by Ella Edon
She looked up into his eyes a moment longer, her soft blue ones melting with tenderness. Then, just as abruptly, with her cheeks flushing a delicate shade of red, she dropped her gaze. Her fingers slipped from his.
“So, we have agreed,” she said softly, going to lean on the railing again. Her elbows braced on the wrought iron, her back hunched a little, as if she felt cold. He looked at her, aching to take her in his arms and hold her close.
He coughed. “Yes,” he said. “We do. Now, I suppose I should go. I understand I have supper coming to me, and I suppose I should get some sleep, so I’m ready to receive my newfound freedom.”
“What did you do to my poor maid-servant?” she asked, her face registering utter surprise. “June was quite beside herself!”
He swallowed hard, blushing with shame. “I said I would prefer the halibut,” he said, “but that I didn’t really care.”
“I see.” She was smiling, he thought, and trying not to let him see.
“Sorry,” he added, as they walked back towards the door together. “I trust she wasn’t too upset?”
“She kept on saying: ‘Give him the halibut, then. If that’s no matter to him.’ She seemed most put-out.”
He grinned remorsefully. “I am sorry,” he repeated. “If I can do aught to make it up to her, I would be delighted to do something about it.”
“You can be more polite, next time,” she said, raising a brow.
He nodded, humbly.
“Yes, I will.”
“Good. Do that,” she said.
He waited while she closed the door to the terrace, and followed her back along the now-silent hallway, into the study. She locked the door and he meekly sat down on the velvet chair. This time, his hands clasped between his knees, he felt something other than apathy and desperation. He felt excitement. Tomorrow, he was going to be free.
He lay back on the chair, watching the last of the sunset cool to darkness. He couldn’t think. He had far too many things on his mind at present. First, he had the thought of freedom. And, second, he had the new understanding he was starting to gain. Understanding about Emilia.
“She is a remarkable girl.”
Far from thinking her mad – he felt ashamed, now that he ever did – he realized that she had a massive internal strength. She was a strong, capable girl, trapped in a house of sorrow.
What her father is up to now, I’ve no idea.
What was clear, was that he was not supporting his daughter. It was, however, abundantly clear, that she didn’t care. She loved him to distraction, to the edge of basic sanity.
I wonder what it must be like, to be loved thus?
He shook his head. He had no idea. He never would know. He wasn’t sure he would want that sort of sacrificial devotion. Not from her.
The thought surprised him. He looked up as if he’d just been slapped in the face. Why was he thinking about her in that way?
“Lady Emilia would doubtless no sooner look at you, than she would contemplate forming an attachment to a brick building.”
Why would she? He had been thoughtless, feckless, witless! He had shouted at her at a time when she was in torment, he had put her in an awkward position.
Besides, when she has got rid of you, I doubt she would want to see you anymore.
She was probably feeling as awkward about the whole situation as he did.
“Well, it can’t be helped, I suppose,” he sighed, stretching out on the chair, trying to get as comfortable as possible. He knew he was never going to be able to sleep – not tonight.
He just had no luck with women, did he?
Chapter Ten
No Real Choice
Emilia slipped down into the breakfast-room. She had just unlocked the door of the study. The key was in her pocket, a cool weight that only she knew about. Her heart thumped in her chest. She tiptoed down the stairs, knowing she had given somebody freedom.
I know I should have said something. I just…can’t. I cannot say goodbye. Not now.
She shook her head, hands balling into fists with impatience at herself. What was she thinking? The earl had been in the house for no longer than four days. She had no reason to feel anything for him.
“I suppose I have had too many unplanned goodbyes.”
That was it. It must be. She had said goodbye to her mother, more than ten years ago. To a certain extent, she had said goodbye to her father, too – the sad, withdrawn shell of a man she saw daily was not quite her father. Not the father she remembered.
She walked to the breakfast room, feeling a strange emptiness in her heart, wondering what Luke was up to now. June would be going up there any minute. She would discover the door unlocked, and know what must be done. Or would she even have to? She might go up there to find him already gone.
“Let’s have some breakfast,” she murmured to herself. She was just being silly.
She stepped into the small, brightly wall-papered space. The sunlight streamed through the window, a whitish glow that made it difficult to see. She drew out a chair at the table, blinking in the brightness.
“There you are. Thought you might’ve left already.”
“Father!” Emilia beamed. There he was, thinner and paler – were that even possible – but sitting up, nevertheless, a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of eggs before him.
“You look better,” she said, slipping into her chair. She wrinkled her nose at the scent of the coffee. It was too early for something so strong! She reached for the teapot. He grimaced.
“Coffee. I know. Doctor’d likely shoot me. Says it plays havoc with the insides. Myself, I reckon I need it. Wakes me up.”
