by Ella Edon
Emilia swallowed hard. Unfortunately – terribly – he was right. She didn’t want to speak with him alone, knowing it would be worse than dangerous for her. But what else could she do? Her papa required that she keep his reputation safe.
“Yes,” she said after a long time. “I will speak with you. Alone.”
“Good.”
She thought she heard triumph in his voice. She tried to ignore it. He had turned away from her so she couldn’t see his face, only his long, slim hand as he gestured over his shoulder to the proprietor.
“We need to discuss something,” he said. “Alone.”
Emilia felt her heart sink with shame. She knew the duke was speaking in a low voice, so only the proprietor could hear, but she felt as if everybody in the coffee-house had heard him and was drawing their own conclusions.
“Of course, milord.”
She found herself following the duke to a small room through the back door of the coffee house. Furnished with plush benches and a table, it was clearly not the first time it had been used for a more private discussion. She took a seat, feeling as if she committed some dreadful offense.
“You can be in no doubt of the contents of this meeting,” the duke said lightly.
“On the contrary,” Emilia replied. Why was her voice so croaky? She cleared her throat. “I am entirely unsure.”
He laughed, which made her feel ashamed. “You say that,” he said. “But you cannot be unaware as why it would be advantageous for your papa to send you to meet with me here?”
“My papa didn’t send me!” Emilia protested. “I chose to come. My papa is sick! Terribly sick – too ill to carry out this visit alone.”
“Perhaps he chose to put it to you that way,” the duke stated smoothly.
Emilia looked at her hands, stomach churning with a mix of rage and uncertainty. Had her papa really shammed an illness, to make her come here alone? Was this part of his plan? It was the most awful betrayal she could contemplate, so she refused to believe it. No. he wouldn’t do that. If he wanted to ask, he would have asked me. She had to believe that!
“I am here, whatever the case,” she said tightly. “So, tell me the reason for it. I must know it.”
He smiled again. “What a feisty woman you are. I must say, it’s a quality I like.”
Emilia felt her skin crawl at his proprietary smile. Why was he looking at her like that? Her stomach churned.
“Please? Tell me?”
He nodded. “You can be of no illusion as to your father’s financial status,” he said. “I am sure you are aware of that, or why are you so…careful of his needs? I must tell you, then, that you find yourself in a fortunate position, as I am an honest man.”
“I see,” she said, looking at him mistrustfully.
He laughed. “I see you doubt me! Well, when you hear this, your doubt will dissolve. I will wed you. There! What say you now?”
“What?” Emilia pushed the chair back, ready to stand. “You…how is that significant?”
“Of course it is!” he said. “Don’t you see? With no dowry to pay, your father will recoup the losses he has from me. I cannot pay him back the full amount. I doubt anyone in the realm could produce that much cash in one go! So, this is a perfect solution. A thousand pounds, up front. And no dowry. That way, your father loses no money. I save him the four thousand pounds. Ideal!”
Emilia swallowed hard. She was still standing and she fought the urge to run. She sighed, making herself sit down.
“Milord, my father would never agree to that.”
“Would he not?” The duke raised a brow. “Think, then…why did he send you?”
“He didn’t send me!” Emilia almost shouted. She knew that might not be true. Her father was capable of many things – illegalities she didn’t know about. Would he lie? Maybe.
“Well, then,” he said. “Even so. You have a clear path ahead of you. Help him. Marry me. I can assure you, there are many women who would be glad to be in your position now.”
Emilia frowned at him. She could barely think. All this was too much information to take in. Her heart pounded. Her mind whirled.
“I will think on it,” she said at last.
He smiled, triumphant. “Good. That is all I ask.”
When they had finished talking, Emilia went straight out and into the hallway, where she found Hestony. “Take me home,” she told Hestony. She felt utterly finished. “Please! Take me home.”
Chapter Eleven
In Society Again
The sound of the pianoforte, light and musical, tinkled through the warm air of the drawing-room. Luke, sitting on the seat by the window, barely heard it.
“Lord Westmore! I declare. What are you doing there?”
Lady Raphaella’s voice broke his reverie. He looked up, feeling irritable.
“That is an easy thing to tell, milady. I’m doing nothing.”
“Oh! How funny,” she said indulgently. “But really, Lord Westmore…it is not nothing that keeps you so focused.”
“I’m writing a letter,” Luke said mildly. “Perhaps that is nothing, perhaps not. Are you not going to ride today?” he added, deliberately changing the subject.
Lady Raphaella’s eyebrows shot up. “No,” she said. “Not on account of the weather. It’s going to rain soon.”
“Oh.” Luke glanced out of the window, realizing he hadn’t noticed the way the clouds had gathered on the horizon. “You are right.”
