“Emily?” he asked, a mix of incredulity and dread underlying his deep voice. “Please tell me I’m wrong. Tell me your refusal isn’t why I think.”
Shamefully averting her eyes, she shook her head as she stepped back from the warmth of his arms. Despite the anguish burning inside her, she was unable to deny it. “I won’t trap you, Grey.”
“Trap me? You wouldn’t be trapping me into marriage. I proposed to you because I wanted to marry you, and no other reason.” Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he asked quietly, “But that’s not the kind of entrapment you mean, is it? You mean the marriage itself.”
She nodded, knowing that she wasn’t simply burning bridges between them now; she was blowing them up, shattering them into a million splinters that she’d never be able to put back together. “You’ll regret marrying me. Not the first year, perhaps not the second…but you will once you finally realize all you had to give up.”
He stared at her, stunned. “I’m not giving up anything to marry—”
“You’ll have to give up your promotion in Spain and your work with the War Office.” Her words were not a question. “You can’t be a field agent and have a wife, can you?”
He hesitated, and in that heartbeat’s pause, she saw the solemn realization darken his face before he could stop it. “I can do other work for them besides fieldwork.”
She shook her head as the sadness rushed through her in a breathless shudder. “Even if they let you continue on, you’d be put into an administrative position, completing reports and papers and stripped from all you love about your work, all you’ve fought so hard to achieve.” Tears blurred her vision until she could no longer see the mix of emotions on his face, and she was glad for it, because she didn’t think she could bear the heartache and disbelief she saw there. “You told me so yourself that your freedom and your work mean everything to you. And if I take that away—oh God, Grey, you’ll hate me for it!”
“I would never hate you, brat,” he promised with fierce resolve. “I love you.”
She inhaled a sharp, jagged breath at the bold declaration. The pain was blinding. This should have been the happiest moment of her life, the words she’d been waiting to hear since she was sixteen and gave her first kiss to him. Instead, they sliced at her already-raw heart. She shook her head. “You’ll hate me, and I couldn’t bear to go through that again.”
“Again?” His eyes narrowed, piercing accusation flaring in their depths. “Again? Is that why you’re refusing, because you think I’ll be the same kind of husband to you as Crenshaw?”
Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “Grey, please—”
He grabbed her shoulders. “I am not Andrew Crenshaw! I am not that bastard,” he ground out, his jaw clenched so fiercely that the muscles jumped in his neck. “I would never use you the way he did, and I will never abandon you.”
With a soft cry of anguish, she shook her head. “You can’t promise that…You don’t know…”
“Emily, my love—” The grief-stricken words tore from him. He cupped her cheeks in his hands and gently tilted her face to kiss her, a sympathetic touch of his lips that left her aching and anguished. He murmured the promise against her mouth, “I would never hurt you nor abandon you—I would give my life for you.”
Her body flashed numb from the wave of pain and grief that swept over her. “Then give it,” she whispered, so softly that her words were silent on her lips. But she knew from the subtle stiffening of his body against hers that he heard, that they shivered through him to his soul. “Give up the life we could have had together and go to Spain.” A single tear trailed down her cheek. “If you love me, Grey, you’ll let me go.”
Chapter Fifteen
Again,” Grey ordered the bartender for another glass of whiskey. He wasn’t drunk enough to push thoughts of Emily from his mind, yet that was exactly where he planned on getting. And soon.
Damned stubborn woman! In his life, he’d never encountered a woman so frustrating and challenging yet so undeniably alluring, so gut-achingly lovely—it was enough to call himself a bedlamite for continuing to chase after her all these weeks when he could have simply given up, believed her lie, and headed for Spain. He might have done just that, too, if he hadn’t realized after the first fortnight of courting her in absentia that whenever he sent her a dozen roses, only eleven returned.
Then, two nights ago after making love to her, he discovered the true reason why she’d lied to him—the little minx did love him…loved him so much, in fact, that she was convinced he’d be better off without her. That she’d foolishly believed he wanted adventure and the War Office more than he wanted her.
He clenched his hands against the bar to fight back the frustration rising inside him again. Damnation! He would never hurt her, never use her or resent her the way that bastard Crenshaw had done. And if forced into making a choice, he would gladly give up his career if it meant having a life with Emily. How could the frustrating chit not realize that? Dear God, he would never leave her.
But she wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t believe him. She loved him, all right…loved him straight into hell.
And now, he found himself in some filthy tavern near Drury Lane in the bright morning well before noon, attempting to drink himself into oblivion and wondering what on earth to do to make her believe him.
The bartender placed the whiskey in front of him, and he tossed it back in a single, gasping swallow. As the burn slid down his throat, he signaled for the man’s attention and rasped out, “Again.”
“Two,” a deep voice ordered from beside him.
Christ. Of all people…“Go away, Colonel,” he growled.
“Not after I spent all night looking for you.”
He slid his gaze sideways at Edward Westover. Even here, in a smoke-filled hell surrounded by thieves, drunks, and whores, he looked regal, every inch a duke, right down to the irritated look of disdain on his imperial brow. No one would ever mistake him for not being a blue blood, nor a battle-hardened army officer. “Then say your piece and leave.”