“Oh, Papa.” Emilia made a wry face at him. “Shoot you! That’s a bit dramatic. He’s here to make you get well.” She reached for a slice of toast from the toast-rack, tapping it lightly on the edge of the dish to shake it loose of crumbs.
“Well, I sometimes wonder if it isn’t the only way it’d make me better,” her father grumbled. “Shooting me, I mean.”
“Father!” Emilia stared at him, shocked. “Don’t say that! Of course you’ll get well.” She looked at her plate, feeling a mix of desperation and angry fear. She took marmalade from the jar, spreading it on. It was the sort with the chunks of peel – she liked the smooth one better – but she would eat it anyway.
“I hope I shall,” her father said. He sounded skeptical. Emilia restrained her desire to shake him.
“You’re a strong, fit man,” she said instead, biting her toast, feigning a light tone she didn’t have. “Of course, you’ll be fit and well before the month is out.”
“The month?” Her father raised a brow. “I doubt it, Emilia. But I thank you for your faith in me.”
“It’s not faith, Papa,” Emilia chewed the toast, listening to the crunch, then swallowed. “It’s true.”
He said nothing, just stirred the coffee slowly, staring into the dark depths.
Emilia finished her breakfast, surprised to be feeling slightly nettled. Did he want to get well, or didn’t he?
“I heard from them again yesterday afternoon,” he said. He sounded quite tranquil. She saw his hand was shaking.
“Who, Papa?” Emilia asked, feeling fear twist inside of her chest. She already knew.
“The duke’s men,” he said. “They say he has every intention of paying me. He’s busy gathering the funds. They say he might have gathered them by next week. He wants to…to meet,” he said, suddenly lapsing into a fit of coughing. “In Elvering’s coffee-house, today…Oh!”
“Father!” Emilia stood, swiftly rounding on the door. “Let me fetch…”
“No.” He waved a hand at her, signaling for her to stay. “No, daughter. I’m well…”
He drew in a great, heaving breath, reached for the carafe of cold water and poured a cup for himself. As she watched, he drank it down, and then leaned back, eyes watering.
“He said he wanted to meet me today, in town,” he murmured. Dabbing his eyes wit
h his handkerchief, he regained control of his breathing.
“I will go,” Emilia said.
“No, daughter,” he replied after a long moment. “No. Don’t do that. Better that he deals with me, than has a chance to threaten my daughter.”
“I won’t let him threaten me lightly.”
“I bet you won’t.” Her father chuckled. “You’re every inch as stubborn as me. But please, let me do this. I can’t…can’t…” He placed his hand on his chest, gasping.
“Father, no!” Emilia bent her knees, swiftly kneeling by his chair. “Mrs. Prime?” she called out. “June? Somebody?”
“Milady?” Mr. Croxley answered, his bland face a picture of horror.
“Nothing, Croxley,” her father called out, making a batting gesture with his hand, as if he’d brushed away dust. “I’m fine. Just choking, that’s all. Just…choking.”
He gasped and coughed, and then seemed to right himself. Emilia looked up at him a moment, waiting for his face to return to its proper color. It was, already, paler than the purpling hue it had been a moment ago.
Croxley hadn’t gone anywhere, Emilia noticed, for which she was grateful.
“Papa?” she asked, frowning at him. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” he insisted, eyes closed in an expression of pain. “I’m…fine.”
Emilia returned to her seat, her hand gripping her father’s. His fingers felt hot and dry. She looked round at Croxley.
“Mr. Croxley? Please, bring the doctor.”
“No. No, I don’t need to see anyone…” Emilia’s father protested.
Emilia shot him a look. “Papa…”
He said nothing, but nodded, red-faced. He looked down at the table, as if he was willing to let himself be fussed over, but didn’t want to see it.
Emilia heard Croxley leaving, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.
“Father,” she said in a soft voice. “You need to rest.”
“I do,” he nodded. He was leaning back in the chair, his eyes closed. He was pale, his lips purplish. Emilia smiled at him encouragingly as he opened one eye. He grinned back.
“You know, I long to be with your Mama again. I would sometimes give anything to see her. But then, when I reckon I’m getting close to death…the funny thing is, I don’t want to go. Too much fun going on here. I want to see you well and settled. Also, I would miss you, Emilia.”
Emilia felt her throat tighten, tears springing up in her eyes. She squeezed her father’s hand, too overcome for words. After a long moment, she nodded.
“I’d miss you, too, Papa. You’re not going anywhere. Not if I can help it. Not for ages.”
He grinned. His eyes were closed again, and he was leaning back restfully. “Well, then,” he said. “I think I’ll take it easy. Get back to bed. I’m not quite as strong as I once was. Not quite as strong…”
He got to his feet, panting with the effort. Emilia reached out to take his arm, but he waved her off.
