“Christmas is supposed to be a time of good cheer and jolly fun,” she said in a brittle voice. “If you find my company unpleasant, perhaps you would rather be elsewhere than Telford Manor for the holidays.”
A sigh escaped his lips. “You know that I find you no such thing, Emma. If I didn’t like you so well, I wouldn’t bother speaking of my concerns. Trust me, I take no pleasure from bringing them up.”
Her hand tightened on the butt of her crop. “Is that all? Or have you any other criticisms to bring up?”
“No. I’ve said my piece and am done with it. However, I hope you will think on it.” He forced a smile. “Now, let us ride on before the horses take a chill.”
He gathered his reins and quickly sought to point the conversation in a new direction as well. “Your father mentioned that there is finally someone in residence at Hawthorne House. Have you met the family?”
Emma shook her head as they moved off. “No, but I understand that the gentleman is some junior officer who only recently sold out when he inherited the baron’s title.” She shrugged. “Heddy Tillson says he’s brought his widowed sister and her child to stay with him, and by the glimpse she caught of them in the village, they don’t look to have much polish or blunt. It is too bad—we could have done with some lively company in the area, but it sounds as if they will prove to be dull as dishwater.”
Her cousin bit back a reproach about rushing to judgment, especially when it was based on the observations of such a flighty pea-goose as Heddy Tillson.
“Perhaps you will be surprised,” he murmured.
Ignoring the remark, Emma urged her mount into a brisk trot. “If we go left here,” she called over her shoulder, gesturing toward the fork in the trail, “we shall drop down into the orchards by Hawthorne House. The recent storm has left several fallen trees that make for a bracing ride.”
“Let us go right, then, and continue on to the open fields,” he replied. “The ground is too frozen to chance any more jumping—”
But Emma had already spurred her horse forward. Her crop flashed through the air, and Ajax thundered off at a dead gallop.
Charles already knew which turn Emma would choose before the stallion was halfway there. For a moment he was sorely tempted to turn back to the manor house and leave her to face any consequences that might befall her. However, gentlemanly scruples won out over pique. The weather looked to be turning even worse, so after letting fly with a few choice epithets, he followed after her, though at a more circumspect pace.
The worst of his anger had been vented along with the curses. It was hard to stay mad at Emma for long, for despite her faults, he considered her the best of friends—smart, funny, loyal, and good-natured, regardless of the criticisms he had voiced earlier.
If only she would. . .
Even from a distance, the cry of pain was sharply audible. But by the time Charles had reached the spot where the riderless stallion sidled in nervous agitation, and had vaulted down from his saddle, there was not a sound coming from his cousin’s prostrate form.
“My God, Emma! Can you hear me?’’ he demanded as he knelt down beside her.
Her eyes slowly fluttered open. “Y-yes.” She bit her lip and struggled to sit up. “I think it’s just a bit of bruising—to both my rump and my pride. But is Ajax unharmed? I shall never forgive myself if—”
“Yes, yes, he’s fine.” Charles slipped his arm under her shoulders, but prevented her from rising. “Don’t move for a moment. You’ve had a nasty spill.” The breath he had been holding came out in a rush of relief. “Lord, another few inches and you might have been killed,” he added in a low voice, eyeing the jagged stumps of broken branches poking up from the fallen oak.
“You may go ahead and say that I would have thoroughly deserved such a fate,” she said with a tremor in her voice. “I-I. . .”
“Silly poppet.” He cut off her words by burying her face in the folds of his jacket. Her fashionable little military style shako had been dislodged by the fall, and his fingers began to gently stroke her tangled curls. “Life should be sadly flat without my favorite cousin to brangle with.”
Emma stifled a sob. “I know that I’ve been. . .”
“Shhhh,” he soothed. “We shall discuss that some other time. Right now, do you think you can manage to stand?”