“Yes.” Lady Raphaella nodded. “I am. You really are preoccupied, Lord Westmore. You must forgive my concern.”
“I’m fine, Lady Raphaella,” he insisted, looking down at his sheet of paper again.
With that, she seemed to decide that the conversation was concluded. She turned away and walked back to the chaise-lounge, where she sat down heavily next to her brother, running a hand over her glossy chestnut hair.
“I say, Cannmure – I’m absolutely finished today. It must be that long ride yesterday. Should we go again tomorrow?” she asked.
Canmure – Luke’s best friend, and nominal owner of Rumsgate House, where they all sat stewing on this hot afternoon – nodded. “I don’t see why not, sister,” he said. “Luke? Will you join us?”
Luke frowned. “I’m not sure.”
“I hope you shall,” his friend replied, a little querulously. “It would be a good thing to get out for a while. Shall we go tomorrow morning, sister?”
“Yes, brother! But only after nine of the clock…I want Jessie to curl my hair.”
Luke put aside his quill and stood, walking to the window. He looked out over the vast, grand setting of Rumsgate House. The family seat of his friend, it was set in acres of land, the garden stretching down to a large ornamental lake before meeting the forested terrain.
Perfect for riding. No wonder Canmure and his sister never want to leave. I wish I could join them.
He was grateful to his friend, who had put his house at his disposal following his “recovery.” He had told them all that he’d been deathly ill; a story which none chose to examine too closely and which had prompted Canmure to invite him around. He’d stayed here for two days.
“Luke,” Canmure said from just behind him.
“Yes?”
“I hadn’t meant to ask, but…you are well, are you not?”
Luke shrugged. “I feel so,” he said. “I don’t know if I’m qualified to say further than that.”
Canmure gave a low laugh. He still looked worried, though. “Well, that’s true. I’m going to have Doctor Abermale here later today – he’s got to look at this foot of mine. It’s getting damn painful again.”
“I see.” Luke nodded. Canmure’s foot was a source of bother – the inflammation in his joints was certainly made worse by his drinking habit, but Luke – a discreet friend – was the last to judge. He suspected Canmure already knew.
“If you like, I’m sure the doctor can give you a good look, too.”
“No, thanks,” Luke
said hastily. “I’m not unwell.”
Canmure shrugged. “Just asking.” He paused. “Will you…”
“What?” Luke frowned, seeing how nervous his friend appeared.
“Will you join us for the card-party tonight?” Canmure asked. “Luke…Raphaella is right. You’ve been keeping too much to yourself these days.”
“Canmure, I’m fine. Really. I just don’t feel like attending parties.”
Canmure’s brows went up. Clearly, he could hear the anger under Luke’s tone. He shrugged again. “As you wish. I’ll hold the party in the downstairs parlor – we don’t want the noise disturbing you.”
Luke shut his eyes in brief annoyance as his friend turned away. It wasn’t the noise! He wasn’t ill! He wanted to shout it in frustration. He could have regretted coming up with the lie about being ill, except that it did stave off inquiry.
And I don’t want any word about her getting out.
If society got wind that he’d spent four days imprisoned at Mowbray House, and alone, unchaperoned with Lady Emilia, her reputation would be in shambles. He couldn’t do that!
So, I must put up with Canmure and his concern, and Lady Raphaella and her endless obsession with riding!
He smiled bitterly. Of all the things he could put up with, he had to admit there were far worse than that to endure. He didn’t understand what had happened to him. Ever since he’d walked out of the attic room, he’d felt restless, like ants crawled all over him.
He recalled how strange it had felt to walk out of the unlocked door and down the stairs. He half-felt as if he was doing something forbidden. As if he was a prisoner, escaping. But she had said she would let him go, and she’d kept her word.
Out on the sidewalk, standing in the morning sunshine, he had breathed in great gulps of fresh air, as if he’d been incarcerated in some sort of dreadful cell. The sun shining on his face felt like a blessing.
“Ahoy!” he yelled, waving down a Hansom coach. The driver stopped, and he’d felt almost scared, calling up his request.
“Westmore Mews.”
They had shot off to his home. He knocked at the door.
“Hello?”
“Milord!” Mr. Hume, his butler, stared at him. “You’re back! Where were you? We were so distressed! We had the Watch out, combing all the London streets…we thought…we thought…”
“I was dead,” Luke finished for him grimly. He wondered privately why his solicitor hadn’t sent word back. “Well, as you can see, I’m not dead. Now – if you could furnish me with some breakfast, please? I’m starving.”
That, Luke thought grimly, had been the beginning of his troubles. His servants would have to draw their own conclusions. He couldn’t lie to them and pretend he’d been here all along. As for his friends, that was another matter. He’d lied to them all about his illness. It was why he’d been invited to Rumsgate, too – to recuperate.
