Candice Hern (25 page)

"My lord," she whispered when she at last found her voice, "you should have made yourself known."

* * *

Robert had intended to spend the evening at White's, having for once a reprieve from escorting Augusta and her mother. But his mood was strangely melancholy, and his heart was not in the gaming tonight. He left early, not wanting to lose his blunt uselessly through his own distraction. He had no idea how long he had been sitting in the dark, drinking a good deal of claret. He had lost track of time as he got slowly and deliberately foxed.

He had heard the library door open and knew at once it was Emily. Somehow he had come to recognize her very footsteps, not to mention the faint scent of lavender that always accompanied her. He wasn't sure what perverse notion had caused him to remain quiet, knowing she was unaware of his presence. Perhaps too much wine had made him languorous.

When she came into view, candle held aloft as she rummaged through the books on the library table, he had to stifle a gasp which would surely have betrayed his presence sooner than he desired. She was in her dressing gown—a horrid, dark, unflattering thing—and her hair was down around her shoulders. Although she had always worn her hair pulled back in a chignon or piled up on her head, he had often imagined what it would look like unpinned and loose. But he had had no idea it was so long. Unbound, it hung down to the middle of her back in soft, golden waves. My God, it was beautiful. How he longed to run his fingers through it.

Perhaps he did unconsciously catch his breath, for she suddenly stiffened. He decided it was time to speak.

At his words she had spun around, and her hair had flown out to one side to fall over her shoulder like a cape. She had looked at him—looked at him with a hunger he had often seen in the eyes of women who openly desired him. He had seldom failed to take advantage of such a look. But he knew somehow that Emily was unfamiliar with her own desire, was no doubt unaware that it was so clearly communicated in her eyes. She would probably have been outraged at such a thought. And he had no business entertaining such thoughts himself.

"Indeed, I should have made myself known." He rose slowly and walked toward her. "I apologize for teasing you. Too much wine, I suspect. By the way, we are not in public just now, so there's no need to 'my lord' me."

Emily was pulling at the lapels of her dressing gown, obviously uncomfortable to be caught
en déshabillé
. "If you will excuse me, Robert," she said, backing toward the door, "I will leave you to enjoy your wine in peace." She turned to leave.

"Don't go, Emily," Robert said without thinking. "Stay and keep me company for a while."

She turned back to look at him with questioning eyes. She chewed on her lower lip, and her hands still clutched at the dressing gown.

"Don't worry, my dear." Robert chuckled and gestured toward her maidenly wrap. "You are safe with me in that ugly thing."

He watched her face as she seemed to struggle with the dilemma. He could almost read her thoughts: they were alone together in a dark room, neither of them was properly dressed, and she really ought to leave. At last she appeared to discard her apprehension and walked resolutely back into the room.

"All right," she said. "But just for a short while."

"Then let us sit here where it is warm." He directed her to the leather sofa facing the fire. She sat down, not quite into its farthest corner, while he stoked the flames. When he joined her he was careful to leave several feet between them. He looked at her, with her beautiful hair catching the glow of the firelight, and began to think he should have let her go after all. He wasn't sure if he could refrain from touching her. He decided to begin a discussion sure to cool his incipient ardor.

"Tell me how it goes with Sedgewick."

She looked at him with a scowl and something like exasperation. "I enjoy his company," she said through tight lips.

He smiled. "Don't eat me, Emily. I didn't mean to pry. But you are both good friends, and I am interested in your welfare. I must say, I had the distinct impression that Sedge was quite serious. Has he offered for you?"

She looked at him with narrowed eyes. "No."

"But you think he will, don't you?"

She looked hard at him for a moment and then sighed. She relaxed into the comfort of the soft leather and gazed into the fire. "Yes," she said quietly. "Mind you, he has made no declarations or any such thing. But he has hinted rather broadly. Yes, I believe he will offer for me."

"And will you accept?"

"It would be the only logical thing to do, would it not?"

"Logical? What on earth does logic have to do with it?"

