Cherished

by Elizabeth Thornton

  “What in hell does Sara have to do with anything?” he asked savagely, and lunged for her.

  Her reaction was reflex. She pulled the trigger. The sound of the explosion was deafening. When the smoke cleared, Leon was propped against the door; blood was seeping from a wound in his shoulder. His response was not what she expected.

  Shaking his head, laughing softly, he said, “Can you hear them? You’ve roused the whole house. There’s going to be the devil to pay. No. You can’t see it because you can’t see yourself. Emily of the violet eyes, you have the look of a virgin who has been well and truly ravished. There’s no getting round it. We’ll be forced to wed at once.”

  “No,” she said. “I hate you. I shall hate you to my dying day,” and she meant it.

  Three days later, they were married by special license in Rivard’s private chapel. Almost at once, Leon departed for the United States to attend to his business interests.

  Chapter One

  The London Season was in full swing. The gaiety, in that year of our Lord, 1811, was surpassing any previous time. It was as though all thoughts of the war with France were consigned to oblivion. Even the dashing young officers in their redcoats seemed unaffected, though it was tacitly understood that, at any moment, they might receive marching orders which would send them to far-flung military outposts. Their conversation, at least in polite society, gave no indication that a new Colossus straddled Europe or that the British and their allies aimed to topple him. His name was Bonaparte, more widely known as the Emperor Napoleon.

  Emily was decked out in her finest gown. The high-waisted, transparent gauze with its square, low-cut bodice was a vogue which had long since ceased to shock the modesty of the more straitlaced dowagers. Every lady had adopted the latest mode from France. Where fashion was concerned, patriotism, it seemed, counted for nothing.

  As her eyes skimmed over the glowing scene under the blaze of chandeliers in Lady Spencer’s ballroom, Emily was thinking that the young men in their scarlet tunics were not the only ones in uniform. Those gentlemen not attached to the military followed Brummel’s preference for dark coats and elaborately arranged neckcloths, while the ladies’ pale muslins were almost indistinguishable one from the other. Even so, the scene was glittering.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Emily’s eyes warmed the instant before she raised them to her escort. William Addison, at something over thirty, returned her unaffected smile. His impeccable dark coat was snugly tailored to the breadth of his shoulders.

  “I was speculating,” said Emily, “where all these handsome young men in their scarlet uniforms will be posted in another month or so.” Her gaze rested briefly on her companion’s strongly carved features and short crop of dark hair before dropping away.

  She felt a little breathless. More and more of late, William was beginning to have this effect on her. He was doing it on purpose, making her feel self-conscious to a degree. He was a handsome, virile male and he wanted her to know it. Beneath her gloved hand, she could feel the muscles in his arm tense.

  “William, please,” she said, her eyes downcast. “Don’t look at me so.”

  The gentleman was silent as he maneuvered Emily through the double doors which gave onto the gallery. From the long windows, elegantly draped in primrose silk, could be seen the blaze of lights from Buckingham House just across the park. Several other couples were strolling about the room, or taking in Earl Spencer’s extensive picture collection.

  “How would you like me to look at you?”

  Catching the amusement in his tone, she frowned slightly. “Can’t we be natural with each other?” she asked.

  “Isn’t it natural for a man to admire a beautiful woman?” His eyes made a sweeping assessment of her, from her coronet of variegated dark-blond hair to her lithe womanly contours set off admirably in the almost transparent white gauze.

  He lowered his voice to a seductive murmur. “Forgive me. I did you an injustice. You are not merely a beautiful woman. You are the most beautiful woman of my acquaintance.”

  “A married woman.” Her answer was terse.

  His voice chided her. “Emily, we both know that may be remedied very easily.”

  Faint color came and went under Emily’s translucent complexion. She did not contradict him. In her usual composed manner, she steered the conversation into safer channels. But behind her cool smile and poised air, her thoughts dwelled on what William had said.

