they coming in here? Feeling slightly panicked and a little silly, she slipped behind the door.

  The creak of another door led her to peek through the crack into the passageway. A green baize servant’s door, just beyond her room and on the other side, cracked open. A maid slid through—and met up with Miss Paxton.

  “Did anyone see you leave?” the young lady demanded.

  “No, Miss.”

  Emily was suddenly and incredibly glad they could not see her.

  “Do you still have the vial?”

  “Yes, Miss.” She didn’t sound happy about it.<
br />
  “Keep it safely tucked away. Lord Hartford has already come and gone. We’ve missed our chance tonight—but we will catch him at his aunt’s ball. He’ll be obligated to stay the night through.”

  The maid ducked her head. “Yes, Miss,” she whispered.

  “Don’t go soft on me now,” Miss Paxton snapped. She crossed to the parlor where Emily hid and peeked in. Finding it empty and only dimly lit, she turned and struck the doorframe as she turned back, making Emily jump and her grip on the large book slip. She hung on and pressed back against the wall.

  “Damn my father, in any case,” Miss Paxton hissed. “We wouldn’t have to get up to this scheming if he would only consent to follow Lord Ardman home.”

  “Will he not relent, Miss? It seems so much . . . safer, to take care of it that way.”

  “He will not. He doesn’t find it seemly.”

  “I know it leaves you in desperate straits, but Lord Hartford does seem happy with his betrothed.”

  “Damn her, too. Pushy American. Lord Hartford is the right height and coloring—and if I have to trap a man then it might as well be one who owns an estate like Hartsworth.” She paused. “That castle might make all of this worry and bother worth it, at that.”

  Emily sucked in a shocked, silent breath and her fingers, bloodless from gripping the book so tightly, slipped. Ivanhoe’s heavy cover fell forward and hit the door, making a small but definite thud.

  The other two women froze. Miss Paxton pushed the maid forward and pointed to the parlor door. The poor girl moved past Emily’s view, looking in, then came back, shrugging.

  “Back to the kitchens with you, then,” the young lady commanded. “I’ll go back to the party.”

  Emily sighed in relief as the two went their separate ways, then allowed a great blaze of anger to roar high. She stalked down the passage, her mind a whirl of fury and resolve.

  She stopped when she reached the music room again and found Miss Paxton standing in the doorway with a small group, gaze fastened on the passage. When she saw Emily emerge, she speared her with a glare of narrowed eyes.

  Emily stopped and returned the disdainful glance, lifting her chin.

  The gauntlet had been thrown and accepted. The challenge was on.

  Chapter 8

  Emily had once seen an electric machine. The showman had flipped a switch and jagged lines of electricity had shot out in every direction. She currently felt just like that sphere—and each jagged bolt of electricity arcing from her was a different emotion.

  She wanted Hart. Finally admitting it, contemplating the real possibility, filled her with hope and despair.

  She wanted to strangle Miss Paxton. No matter what happened or what it cost her, Emily was determined that that harpy would not get her claws into Hart.

  Most of all, she wanted her mother.

  Now that, she had some control over. She boxed up her ball gown, told the countess that she had an appointment to have it fitted, took Molly for propriety, and set out for Madame Lalbert’s.

  Miss Carmichael was there, showing off the last fitting for her new ball gown in the outer room. Emily admired it with everyone else, nodded at the other customer choosing fabrics in the corner and asked Madame if she might have Mrs. Spencer’s help with her dress.

  The front door bell rang again as another customer entered, but Emily didn’t pause to see who it was. She moved purposefully toward the back, and when her mother pulled the curtain shut, she tossed the box aside and fell into her arms. “Oh, Mama! It’s terrible!”

  “Oh, my darling, what is it?” Her mother clutched her tightly. “What’s happened? Is it Lord Hartford?”

  “No. Yes.” Her voice broke. “I don’t know!”

  Breaking away to hold her face in her hands, her mother scanned her. Her eyes darted about—and then her face fell. “Oh, dear. You’ve done it, haven’t you? Fallen in love with him?”

  Emily bit her lip. “How can you tell?”

  “Your glow, your flush. The light of joy and the shadow of fear in your eye.” Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, my dear, I warned you against this.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Emily whispered.

  “No. We never do, do we?” She sank down on a nearby stool. “I didn’t want this for you! I don’t want you to know the pain of always waiting on someone who will never be there for you.”

  “It isn’t like that, Mama.” She knelt at her mother’s feet and laid her head in her lap. “He loves me too.”

  Her mother heaved a sigh. “Well, that is something.” She thought a moment as her fingers shifted in Emily’s hair. “But, how—I still don’t see—”

  “I know!” Emily interrupted her in despair. “There’s no way forward for us—and that isn’t even the worst part. There is a wicked girl . . .” She told her mother everything, then and, looking up, watched her grow whiter as the story went on.