"I am a penniless spinster," she replied, "quite on the shelf. I have no dowry and no prospects. I have never before had and probably never will again have an opportunity for a home of my own and children. It is a future I have never dared dream of. It would be foolish to decline such an offer."

Robert was sorely tempted to blurt out what he suspected about her financial situation. She needn't make such a decision because she thought she was penniless. But he had best wait until he knew something for certain.

"Do you love him?" he asked.

She sighed again. "I am very fond of him. How could I not be? He is charming and witty and kind. It is enough, Robert."

"Wouldn't you rather wait until you find someone you can love before you decide to marry him?"

"Ah, and are you so in love with Miss Windhurst, then?"

Robert grinned at her but did not reply. He stretched his legs out toward the fire and settled himself more comfortably on the sofa. Finally he said, "We will be publicly celebrating our betrothal tomorrow evening."

"Yes, and it's going to be a splendid affair." She proceeded to tell him some of the details of the dowager's plans. They laughed together over some of the scenes that had taken place with the florist, the musicians, and the linen draper who was to hang the ballroom walls with swags of blue satin brocade.

"Wait till you see what Anatole and Mrs. Dawson have planned," Emily said with excitement. "They are both so determined to excel in each other's eyes that there was no need to engage a caterer. Your own chefs will be handling all the food—with extra hired kitchen help, of course."

"Good lord, this whole thing must be costing a small fortune."

"And then some. But it is what your grandmother wanted."

Now it was Robert's turn to sigh. What a lot of fuss for an engagement he now regretted. Regretted? Perhaps that was too harsh. He realized now that he had not acted wisely, but he was nevertheless determined to go through with it. He looked over at the woman sitting next to him, curled up comfortably in her ugly green robe. Yes, he did regret it. He regretted it very much. He leaned his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes, trying to imagine how on earth he would survive the ball. The betrothal. The marriage.

He suddenly felt Emily's fingers brush away the hair that had fallen across his eyes. Without thinking, he grabbed her hand and kissed her palm, teasing it with his tongue. He heard her suck in her breath. He turned his head, still leaning on the back of the sofa, and looked at her. His eyes rested on the golden waves that tumbled over her shoulders. He released her hand, and, as if possessed of a will of their own, his fingers reached up to wind a soft curl about them.

"Once we are both married," he said as he twirled her hair, "we will not be able to enjoy such cozy evenings. I suspect that neither Augusta nor Sedge would think kindly of my being forever at your side. I shall miss your conversation. I shall miss our friendship, Emily."

"So will I," she whispered.

My God, she was irresistible. Before he could control the impulse, Robert reached over and pulled her into his arms, trapping her hands flat against his chest. He gazed down into her eyes for a moment, giving her the chance to push him away. She did not. He lowered his lips to hers.

Her lips were soft and yielding as he gently moved his against them. One hand held her head, buried in the silky softness of her hair. He felt her hands creep up his shoulders and slide around his neck, pulling him closer. He shivered at the touch of her fingers in his hair, and he deepened the kiss. She gave a soft moan as he parted her lips with his tongue. His passion flared, and his arms wrapped around her more tightly. Through the thin fabric of his shirt and her dressing gown he felt the softness of her breasts pressed against his chest, and the last vestiges of his control slipped away. He moved one hand to caress her shoulder and inched it down her side until he was cupping her breast.

Emily pulled back with a gasp, pushing him away. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she disentangled herself from Robert's arms before abruptly standing up.

Damnation, what the devil had got into him?

If she hadn't stopped him, he would have made love to her right there on the library sofa. He must be out of his mind. "Please, Emily," he said, reaching out for her, "forgive me. I don't know what came over me. It's the wine, I guess. But that's no excuse, of course. I had no right to do that." What was wrong with him? He felt suddenly stupid, not knowing what to say. She stared down at him with wide eyes, her hand still covering her mouth. "I'm so sorry, Emily. I swear it won't happen again."

She turned without a word and ran from the room. She left the library door open, and Robert heard her soft footsteps as she hurried up the stairs.