  She was a wife in name only. In five years, the marriage had never been consummated—would never be consummated. Her hatred of Leon Devereux was not so virulent as it once was. The passage of time and his absence had effected a change in her. Nevertheless, their marriage could never be a normal one. She knew it. Leon knew it. They had an understanding. If and when either of them formed an attachment to someone else, their marriage would be annulled and they would each go their separate ways.

  In an unguarded moment, she had revealed as much to Sara. It was Sara who had thoughtlessly betrayed the truth about Emily’s marriage to William Addison.

  From that day to this, William had been pressing her. He was her most constant escort, not that they were ever alone for more than two minutes together. In Leon’s absence, Uncle Rolfe and Aunt Zoë guarded her virtue zealously. Having disgraced them once, she would not be permitted to do so again. They hedged her about with chaperones.

  A gentleman, however, if he had a mind to, could always circumvent chaperones. On more than one occasion, William had maneuvered things so that they were alone together. He had kissed her. And she had discovered something about herself. She had discovered that she was not a “frigid little virgin,” as her husband had flung at her on his last visit to England. She was a grown woman with a deeply passionate nature. She was susceptible to William; she was very susceptible to him.

  She darted a lightning glance at her companion. Any woman would be proud to be the object of William Addison’s attentions. It was not merely the handsome face that drew Emily. Her own husband had more than his fair share of good looks. But William had a way with her. He made her feel safe, cherished. He was a widower whose young wife had died tragically in a boating accident. This sorrow had touched him deeply. He was a sensitive man. Not only did he like women, but he respected their intelligence. At the War Office, where he worked with her guardian, his abilities were openly recognized. Uncle Rolfe was always singing William’s praises.

  “Tell me,” he said, studying her cameo-pure profile appreciatively, “how many times in the last five years has the elusive Mr. Devereux set foot in England?”

  “Very infrequently, as you well know.” It was only once, but Emily kept that to herself.

  “And never for more than a month at a time?”

  Her eyes were twinkling. “With some people, a month can seem like an aeon.”

  He laughed. “You are quite indifferent to him, aren’t you, Emily?”

  “Need you ask?” But that wasn’t quite true. Indifference denoted an absence of emotion. She could never be indifferent to Leon Devereux. He aroused feelings of acute…she wasn’t quite sure what feelings he aroused. She only knew that being with him was an ordeal.

  “I look forward to meeting him.”

  “What?” His observation startled her.

  “Forgive me, that was a facetious remark. On the other hand, the sooner I meet him, the sooner things can be settled. Strange that I was never introduced to him when he was last in England.”

  Thoughts flitted through Emily’s head. She could not imagine a meeting between Leon and William. What would they say to each other? Would she be the subject of their conversation? The thought was distasteful. William was pressing her again.

  “Why haven’t I met him?”

  “Leon has not been in England for some time,” she said. “Long before I came to know you, William.”

  As the recollection came back to him, he patted her hand. “I had forgotten.”

  When William had f
irst met Emily at Rivard Abbey, he had been Sara’s suitor. Emily had liked the young man well enough, but she had scarcely spared him a thought.

  It was to be some months before they met again. By this time Sara’s interest had shifted to another young man. Everyone believed Sara’s affections were fickle—Emily knew that they were not. Sara was as deep in love with Leon Devereux as she had ever been.

  Her escort moved so quickly, so smoothly, that she was inside the curtained alcove before she was aware of what he was doing. He closed the curtains with a snap. She had to laugh.

  “Emily.”

  The sound of her name was like silk moving over her skin. His arms went around her waist. Her smile faded.

  “Put your arms around my neck,” he said softly, and Emily obeyed.

  She liked the feel of William’s strong arms circling her. She liked the ardent look in his eyes. She wanted him to kiss her. She raised her head and her eyelashes swept down.

  His lips were soft. The pressure increased so gradually, she scarcely noted it. When his hand closed over her breast, and squeezed gently, the leap of her senses took her unawares. With a little sob of alarm, she pulled away from him. Her breathing was uneven.