“All right. Kate sent me after you with a message.”
“The duchess?” That bit of unexpected information pierced through his drink-fogged brain. What message would the duchess have for—
Edward slapped his hand against the back of his head.
“What the hell?” He glared at his old colonel, who stood there staring evenly at him, his arms folded calmly over his chest.
“She wanted me to be delicate with the delivery,” Edward confessed dryly.
Grey rubbed the back of his head. “That was delicate?”
“I took a liberal interpretation.”
Edward sat next to him and mumbled his thanks as the bartender set two glasses of whiskey in front of them.
“What did I do to offend the duchess?” he grumbled. Good Lord, wasn’t it enough to have one woman upset at him?
“I don’t know exactly. Something about being too much of a nodcock to see the truth. But you’ve concerned my wife, Grey, which concerns me.” He took a sip of the rotgut whiskey, too well trained to make a face at its disgusting taste. He paused, his voice lowering grimly. “She’s worried about Lady Emily.”
So was he. But Grey said nothing and instead gulped down half the whiskey.
“She’s been in tears for the past two days.”
His gut wrenched at the thought of Emily in tears. Every tear he saw in her eyes felt like a knife slicing into his heart. But he also couldn’t help the anger and frustration that made him bite out, “Tell your wife to talk to Emily, then. She’s the one who refuses to marry me.” He raised the glass in a mocking toast. “Said the War Office is more important to me than she is.”
“That’s not true,” Edward said quietly. “I’ve seen how much you care for her.”
“I know.” His fingers tightened around the glass as he returned to hunching over the bar. “But for the life of me, I can’t make her believe me.”
“Emily’s
refusing all visitors now, including Kate. I suppose that was what prompted her admonishment to be delicate with tonight’s message. That,” Edward muttered, “and the fact that she can’t swing into Emily’s room on a rope herself.”
Grey grimaced. How the hell did the duchess find out about that? “The War Office is wasting its time with Thomas and me.” He scowled into his glass. The cheap whiskey was too watered down to get him as drunk as he wanted to be, and as quick. “They should have hired the duchess.”
“Please don’t give her any ideas.” Edward grimaced as he pushed the unwanted whiskey away. “There has to be some way to convince Emily to marry you.”
He shook his head at the futility of it. He’d been through this over and over in his mind since the words left her lips, since she begged him to leave her and go to Spain. He’d racked his brain searching for any way to prove her wrong about him. But there was no way to demonstrate his love for her or how much he was willing to give up to be with her—there was no answer except decades of a loving marriage.
And she refused to marry him.
Edward said quietly, “Emily loves you.”
He thought she did, but…“She’s never said it,” he grudgingly admitted, staring down into his whiskey. Not even the last time they’d made love, not even after he admitted to loving her.
“She loves you,” Edward repeated, just as assuredly as before. “But years with that bastard of a husband compared to a few months with you…” He shook his head. “There hasn’t been enough time yet for her to see the truth. Trust me, I know.”
Grey was certain he did, given what he’d gone through to marry Kate.
But time was the one thing he didn’t have. Already Bathurst had threatened to rescind the position in Spain if he didn’t get himself to Seville soon. If he waited for Emily to realize how much he truly loved her, only for it never to happen, he’d lose both his career and his heart. And then where would he be?
“But if I give her time, if she never believes me—” If I lose her…He gave a shake of his whiskey-clouded head. His voice was almost lost beneath the noise of the rabble around them as he ground out, “What difference does love make then?”
“In my experience,” Edward answered quietly, “everything.”
He briefly rested his hand on Grey’s shoulder, then walked out.
The bartender collected the coin Edward had left on the bar, then motioned questioningly toward his empty glass. Grey waved the man away. There wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to dull his pain.
* * *
“Tea, my lady?” Yardley carried a tray into Emily’s room and set it on the table beside her reading chair. “I thought you might like some refreshments.”
“Thank you,” Emily mumbled numbly, not bothering to move her gaze from the window.
She stood at the glass and stared out at the little garden below, the afternoon sunshine casting lengthening shadows across the rose bushes and sculpted trees edging the walls and walkways, as if watching there could somehow make Grey magically appear. But he wasn’t coming to her. And after the way they’d last parted, she doubted if she would ever see him again.
Her shoulders sagged with misery. No more tears could come now; she’d cried them all out after he left, when she lay alone in the bed that still smelled of him. Her chest ached hollow. There was nothing left inside her to give to him now, except the love that she would always carry within her even as she found a way to move on without him.
And she had to move on. She had no choice, not with a baby to care for. Even now, she felt a foot kicking against her ribs—he was just as restless today as she was. But this baby was her life now, and everything she did would be for his protection and care. She had her baby to love and the love he would return to her, and she’d depend upon that to somehow find strength in the days to come. All those long, lonely days without Grey.
Yardley poured her tea, adding the exact measure of milk and sugar Emily liked, then took her arm and gently helped her to sit in her chair. With an affectionate smile, she handed her the cup. “Did you enjoy your morning walk?”
She nodded absently and sipped at the tea when Yardley urged her to do so.