“I think so, if you will give me a hand.” With a game smile, she attempted to get to her feet, but as soon as her right foot touched the ground, she bit back a scream of agony and collapsed against his chest, her face ashen with pain.
“I-I fear it is worse than I thought,” she gasped.
Charles helped her lie back down on the frozen earth. “Hawthorne House is not far away. I shall have to ride there to fetch help and to send word for a doctor. Will you be all right for a bit?”
She nodded.
He peeled off his riding coat and tucked it over her chest. “That’s the spirit. I knew I could depend on you not to fall into a fit of vapors,” he replied with a wan grin. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Emma shifted slightly on the hard ground, and an unladylike word escaped her lips. Several, in fact. She winced, thinking that if Charles had overheard such language, he would no doubt ring down another peal upon her head.
Not that it was possible to sink any lower in his esteem.
The uncomfortable thought caused her to move once more, sending a stab of pain through her right ankle. What hurt more, however, was the memory of her cousin’s frank words.
Was he right? she wondered, blinking back a tear. Had she really turned into the selfish monster he described?
A part of her longed to shrug off such criticism. Perhaps he was merely upset because she had not spent as much time with him during the whirlwind months in London as in the past. After all, she had been one of the leading belles of the beau monde’s Season. Countless gentlemen had vied for the honor of leading her out on the dance floor. They had laughed at her bon mots, applauded her performances on the pianoforte, and complimented her on her riding skills. . .
Praise heaped on praise—according to everyone around her, she could do no wrong.
Surely Charles must be mistaken, she assured herself.
Such a conclusion made her feel infinitely better, and so she chose to ignore the tiny voice in the back of her head, which whispered that Charles was never petty or mean-spirited. Instead, as she drifted into unconsciousness, she heard only the echo of all the honeyed flattery and sugared praise that had come her way.
Such sweet reveries were rudely interrupted by a rough shake of her shoulders.
“Come, now. Open your eyes!”
Emma groggily did as ordered—and wasn’t so sure the decision had been a wise one.
It was not Charles whose face loomed only inches from hers, but rather that of a perfect stranger.
Actually, he was not perfect at all, she decided, once her eyes were able to focus. His face was lean and angular, its color unfashionably bronzed by the sun. A shock of unruly black hair fell over his brow, accentuating the sharp, aquiline line of his nose. His chiseled lips looked to be full and well formed, but it was difficult to be sure, as they were presently pursed in a grim scowl.
No less grim was the piercing gaze he had fixed upon her face. She squirmed slightly under the severe scrutiny, though it was impossible to break away from the glittering intensity of his hazel eyes.
No, she realized, they were not exactly hazel, for they had the most interesting flecks of molten gold—
“Well, she appears to be conscious.” The stranger looked away, and Emma was vaguely aware of Charles hovering somewhere behind him. His gaze quickly shifted back to her and then to the massive tree trunk and the patch of ice in front of it.
“Good Lord,” he muttered with ill-concealed disdain. “How could anyone be so cork-brained as to attempt such a stunt in these conditions?”
She managed to prop herself up on one elbow. “I’ll have you know, sir, that I am accorded
to be an excellent rider.”
The stranger’s brow arched up. “It would appear that such praise is completely unwarranted.” There was a slight pause. “Thank God your horse wasn’t seriously injured.”
Emma gasped, first at the rudeness of his words, and then at the fact that he started to run his hands down the length of her arms and then her legs. “How dare you—ouch!”
The stranger leaned back on his haunches. “I don’t think any bones are broken,” he said to Charles. “But the ankle appears to be badly sprained. I suppose we shall have to move her to Hawthorne House for the present. Fetch her horse while I take her up.”
“But—” began Emma. The protest was muffled in the folds of his coat as he lifted her into his arms with one easy motion. To her dismay, she saw that her cousin had jumped to obey the man’s curt command.
