He stared daggers after her, hearing the thump of her cane into the foyer and out the front door as Hulston scurried to open it.
What the hell was that about? He let loose a curse that would have sent the dowager’s head spinning. One that did, in fact, make Hulston gasp in the hallway.
He stormed from the drawing room and charged up the stairs three at a time. Blasted aristocrats and their pretentiousness! Damn their arrogance! And for what reason were they special, except to be squeezed from the right woman’s womb in the right birth order? Wealth and position unearned. Wholly undeserved. Yet thinking they had the right to reign over everyone else, bending them to their will.
He tore at the buttons of his waistcoat, ripping away two as he hurriedly peeled it off and then set to removing his shirt. The viscountess had always been generous to him. But he’d be damned before he allowed anyone to hold his life hostage, to tell him what he could or could not have.
Including Emily.
She would marry him, and he would protect her. No matter what he had to do to convince her, no matter how long it took, he wasn’t giving up without a fight.
Chapter Twelve
June 1816
Three Months Later
Reynard Crenshaw raised the teacup to his lips. “I must say, I was quite surprised by recent events.”
So was I, Emily thought wryly, balancing her own untasted cup of tea on her knees as she sat across from him in the drawing room of Chatham House. Although shocked and terrified would have been a more accurate description. Even now, eight months pregnant, she wasn’t used to the idea that she might be carrying a marquess.
As if reading her daughter’s worried mind, her mother reached a hand across the settee and squeezed her elbow reassuringly. But the gesture did little to comfort her.
Emily hadn’t wanted to attend tea with Mr. Crenshaw, who was Andrew’s second cousin and for now the heir presumptive to the late Marquess of Dunwich. The last thing she wanted to do was dredge up bad memories of what happened at Snowden Hall or remind herself of how much danger she and her baby were still in, even though no additional attacks had been made since she arrived in London. But her mother insisted, reminding her that she would need all the help and support she could get from the Crenshaws once her baby was born, especially if it was a boy.
Although, truly, she found the man surprisingly pleasant, given the awkward circumstances.
“I am only a banker,” he explained unassumingly, a faint smile of self-deprecation on his lips. “I find all this a bit overwhelming.”
Emily couldn’t help but smile faintly at that, because she’d been just as overwhelmed herself. And certainly, he’d led a quiet existence until he was notified seven months ago that Andrew Crenshaw was dead and that his entire life would be changing forever, only to be told again when she arrived in London that an unborn baby might now stand between him and the inheritance.
“And so,” he continued, “I hope that you will excuse any confusion or misunderstanding on my part as we go forward.”
Her mother smiled. “Only if you excuse any from us.”
He chuckled softly at that, and Emily found herself liking him a great deal, this distinguished man in his late forties, with gray at his temples and a humble bearing. “I very much doubt I will have to do so, Your Grace.”
Despite having a future as uncertain as Emily’s, he gave no impression of malice toward her, just as she saw nothing in him to suspect he was responsible for Andrew’s murder or the attack against her and Grey.
His son Harold, however, was harder to read. The young man sat quietly at the side of the room and spent most of the afternoon staring out the window. Bored.
An only son in his last year at Cambridge, Harold had yet to determine a career for himself. A few questions asked by her mother at the beginning of the tea to make him feel welcome revealed that he was not interested in a military commission nor a living in the Church. Nor did he seem thrilled to pursue banking with his father, which appeared to be the only choice left to him should Reynard not inherit.
Overall, he appeared sullen and distant, resentful of having to attend the tea instead of spending the day with friends on St. James’s Street, and Emily had been relieved when he withdrew to the side of the room to be by himself.
“And now, Lady Emily—” Reynard sent her a warm, friendly smile and pulled her attention back from his son. “We wait for your baby to arrive. In the meantime, I shall enjoy getting to know you and your family better.”
“Yes,” her mother agreed with a soft sigh of relief, her shoulders relaxing slightly to hear that. “After all, there is no reason we cannot be amicable, whatever should follow.”
Whatever should follow…Her mother meant contesting the inheritance should she deliver a boy. Even now her mother worried over securing her daughter’s future. Emily looked away, embarrassed—
And caught Harold staring at her coldly. Then he turned back toward the window, once again bored with the conversation.
“I agree, Your Grace.” Reynard set his cup aside. “I want to assure you, Lady Emily, that I will not petition the Privileges for the title should you have a son. No good would come of it.”
“That is very kind of you.” Her mother relaxed, visibly glad not to have a fight on her hands. “Isn’t it, Emily?”
“Yes,” she agreed, although she was more relieved at having even this small bit of certainty regarding her baby’s birth than at any concern over titles or fortunes. “Very kind.”
A prickle tingled at the back of her neck. She looked up, and this time when she caught Harold’s gaze on her, his eyes narrowed icily. And this time, he didn’t turn away.
“Further, Lady Emily,” Reynard continued, once more drawing her attention back, “if the child is a girl and the inheritance does come to me, I shall provide her an ample allowance for a comfortable living, tuition for a good education, and eventually a dowry.”
Emily blinked in surprise at the man’s unexpected kindness. “That is very generous of you, Mr. Crenshaw.”