He had written to his uncle, to his solicitor, to his cousin…in fact, he’d written similar letters to everybody who needed to know. And then, tapping his quill against his lip, he tried to write another. Of all the letters he’d written, this was the only one that he’d not finished. That was to Emilia. It lay, unfinished, on the desk.
“And I still can’t end it.”
“What’s that?” Canmure asked. He was over at the bookshelf, pulling out volumes of Byron’s works.
“Nothing,” Luke said irritably. “Maybe I’ll go for a walk, after all.”
He went out briskly, knowing he was being obtuse, but unable to do anything different. He stalked along the garden path, heading to a bench at the very top near a stand of conifers.
“Emilia Herston, will you stop haunting my mind?” he demanded aloud.
There was no answer. He could hear bees in the lavender, smell the warm scent of the earth. It was stormy weather, the sky grumbling though it was still sunny. He should have felt at peace.
He didn’t. Each day of his absence brought about more of this restlessness. He had thought, at first, it was because he was no longer used to being free. But rides in the countryside with Canmure and his sister didn’t help. In fact, they seemed to make matters worse.
“I just can’t bear other people’s company anymore.”
Canmure and Raphaella were some of his most longstanding acquaintances. But everything they said seemed contrived and uninteresting, after four days with Lady Emilia. He couldn’t understand it. He didn’t want to talk about the theater, or the war on the Continent, or politics, or societal events. He wanted to sit quietly in the silence and watch the sunset paint Lady Emilia’s cheek rose-colored, wanted to sit beside her and speak about her sorrows, her memories.
“You’re a fool, Luke. An utter fool.”
He leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes. The sky rumbled somewhere closer, and he knew it would rain soon, as Lady Raffaella had said. He didn’t care.
“What’s wrong with me?”
When he’d fallen in love with Stella, it hadn’t felt like this. She had been pretty, rich, well-born…she’d been the sort of girl his family would have liked heartily, and he’d liked that about her – the rightness of her. He’d fallen for that, too— for the way it all seemed to fit so neatly together. For the tidiness of it all.
And she hadn’t been interested. Now, he realized, he hadn’t been, either.
I didn’t know Stella Longfield.
In five minutes with Emilia, he’d opened his heart. He’d spoken about his worries, his uncle, his responsibilities. He’d lost his temper, and almost cried. And she’d watched him with those big blue-green eyes, and understood.
He’d never had that before – that sort of candid intimacy.
“I saw her cry. I shook her hand.”
He bit his lip, remembering. He’d never seen a lady open up like that. Never spoken to one, in fact, about anything more deeply personal than her opinion on cribbage. He hadn’t imagined there was anything else to talk about.
“And now that I know, I can’t go back.”
In a way, he ought to hate Emilia Herston! She had locked him in an attic, but she had freed his mind. Now that he was back in the narrow confines of the Ton with a mind unfettered by their dreary machinations, he found he hated it.
I feel like a hunting-hawk that escaped the mews, and now is back in fetters once again.
He had learned there was more to life than chasing down whatever society deemed fit to chase. How was he supposed to go back?
The skies roared, too close for comfort, and the rain started in earnest. Luke stood slowly, knowing he should go back. He felt the drops soaking his hair, plastering it to his skull, and quickened his pace. He really would get ill.
“Lord Westmore! Get upstairs and get those things off! I declare!” Mrs. Plowden, his friend’s housekeeper, scolded as he came inside.
“Yes, Mrs. Plowden.” He nodded wearily.
Upstairs, wrapped in a thick linen gown, sitting before a roaring fire, he looked out on the rainy afternoon sky. He wondered if it was raining in London yet. And, if it was, what Lady Emilia was doing now.
He wondered if he would ever see her again.
Chapter Twelve
A Few Possibilities
“Milady?” June called out.
Emilia jumped. She must have fallen asleep on the bed. She sat up, her head thumping and heavy with daytime sleep. She smoothed her hands quickly down her dress. She had changed out of the muslin the moment she arrived home. If she wore it again, she thought, she’d have to alter it first – the encounter with the duke would be forever associated with it, if she didn’t.
“Milady?”
“Yes?” she called, hastily. She went to the mirror, hastily rearranging her hair as June came in.
“Milady…I’m sorry to disturb you. You have a visitor downstairs.”
“A visitor?” Emilia felt her heart sink. “Whoever could it be?”
“It’s your cousin, Lady Hestony, milady.”
“He
stony?” Emilia frowned. “It’s almost six o’ clock! Why would she be here now?”
June simply shrugged. “Apologies, milady, but she didn’t say.”
“Well, I’ll find out,” Emilia said in a small voice. “Best if you fix my hair first.”
“Very good, milady.”