"Bloody hell!" he muttered aloud. What had he done?

What he had done was to fall in love with Emily.

And his engagement to Augusta was to be celebrated tomorrow.

Chapter 18

"So, you see, my lord, your suspicions were correct." James Huntspill, a middle-aged man of short stature, receding brown hair, and bright blue eyes, sat facing Lord Bradleigh's desk and handed him some papers from a leather satchel.

"This is an actual copy of the old earl's will?" Robert asked as he perused the document.

"Yes, my lord." Huntspill sat on the edge of a straight-backed chair, leaning forward. "Chalmers had routinely made copies of many of the old earl's important documents. Very thorough man. He was willing enough to part with it when he realized that his employer's wishes were not being carried out."

"Did he know why the old fellow decided to acknowledge his granddaughter after all?"

"Apparently after his wife died, the earl fell into a decline and became rather melancholy. He began to regret the estrangement from his only daughter, and that he had only the one son left to remember him. His daughter, Miss Townsend's mother, was of course dead by then, as was her husband. So he determined to acknowledge his only granddaughter in his will, to ease his conscience, you might say."

"And so he settled thirty thousand pounds on her." Robert shook his head in disbelief.

"There is the stipulation, of course," Huntspill said.

"Yes. The thirty thousand pounds is for a marriage settlement only." He studied the will for a moment. "If she is not married by the age of thirty, she is to be given a modest annual stipend—I'm sure Miss Townsend would not have considered five hundred a year modest—and the bulk of her inheritance would fall to her uncle and his heirs."

"In the meantime, assuming she is not married—remember, the old earl had no idea where she was, much less whether or not she was married—her uncle was to be the trustee of her dowry and was to provide her with appropriate living expenses."

"Why was that never done?" Robert asked, looking up from the parchment, his eyes narrowed in suppressed fury. "Why has she been left to barely scrape by, to be forced to work for a living?"

Huntspill cleared his throat nervously. "Well, my lord, Mr. Chalmers says that the old earl, who was quite ill and knew he hadn't long to live, was frantic to locate his granddaughter before he died. It became something of an obsession with him. He sent his son to find her. Apparently the search was not successful. The son, according to Chalmers, claims that she had disappeared without a trace shortly after her father's death. The old earl died within a few weeks, at which time Chalmers retired. He claims to have had no further dealings with the family and had no idea what had become of the money or the search for the granddaughter."

"And Pentwick?" The chill in Robert's voice caused Huntspill to noticeably wince.

"Yes, well," he said, "it seems Lord Pentwick, who was, of course. Viscount Faversham at that time, had been living on expectations for some time. He had racked up an impressive number of debts. He made good on them all after his father's death. Since then he seems to have lived fairly close to the edge. Gambles quite freely. Horses mostly. He's been known to drop a bundle on a single race, but always seems to come through."

"That bastard!" Robert slammed his fist down on the desk with such force that papers went flying in all directions, and Huntspill fell against the back of his chair. Robert rose from the desk and began pacing the room. "Pentwick's been living off Emily's—off Miss Townsend's marriage settlement, hasn't he?"

"I... er... don't know that for certain—"

"Of course he has! It all makes sense now." A stab of fiery rage, sharp and bright as a new blade, tore at his gut. "By God, I'll kill the bastard!"

"M-my lord," Huntspill stammered, "I don't think—"

"I'm going to see him, James. Right now! I'll have him know his treachery is no longer a secret. Miss Townsend shall not suffer another day from his deceit." He turned and headed toward the library door, flinging it open. "Claypool!" he bellowed.

"Perhaps it would be best to wait, my lord." Huntspill rose to follow after Robert. "You're much too agitated to confront the man now. You might say or do something you'll regret."

Claypool arrived at the library door. "Yes, my lord?"

"Have my curricle brought round," Robert said. "And ask Luckett to bring down my hat and gloves. I'll be going out."

"Yes, my lord," said Claypool, bowing crisply. He turned at once to do as he was asked.