Despite her not wanting to leave her bed that morning, Thomas had insisted she dress and accompany him on a stroll through the park. The day was beautiful and bright, the air gentle and warm, but she saw none of it. Her face remained tilted toward the ground, and her troubled thoughts of Grey never cleared. As they’d walked, Thomas had asked about her plans for the baby, but now she could hardly remember a word she’d said. She wasn’t even certain how she’d been able to put one foot in front of the other to keep moving.
She pressed her hand against her forehead. Oh God! How would she be able to keep moving, breathing, living without him? She would find a way—of course she would find a way, but she doubted the misery would ever leave her.
“Is something wrong with your tea?” Yardley interrupted her thoughts.
“What?” Her distraction must have been evident on her face because Yardley frowned at her. “Oh—it’s fine, thank you.”
“Better drink up, then. Tea is good for a baby.”
“Truly?” She forced a weak smile as Yardley gestured for her to quickly drink up half the cup, then refilled it from the pot. Thank God for Yardley. Whatever would she have done without the woman’s help during the past two years?
Her maid nodded with a sly wink. “Makes him English, my lady.”
Emily took a long sip of tea. It tasted different from usual, with hints of a faint licorice flavor. But it was still pleasant and warm, and she wouldn’t dare refuse it and risk yet another argument about how she needed to eat more. Yardley smiled at her reassuringly, waiting for her to drink the tea and nibble at one of the biscuits, even though it tasted like sawdust on her tongue.
“The house is quiet this afternoon,” she commented as Yardley moved around the sitting room, straightening the pillows and curios, putting away the stack of books and the set of paints Grey had sent her several weeks ago as part of his attempt to wear down her resistance and win her heart. It had been the one gift she’d selfishly allowed herself to keep.
“Everyone’s gone out.” Yardley did not glance up at Emily, her attention focused on straightening the ink, quills, and papers on the writing desk. “The duke is at the Lords, and the duchess is paying calls on Lady St. James and Lady Agnes Sinclair.”
She took another sip. “And my brother?”
“Lord Thomas received a message from His Grace to visit Strathmore House.”
Hmm…that was odd. Thomas had been on his way back from the Westovers’ home when he was shot, and both Edward and Kate seemed keenly aware of her brother’s agitation toward visiting at this time in the afternoon, because it invariably meant he’d be traveling home at sunset, that time of day when the footpad assaulted him. Perhaps the request for him to visit meant they thought he was healed, and not just physically. Or perhaps…perhaps it meant…
Goodness, she wasn’t certain what it meant! Her head was suddenly groggy, making thinking difficult.
A nap. That was it—she needed the nap she’d grown used to taking in the afternoons. She’d just finish her tea, then lie down. But her hand shook as she raised the cup to her lips, and she blinked hard to keep her eyelids from drooping shut.
As confusion and sleepiness fell over her like a cloud, Emily watched as Yardley sat down at the desk and dipped the quill into the ink, then scratched out a note on a piece of stationery, one with the gold-embossed EMC imprinted across the top.
Emily stared at her, her swirling mind suddenly unable to focus. Why was Yardley sitting at her desk, using her stationery? “What are…” Her lips grew thick, barely able to form words. “What are you…”
Yardley blotted the ink and shook her head regretfully. “Why couldn’t you have gone to Glasgow as we’d planned? I would have gotten the money, and no one else would have been hurt.” Swiping the back of her hand agains
t her eyes, she carefully folded the note and rose. “You’d have been safe then. There would’ve been no need for any of this.”
She set the note on the fireplace mantel. When she finally glanced over her shoulder at Emily, tears streaked down the older woman’s cheeks.
“I would have taken care of you, just as if you were my own daughter. But I need the money, you see. For my sister. She’s terribly sick and can’t afford medical care, can’t keep up her dress business…We could have helped her with all of that, you and I. If only you’d listened to me.”
Emily shook her head as the chair began to tilt beneath her. Something was wrong, very wrong. “The tea,” her tingling lips forced out in a garbled mumble. “You…the tea…”
Her body numbed. Her breathing came labored and hard as she fought to keep her eyes open. The teacup and saucer fell from her deadened hands and spilled across the floor.
“But you had to let that man into our house,” Yardley scolded angrily. “When he arrived, you forgot all about leaving, didn’t you? Now we’ve no choice but to do it this way.”
Emily’s head swirled so thick with dizziness that her stomach rumbled nauseously, and for a moment, she thought she might cast up the poisonous tea. Her hands groped numbly for the chair arms as black spots flashed before her eyes in time to her pounding heart, her vision growing darker and darker.
With every ounce of strength, she levered herself up from the chair, opened her mouth to scream. But no sound came—
She sagged slowly toward the tea-stained rug.
Yardley caught her.
“There now, don’t you worry, my lady.” Putting Emily’s limp arm over her shoulders, Yardley led her toward the door. “It’ll all be over soon, and as painless as possible, I promise you that.”
* * *
Emily blinked rapidly. The room around her came slowly into focus as the fog lifted from her eyes. Her head pounded with sharp pains as she tried to remember who she was, where she was, what had happened…
Along Came a Rogue Page 26