“Put me down!” she snapped. “I do not wish for you to—”
“Stop squirming,” he ordered. “Lest you wish to add to your collection of bruises by taking a second tumble to the ground.” His arms drew her closer to his chest. “Though perhaps another thump would knock some sense into that brainbox of yours.”
She fell silent and ceased her struggling, taking care to avoid any further eye contact with the stranger. Harder to ignore was the corded strength of his shoulders or the heat emanating from his broad chest. From her precarious position, it was clear that he was at least several inches taller than her cousin and a good deal more muscular. Despite her own considerable height, he carried her through the orchard as if she weighed no more than a feather.
“Odious man,” she whispered under her breath, thinking of his last rude comment. For an instant, Emma thought she detected a faint chuckle, but when she ventured a surreptitious peek at his face, the same hard expression was etched on his features.
Leaning back, she closed her eyes. Awful though he was, the ordeal would be over in a trice, she reminded herself. Thank heavens one of her father’s carriages would soon be arriving to take her home.
Chapter 2
Noel Trumbull, newly acceded to the title of Lord Kirtland, stared out the mullioned windows and let out a harried sigh. Of all the dratted luck! He had enough to worry about without being stuck dancing attendance on some spoiled heiress, no matter that she had hair like spun gold and eyes as blue as the Mediterranean Sea in summer.
His lips compressed. Oh, yes, Lady Emma Pierson was attractive all right. And the wealthy heiress damn well knew it, be reminded himself. Even though he had only spent a week in London on his return from the Peninsula, he had heard Lady Emma’s name mentioned as being one of the brightest Diamonds of the Season. And then he had seen her from afar at Lady Hightower’s ball—and had felt the air squeezed from his lungs.
She was, in a word, breathtaking. The perfect picture of loveliness, grace, and vitality.
What a pity that her beauty appeared to be only skin-deep.
Granted, he had been inclined to think ill of her before ever meeting her, as his good friend Augustus Taverhill had mentioned how Lady Emma had written a hurtful poem about his sister.
One mistake could, of course, be forgiven as an error of judgment. But his first impression confirmed that she was both arrogant and waspish—traits he abhorred in anyone, be they male or female. He could only hope that one of her father’s carriages would soon be arriving to take her home.
“Lord Kirtland. . .”
Noel quickly turned and crossed the carpet. But such hopes were quickly dashed by the terse pronouncement of the doctor examining Lady Emma, who was now lying on the sofa of his drawing room.
“Tis a nasty twist, Lady Emma,” he announced with a cluck of his tongue. “I’m afraid there is no question of you being moved until the swelling has gone down.”
But—” began both Emma and Noel at once.
They stopped short. Noel then clamped his jaw firmly shut, regretting that surprise had wrested any show of emotion out of him. He moved to the hearth, determined to keep to himself just how unwelcome the announcement was.
The last thing he needed was yet another responsibility weighing on his shoulders as Christmas approached. It would be difficult enough creating the proper spirit of the holidays without the presence of a conceited stranger in their home.
It quickly became clear that the young lady was no more pleased with the announcement than he was.
“I would not dream of imposing on this gentleman’s gracious hospitality any longer than I already have,” she said with unveiled sarcasm. “Surely my ankle can tolerate a short carriage ride.”
The doctor shook his head. “Absolutely not.” He pushed his spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose. “The injury should heal without any lasting ill effects, but only if great care is taken now. And even if I were to consider the request, it would not be possible, given the state of the lane leading here. It has been unused for so long that it is hardly better than a cart track. Any ride over such jolts and ruts could cause further damage.”
“Charles could take me up on Orion—” she began.
The doctor waved away the suggestion. “Now, don’t be foolish, Lady Emma. You are very fortunate that Hawthorne House has lately become inhabited. You will be quite comfortable here.”
“Ha!” she muttered under her breath.
“It will only be for a short time,” piped up Charles, slanting an uneasy glance at Noel. “That is, if you have no objections, Lord Kirtland.”