  “Good heavens, this is much more complicated than I could have imagined.” She stood and pulled Emily to her feet too. “I think perhaps we should put an end to this.”

  “No! I cannot leave yet. I will not let Miss Paxton hurt him.”

  “Have you warned him?”

  “I sent him an urgent message, but he is in Richmond interviewing a land agent and will not likely see it until tonight. I have to warn him—and I know you are right. I have to finish this. But, oh—I don’t want to! That horrid girl has stolen my last days with him.” A sob broke through. “Mama, what am I going to do?”

  Before her mother could answer, the curtain was swept open. Emily turned in horror to find Miss Paxton standing there in terrible triumph. “Mama!” she repeated. “Your mother?” She stared between the two of them. “I knew it! I knew there was something wrong about you! You’re a fraud!”

  Emily stepped forward to shield her mother. “And what do you think you are?” she asked the girl.

  Miss Paxton looked surprised, but then she gave them an ugly grin. “I think I am the winner, you tart!”

  “Katharine! Do hurry!” It was Mrs. Paxton calling. “I told you we did not have time to stop in.”

  “I’m coming, Mother,” she answered, never taking her gaze off of Emily. She moved forward and grabbed Emily’s wrist. “I have you now,” she said, low and harsh. “Don’t think you can wiggle out of it. You will meet me tomorrow at Lady Feltham’s ball and I will have instructions for you. Do not think to warn Lord Hartford. I will know. I have eyes on you, Miss Latham . . . or whatever your real name is. How do you think I knew where to find you just now? If I see any attempt to contact the earl, I will go straight to the papers with this story and ruin you all. Do you understand me?”

  Emily’s mother stepped forward and pulled her away. “Take your hands off of my daughter.”

  “Katharine!”

  “Coming!”

  She sneered at them. “You will leave now, as well, so that I know you are not conspiring.” Holding the curtain aside, she said, “Let us go.”

  Emily glared at her, then turned and gave her mother a hug. “Send Jasper,” she whispered. Then, with a nod, she followed the evil girl out.

  The hour had grown late when Hart returned from Richmond. His tread slowed as he climbed the stairs to his rooms, but he felt good about the man he’d hired to oversee his property in Shropshire. The land had been his own, inherited from an uncle long before John had died and the earldom had been thrust upon him. He’d relocated some of his experiments to Hartsworth and hoped to recreate some of the customizations he’d made on his green houses, but a few of his projects were tied to the land and he hoped he’d found someone to carry them on and keep him—

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  A boy sat on the threshold of his apartment.

  “I come from Miss Spencer—and no one is supposed to know.”

  Hart fished out his key. “Then come in and quickly.” He ushered the boy in. “Did anyone see you?”

  “No.” The boy yawned. “I been waiting in the servant’s stair a whi
le, but then I started to fall asleep and I was afraid I’d miss you.”

  “Good man—you haven’t missed me.” Hart grinned. “Now, what is it that Miss Spencer needs?”

  “Read this.” He thrust over a piece of parchment, folded small, and Hart snatched it up. A cold mass of anger and worry formed in his stomach as he read it over.

  “It’s all true,” the boy offered up. “Especially the part about them that’s watching her. I seen ‘em myself. I pretended to deliver gloves to the lady countess and a pair of roughs stopped and searched me on the way in.”

  “You are Jasper, I presume?” He lifted the note. “She mentions you.”

  “Aye. They tried to peach me on the way out too, but Em gave me a scone to munch on and I folded it small and stuck it inside. They didn’t think nothin’ of me holding on to it.”

  “That explains the stickiness—and the scent of lemon.” Hart sat a moment, thinking. Their situation had been difficult before. Now it was perilous indeed. He stilled, remembering Emily’s words when they had first made their bargain. She’d been sweet and unworldly enough to think to protect him—but he would be damned before he allowed someone like Miss Paxton to harm the girl he loved.

  And love her, he did. How could he not? Look at how she responded to this threat—any of those girls who had thrown themselves at him would have collapsed in terror and tears. Not his Emily. She was thwarting the enemy. He’d wager she was planning on sacrificing herself to save him, too.

  He shook his head. He would make sure it wasn’t necessary.

  “Jasper,” he said thoughtfully, “you’ve been in and out of Herrington House?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you know the maid, Molly?”

  “I could pick her out,” the boy answered.

  “Good. I want you to go and pick her out—and deliver a message. We’ll need her help tonight. And tell her not to tell Emily what we are up to, just in case . . .”

  Chapter 9