“Indeed,” her mother interjected, nearly as surprised as Emily.
“But—” Emily frowned, noticing this time how Harold’s cold gaze pinned on his father. “Why would you do such a thing? You’re under no obligation.”
“You and your child are family.” He smiled gently at her. “Now, with Andrew’s passing, your family should be even more dedicated to helping you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, her throat tightening with emotion.
He rose to his feet. “It’s time for Harold and me to take our leave. Thank you for a most enjoyable tea, Your Grace.” Reynard bowed to her mother, then to Emily. At his father’s signal, Harold stood and sketched a single, shallow bow in her direction that seemed to Emily more mocking than polite. “And my gratitude to you as well, Lady Emily, for a most pleasant afternoon. I hope we shall see each other again soon.”
Easing herself belly-first onto her feet as gracefully as possible, Emily smiled genuinely. “I very much look forward to it.”
“Shall I walk you out, Mr. Crenshaw?” her mother asked.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” He offered his arm to her.
When the two men and her mother exited the drawing room, Emily exhaled a heavy sigh of relief that all had gone well, and she reached for the bell pull to summon Jensen to clear away the tea things. Then she began to pace restlessly as she often did of late, her hand going to her round belly.
And it had gotten quite round, in fact, during the past three months since she’d arrived in London. The small bump that had been barely visible at five months even when she was naked had blossomed. No—blossom implied something delicate, like a flower. This was…
Good Lord, she felt as big as a house!
Oh, she wasn’t, of course, and Yardley, who had arrived in London two days after her and Grey, commented frequently that she should have been much larger, in fact. That she was carrying small. But to Emily, all the changes
to her body, the restlessness, and mood swings only magnified one hundredfold as she grew closer to her confinement, and she simply couldn’t imagine being even bigger.
Pausing in her pacing, she forced herself to breathe, trying to ease her racing heart. Smothered—that’s how she felt. Which was most likely why she felt the restless need to move, because if she moved, then she didn’t feel so oppressed by the news of her pregnancy, which had sped through London society like a storm, and by the inundation of callers who wanted to see for themselves if the rumors were true. Society matrons, curious old fops, giggling cakes of young ladies—they’d descended upon her like locusts since her return. Worst of all were those old acquaintances she hadn’t seen in years who suddenly wanted to strike up new and dear friendships, not one of whom she trusted. After all, Andrew knew the person who had murdered him. The murderer might very well be in London with her now, someone who had even been invited inside her home.
Nor did she like leaving the house these days, which only compounded the smothering oppression weighing upon her shoulders. The bigger her belly grew, the more aware she became of the attention people paid her. And the more vulnerable she felt. Even during something as simple as a walk through Hyde Park, she didn’t feel safe unless she had Thomas at her side, because even now she still worried that someone would try to hurt her baby.
Then came the men from the Committee for Privileges. Wanting to assess her situation themselves, they set her down in the library and subjected her to all sorts of indelicate and prying questions about her baby, her marriage, her marital relations…until she’d been beside herself with mortification. Until Thomas nearly threw them out of the house himself.
Thank God for Thomas. What would she have done without him? Although she often wondered who was helping whom recover from the ordeals of the past few months.
“My lady.” Jensen bowed his head to her as he entered the room.
Taking a deep breath, she composed herself quickly and forced a smile, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “Jensen.”
“The afternoon post, ma’am.” He held a silver salver toward her with yet another letter in Grey’s familiar handwriting.
Her chest tightened with anguished frustration. Oh, why wouldn’t the blasted man simply leave her alone?
He hadn’t gone to Spain as she’d asked. Oh no—he’d remained right in London, devil take him. And he’d refused to leave her alone. Nearly every day during the past three months, he’d sent flowers and gifts she was forced to return and written notes she refused to answer. Worse, several times each week, he arrived at Chatham House not to visit with Thomas but to ask for her, only to force her to refuse to see him. It was a bittersweet torture, as if he could make her change her mind by simply wearing her down. The only concession she allowed herself was to keep one rose from every bouquet before she returned it, knowing he would never notice that small keepsake missing among the dozens he sent her.
But she couldn’t see him. If she saw him, she’d beg to be held, and if he held her—
She pressed the heel of her hand against her chest. Dear God, how it hurt!
Even during the ride from Yorkshire, even as she lay in his arms that first night, she knew she’d have to give him up when they reached London. But she’d never imagined the pain would be this wretched. Or that she’d not only have to let him go but be forced to drive him away by making up that horrible excuse that she believed him not good enough for her. Oh, the furthest thing from the truth! Yet she would gladly let him believe the worst of her, taking the full brunt of his anger if it meant securing his future.
And given the choice, she’d rather he hate her now than later, when he realized all he’d lost by marrying her.
“Ma’am?” Jensen prompted gently. Worry darkened his brow.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Drawing a deep breath of resolve, she took the letter and placed it onto the tea table, not having the strength to read it now. Later, when she could lock herself into her room and cry over it, just as she’d done with the others…Her shoulders sagged heavily, exhausted. She rubbed at her forehead as a sharp pain throbbed behind her eyes.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Jensen frowned. “Should I send for Yardley?”