“No, let Croxley take me up…wretched fellow. Where is he? Off fetching the doctor. Ugh! What a cosseted mess I am, eh?”
“Father,” Emilia grinned. “Nobody could call you cossetted. A doctor is in need sometimes, you know.”
He squinted, skeptical. “You think so, eh?”
“You know so,” Emilia shot back. Her father smiled.
They both laughed as he left through the door.
When her father had gone, Emilia sat down in her chair with a sigh. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts.
“Croxley?” she called, ringing the bell. He appeared a moment later in the doorway.
“Yes, milady?”
“Fetch the coach, please. And the Duke of Elsmoor’s calling-card? I’m going out.”
“Yes, milady.”
If Croxley disapproved, he did her the courtesy of not letting her know.
* * *
Dressed in a white muslin gown with a design of pale peach sprigs, her hair drawn back in a curled chignon, Emilia alighted from the coach, when it arrived in front of Aunt Melior’s home.
“I wish to speak with Lady Hestony,” she said to the maid, who raised a brow in surprise, at seeing her there, unexpected. She was led to a parlor, where she sat, waiting for her cousin. It was not long before the door was thrown open.
“Emilia!” her cousin embraced her, a vision in white muslin. “What is the matter? This is an unexpected pleasure!”
“Hestony? I need your help today.”
“We’ll do it together, whatever it is,” Hestony said at once. Emilia felt instantly better.
“Oh, cousin.” Emilia smiled sadly. “You are a good friend.”
“Mrs. Pembroke?” her cousin alerted the housekeeper. “Fetch my bonnet, if you please? The white one? Good. And tell Mama I’m going out.”
Emilia beamed up at her cousin. “Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it.” Her cousin squeezed her fingers reassuringly. “It’s much better than practicing the pianoforte all day.”
Emilia chuckled and together they went out to the coach.
While they drove into town together, Emilia sketched out the outline of her plan. She was going to meet with the duke of Elsmoor in the coffee-house, but she couldn’t go alone.
“If I go without a chaperone, it will be unseemly. And then, if he tells the whole Ton, I…” She blushed, not knowing how to explain that her reputation would be completely ruined.
“I understand,” her cousin assured her. “No need to explain. I’ll cling to you like I was basted on.”
Emilia grinned. “Thank you, cousin.”
When they arrived at the coffee shop just after noon, the place was quite busy. Emilia looked around, not sure if she could spot the duke by sight. The tables and chairs were almost all occupied, the noise in the shop loud and rowdy. The proprietor came to take their coats.
“Are you ladies here to meet somebody?” he inquired solicitously.
“Yes. Is the Duke of Elsmoor here?” Emilia asked in a small voice.
“Um…yes.” The man cast an eye around the room. “There he is.” He jerked his head towards a table by the window. Emilia followed the motion. And stared as she saw, for the first time, the man who was the source of all her difficulties.
He was quite unremarkable to look at – neither ugly, nor overly handsome. He had a long, grave face, a thin nose and a lugubrious expression. As she studied him, he studied her back. His eyes held hers. Bluish gray, they had a piercing quality, as if, looking at her, they sought deep inside her, reaching for her soul. She shivered.
“Yes, that’s him,” she said to the proprietor. She waited for Hestony to come with her. Together, they walked to the table.
As they approached, the duke stood. He really was tall, she noticed – much taller even than Luke was. Those wintry eyes looked down at her, assessing, serious.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of the company of ladies?” he inquired.
“Um,” Emilia licked her lips nervously. She glanced to her left, where the proprietor hovered. With long instinct, he melted away into the background. She looked up at the duke. “I am the daughter of Barton Herston,” she said. “I trust we understand each other…?”
“Ah.” He raised a brow. His expression changed, becoming alert, probingly inquiring. Emilia took a step back without knowing she had done it.
Beside her, Hestony was looking from her to the duke, clearly at a loss. She coughed.
“Um, I’m Lady Hestony, daughter of Baron Exley. And I’m Lady Emilia’s cousin, too,” she added, inclining her head at Emilia.
The duke just raised a brow. “I see,” he said icily. He looked at Emilia. “You have come to speak with me on your father’s behalf?”
“Yes,” Emilia whispered.
“Well, then.” He smiled – a thin, unpleasant smile. “In that case, I think it would suit your interest to talk with me alone.”
“Alone?” Emilia felt as if the floor had been taken
from under her feet. How could she speak with him alone? It could shoot her reputation stone-dead. She looked at Hestony, who had gone pale.
The duke just raised a brow. “I think it would be better,” he said again. “I would imagine there were some things that are…better kept to our ears alone.”