  The glitter in his eyes told her that her response had gratified him. “Yes,” he said, “it could be good between us. And now you know it, too.”

  His scrutiny took in her fear-bright eyes. “Emily,” he said, shaking his head, “you have nothing to fear from me. I respect you. I want you for my wife. I would never force myself upon you. I may steal the odd kiss, and a little something on account,” he chuckled softly, “but I promise you, that is as far as I would dare. I swear it on my honor. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes,” she said, still striving to bring her breathing under control.

  He touched a hand to her cheek. “I love you. You already know it. And I think that you love me. When will you be my wife?”

  She stared at him with huge, unblinking eyes.

  Frowning, he went on more roughly. “It’s time to end your farce of a marriage to Devereux. You need a real husband, a man to love you. You need a home of your own, and children. I can give you all those things. But first your marriage to Devereux must be annulled.”

  His words acted on her powerfully, touching a responsive chord deep inside her. She did want a man to love her. She did want children and a home of her own. More and more of late, she was possessed of a woman’s yearning for fulfillment. And she did not know why she would not give him the answer he wanted.

  “Are you afraid of Devereux?” he asked.

  Her eyelashes lowered. “No. It’s not Leon I’m thinking about. It’s my guardian, my uncle. I think he will take a very dim view if I suggest that my marriage be annulled.”

  “Then I shall speak to him.”

  “No!” she said quickly. “Please, William, don’t press me. I need time to think how it may be done.”

  “But you will think about what I have said?”

  “I’ll think about it. I promise you.”

  He returned her to the ballroom, to the safekeeping of her guardian, on the clear understanding that he would be the one to take her into supper.

  Anyone seeing the marquess with Emily might have supposed that he was an older brother. The resemblance was remarkable, and Rolfe’s healthy head of blond hair gave him the appearance of someone younger than his years. Unhappily for Emily, he took his role of guardian seriously. Very seriously.

  His eyes were leaping. Between his teeth he said, “And where did you get to, miss? Your aunt has been in quite a taking. We had no clue to your whereabouts.”

  “Rolfe!” exclaimed Aunt Zoë, looking daggers at her husband. “I was not in a taking.”

  Emily flashed her aunt a grateful look. Though Aunt Zoë was Leon’s sister and shared his dark good looks, Emily could never think of her in that role. Their friendship had been set long before Leon had come into her life.

  The marquess muttered something savage under his breath. Emily’s delicate eyebrows arched. With calculated coolness, she surveyed the couples who were forming sets on the dance floor. She noted that Sara was partnered by the Honorable Peter Benson for the third time that evening. That would explain Uncle Rolfe’s uncertain temper. Though Peter Benson and William Addison were distant cousins, they were nothing like each other. The one was a bit of a weakling and the other was as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar.

  “Well? I’m waiting for an answer. Where did you get to?” demanded her uncle.

  She smiled brilliantly at the young Hussar officer who solicited her hand for the dance and, turning to her uncle, for his ears only, murmured, “Probably where you were imagining I was, Uncle Rolfe.”

  For the most part, Emily enjoyed herself. She never lacked for partners. She was with young people of her own age. But William’s words had started something in her that nagged like a dull toothache. She wanted the fulfillment William promised her.

  Her worst moment of the evening came when they were sitting down to supper. It took her a moment or two to recognize the lady opposite who was holding forth on her recent sojourn in the United States of America.

  “New York is quite cosmopolitan for its size,” said the lady in a voice that stirred some memory in Emily.

  She had a flash of recall, a picture of a bed with a naked woman upon it, her black hair spilling over her shoulders and breasts. “I burn for you” were the words the voice had said then.

  The little color in Emily’s cheeks washed out of them. Careful not to draw attention to herself, she set down her cutlery and raised her wineglass to her lips. Through the protection of her lashes, she observed Lady Riddley closely.