She smiled weakly, touched by Jensen’s concern. “No need. I’m only a little tired.”
Worry crossed his gray brow, but he let the matter drop. “You also have a caller, ma’am.”
“A caller?” Grey. Again. Her chest sank, her fatigue growing to the point of tears. Sweet heavens, how much more of this was she expected to bear? She didn’t know which one of them would survive the longest in this standoff of wills they’d entered.
She sighed and issued the same order she’d given nearly every day for the past three months. “Please tell Major Grey that I’m not receiving callers.”
“Apologies, ma’am, but it’s Her Grace, the Duchess of Strathmore.”
Kate! Emily smiled. For the first time that day, her spirits lifted, and the weight eased from her shoulders. “Please show Her Grace upstairs.”
He nodded and retreated from the room.
Katherine Westover, Duchess of Strathmore, had been the first visitor to Chatham House after Emily arrived in London. Although Kate and her husband, Edward, were there to call on Thomas, the redheaded duchess with the welcoming smile and bright green eyes greeted her warmly, and the two had become fast friends. Of course, it helped that they were both with child. Kate was three months behind, but they’d bonded over their mutual pregnancies, and Emily found Kate’s advice about babies, her friendship, and her loyalty to be a godsend. Just as she’d come to admire the duke. From the way he doted on his wife, Edward dearly loved her, and Emily couldn’t help the niggling envy inside her whenever she saw the couple together. It was the same loving marriage she’d wanted with Grey but now could never have.
“Emily!” Kate Westover glided into the room, waving away Jensen’s attempt to announce her. She took Emily’s hands and squeezed them warmly as she leaned in to kiss her cheek, but when Emily pulled back, the young duchess frowned. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine,” she assured her. “Just a little tired, that’s all.”
But her assurance didn’t lessen Kate’s concern. “I should go and let you rest—”
“No! Please stay.” Her hands tightened on Kate’s as she led her toward the settee, as if to physically stop her from leaving if need be. Kate had no idea how much she needed this visit. “Talking with you will raise my spirits more than anything else.”
“All right,” Kate agreed, but the dubious look on her face told Emily she wasn’t convinced. “Perhaps for just a short stay, then.”
“Good.” Relieved at having Kate to distract her from thoughts of Grey, Emily sent her an overly bright smile. “Have you seen Thomas this afternoon? He’s almost completely recovered now. He’ll be back to his normal life soon, I’m certain.”
Kate hesitated, as if she didn’t quite agree with Emily’s optimistic prognosis, but then nodded. “He and Edward went for a ride in the park, leaving us ladies to our gossip.” She reached into her reticule and withdrew a small jar. “I brought this for you. An herbal cream. Rub it over your belly twice a day, and it will help keep your skin firm and soft.”
“Thank you.” Emily’s eyes glanced at Kate’s own belly, which already showed quite roundly and twice as much as Emily had been at six months. “And how are you?”
“Every part of me is swollen and bloated, sickness has kept me locked in my room every morning until well past noon, and I am twice as huge as I was just a month ago.” A glowing smile spread across her face as her hand reached to lovingly rub her belly. “And I’ve never been happier!”
Emily hugged her, despite the stab of envy in her chest. Kate had Edward to share in all the happiness of this wonderful time of her life, but Emily had lost the one man with whom she wanted to share it most.
“I keep warning Edward that I must be carrying
twins—and girls!” Kate laughed, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “It would serve the colonel right to be surrounded by a houseful of women who won’t be ordered about.”
Emily forced a smile, while inside she was miserable. Edward was going to be a wonderful father, she had no doubt of that. But her baby would have no father, and that thought both saddened and worried her immeasurably.
“Emily, I’m concerned about you.” With a troubled frown, Kate took both her hands and held them on the cushion between them.
She shook her head, doing her best to alleviate Kate’s worries. “I’m fine, truly. I know I’m carrying small, but I promise to eat more. Cook and Yardley will make certain of it. And I’ll be able to rest more because I’m refusing all social invitations now.” She forced a smile. “Except for an occasional stroll through the park, I plan on doing nothing but resting, reading, and gorging myself on biscuits.”
But Kate’s frown only deepened. “I meant that you look so…sad.”
At that, Emily averted her eyes. What a ninny she was! How silly to think she could fool Kate into believing she was happy when inside she was miserable.
Kate hesitated, then lowered her voice. “It’s Major Grey, isn’t it?”
Her tear-blurred eyes flew up to Kate’s as her heart skipped painfully. “What do you know about Grey?”
“Edward and Thomas talk,” she explained gently. “Don’t let them fool you—those men are as bad as gossipy old hens when they get together.” As Emily’s eyes grew wide with mortification, Kate squeezed her hand reassuringly. “They’re only worried about you, and about Grey. I don’t know everything, and it’s truly none of my business, but…well, apparently, the man’s tied himself into knots over you. Edward claims he’s never seen Grey so worked up over a woman before.” Her eyes softened sympathetically. “And I don’t think he’s the only one who’s suffering.”
Emily stared down at her hands as a single tear slid down her cheek.
Along Came a Rogue Page 22