“It appears there is little choice in the matter,” he replied grimly. With a tone designed to match the young lady’s earlier mocking politeness, he added, “Though I must warn Lady Emma that we are hardly able to entertain her in the style to which she is no doubt accustomed.”
He watched Emma’s lovely features twist into a scowl. “But it’s not fair!” she exclaimed. “Robert and his friends are arriving soon for the holidays. And Papa. And your friend Mr. Harkness. Just think of all the fun I shall be missing.” Her lower lip began to quiver. “And my ankle is beginning to throb unmercifully.”
Noel couldn’t help himself. “Dear me, life is indeed horribly fair, to have heaped such unconscionable suffering upon your poor head,” he muttered under his breath.
“I shall ride back this afternoon with a number of your things, Em,” said Charles quickly, seeking to forestall any further comment from his cousin. “And, of course, we shall all come visit and spend as much time—”
“No. I’m afraid that will not be possible.” Noel folded his arms across his chest and calmly regarded the two startled faces that turned his way. “My sister is still recovering from the death of her husband. I’ll not have my family and household turned on its ear because the Duke of Telford’s daughter imagines she cannot live without constant amusement. One visitor, for one hour a day. That is all I will allow.”
His eyes met hers. “You’ll survive.”
Emma’s chin came up. “Shall you keep me on bread-and-water rations, too? I imagine that is all a man of your strict temperament would deign to feed his troops.”
Noel gave a humorless laugh. “If bread and water was to be had, my troops were infinitely grateful for it, Lady Emma. On the battlefields of the Peninsula, liveried servants do not appear at the ring of a bell with silver salvers.”
Noting she at least had the grace to color, he went on, “Neither will they here. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some rather more important matters to attend to.”
Turning on his heel, he quit the room, making no attempt to prevent the door from closing with a pronounced thump.
That should make it clear to the pampered little minx that he would not dance attendance on her like everyone else did, he thought as he walked down the narrow corridor toward the kitchen. It was quite evident that “no” was not a word with which she was intimately acquainted.
But she did have some spirit, he was forced to admit. He had half expected her to tum into a watering pot or lapse into a fit of hysterics on hearing his announcement. Instead, she
had met his deliberate roughness with a show of spunk.
A faint smile crept to his lips. Her comment about bread and water showed she had a sharp sense of humor as well. And more than a little courage. Although he had made light of her injury, he knew it must be a very painful one. In all fairness to her, she had born the discomfort with a soldier’s fortitude, making no complaint until that moment.
He made a wry face. Perhaps the young lady had more to her than he had first thought. However, that was hardly any concern to him. As he had told Lady Emma and her cousin, he had a good deal of other things to occupy his mind.
Picking up the hammer and chisel that he had left lying on the scarred pine table, he turned his attention back to trying to loosen a rusted bolt on the door of the iron stove. The house had been sadly neglected by his predecessors, but until he could make a final assessment of the late baron’s finances, he was determined not to incur expenses that he could ill afford. For the time being, most of the rambling structure would remain closed off, save for the small wing where he and his family had taken up residence.
It, too, needed a good deal of attention to make it a snug place to live, so he had determined to do much of the menial labor himself. He didn’t mind—he disliked being idle, and the work would keep him busy until he could make long range plans and see about hiring a proper crew of workmen. Besides, it gave him a sense of satisfaction to see the improvements take shape with each passing day.
By Christmas Eve, he vowed, the fires would burn without smoking, the draperies would be free of dust, and the hearths would be polished and hung with greenery. He wanted Anna and Toby to have a snug, cheery home in which to celebrate their first holiday without James.
But try as he might to concentrate on the task at hand, he couldn’t keep his thoughts from drifting back to their unexpected guest.
She was no milk-and-water miss, that was for sure. He preferred a lady who had opinions of her own, but whether Lady Emma’s spirit was indicative of merely a headstrong nature or other, more exemplary qualities, he wasn’t sure.
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