  She could not think why she had not recognized the woman at once. Five years had made very little difference. She was as beautiful as ever. The last time Emily had seen her was on the stairs to the little turret room at Rivard Abbey. Lady Riddley was one of those who had dashed out of her chamber to investigate the report of the pistol shot. She had been clothed in a silk wrapper then, her hair loose about her shoulders, her expression dazed, giving the impression of one dragged rudely from the depths of slumber. Emily had been beside herself. Disregarding Leon’s stern admonition to remain in the turret room, on hearing her guardian’s voice, she had come tearing down the stairs to push past Leon and fling herself into her uncle’s arms.

  Emily gave a start as Lady Riddley captured her unwary stare. “Lady Emily…” she said. “How delightful to see you again. It’s been all of five years, has it not?” Her eyes were neither mocking nor hostile, but surprisingly friendly, and Emily remembered that before the scandalous events of that night, she had once been kindly disposed to the woman.

  Though she thought her face would crack from the strain, she curved her lips in as natural a smile as she could manage. “It’s been too long,” she drawled, and never once blinked at the blatant untruth. If a hundred years had passed in the interim, it would still be too soon for her comfort.

  Evidently, Lady Riddley was not aware of the slight chill in the atmosphere. “And Leon, I mean, Mr. Devereux—is he present this evening?”

  “No,” answered Emily boldly. “To my knowledge, Mr. Devereux is to be found in New York.” And her tone indicated that Mr. Devereux might be found at the end of the world for all she cared.

  The buzz of conversation in the vicinity became muted. Lady Riddley’s glance faltered a little, then rallied. Her smile became fixed. “Lord Riddley and I had the pleasure of renewing Mr. Devereux’s acquaintance in New York. I may be mistaken, but I understood that he hoped to be in England before long.”

  Emily bristled. So her husband and his inamorata were still on the friendliest terms? Her eyes darted to Lord Riddley, a little ways farther down the table. As ever, the gentleman gave every evidence of having drunk himself insensate.

  Her voice was tipped with ice. “Mr. Devereux,” she said, “comes and goes as he pleases.”

  “Devereux? Devereux?” The name was
taken up by Lord Riddley. He blinked rapidly as he came to himself. “Isn’t that the fellow whose mistress was attacked? Yes, Devereux, that was his name. He had given the poor woman a set of gems worth a king’s ransom and some knave tried to take ’em off her. What was her name again? Belle something or other.”

  If a feather had dropped, Emily would have heard it. She swallowed and wished only that a pit would open at her feet and she would sink into it. She was conscious of William’s searching glance. Summoning her formidable poise which seemed to have quite deserted her, she opened her mouth to make some comment. Lady Riddley got there before her.

  With a convincing laugh, she turned on her husband. “Arthur,” she admonished, “the gentleman who figured in that scandal went by the name of Deveril. Don’t you remember, dear? Not Devereux, Deveril!”

  Lord Riddley’s face was purple. It had suddenly struck him that he was in Polite Society, and not in his club as he had at first supposed on awakening. A gentleman did not talk broad in a lady’s hearing, unless that lady was his wife.

  “The name was Deveril, don’t you remember, dear?”

  The earl stared at his wife sheepishly. His somnolent gaze traveled the faces of his companions, coming to rest on Emily. “I beg your pardon,” he mumbled, looking more annoyed than sorry. “Names always escape me. Deveril, that was the fellow’s name. Yes, now I remember. It was definitely Deveril.”

  No one believed him, though everyone gave the semblance of doing so. The buzz of conversation at the table gradually resumed. Emily was conscious of several commiserating glances. Lady Riddley’s face conveyed an agonized apology.

  What she said to William as she picked her way through a plateful of mouth-watering delicacies Emily could never remember afterward. She scarcely ate a bite. As soon as she decently could, she asked him to return her to the ballroom. In the gallery, he halted before a portrait which was hung a little way off the beaten track. They both feigned an interest in it.