Lady Emma's Dilemma (9781101573662) (20 page)

Guided by the golden light spilling from the windows, she took the wide stone steps down the terrace into the well-manicured garden below.

She walked until she came to a bubbling fountain ringed with lanterns and dropped her shawl on the stone bench next to it. Tilting her head back, she gazed up at the dark velvet sky. The vast expanse was almost as dark as Jack's eyes.

She should not have come tonight, she told herself fiercely. After her recent conversations with Amelia and Penelope, and then Grandmère—well, she was in no mood to be at a party.

Especially one attended by Jack Devruex.

A moment ago, when their had eyes met, the shiver of awareness that hit her in the pit of the stomach brought her grandmother's words back in full force—
you are fearful of the possibilities the future holds for you.

At first Emma had dismissed the words out of hand, but now a niggling feeling told her she needed to consider if there were any truth to them.

She stood there, struggling with emotions she did not want to examine, when a husky, hauntingly familiar voice spoke behind her. “Emmaline, don't you think it's time we talked?”

S
tartled by Jack's sudden appearance, Emma whirled around to see him standing by a low hedgerow. What she could see of his expression in the low light emitted from the lanterns caused her heart to hammer.

She considered his question and everything within her shouted
NO.
To talk of the past would not only be pointless, but unbearably painful. Swallowing hard, she could not seem to find her voice.

Evidently, he was in the mood to be patient, for he stood still and let his words hang between them.

A breeze ruffled his black hair as her gaze roved over his features. Again she felt a stab of pain at all the lost years that had wrought so many changes in him.

Finally, unable to stand the silence stretching tightly between them, she said, “What could we possibly have to talk about after thirteen years, Jack?”

“Does the amount of time really matter, Emmaline?”

She met his gaze, and the bold look of demand and intimacy sent her insides quaking. Instinct told her this conversation was moving in a dangerous direction.

Walking a little closer to the fountain, she forced herself to gain control of her agitated emotions.

He took a step closer to her. “Considering the kiss we exchanged last week I find your behavior inexplicable.”

At the challenging tone in his voice she gave a wry laugh. “My behavior is inexplicable to me, as well.”

“You said you hated me. Why? You left me on that muddy road.”

Again, she could not mistake the demand in his deep voice. Yet beneath the caution she saw in his near black eyes, she thought she saw a flash of desire and possessiveness and her breathing grew shallow in response.

But it was his words that she could hardly take in. Did he really blame her for not eloping with him? Could he really have no idea what his defection cost her? From the hard line of his jaw and compressed lips, evidently not. This realization shocked her to the core.

As their gazes held and clashed, she clenched her fingers into fists and fought to keep the tremor from her voice. “I did not leave you! I just went home. But you never came back!”

Her angry shout startled them both. But strangely, saying the words aloud after so long felt very good.

She watched his long fingers rake impatiently through his hair. “I never came back because you married Charles Fallbrook shortly after we parted.” His voice now held a hint of anger as well.

“Because you never came back! I waited three months for you to come back. Every day I waited, expecting you to come up the drive, but you never did. You broke my heart.”

In one stride he closed the space between them and swept her into his arms with fierce strength.

Balling her fists against his chest, she buried her face against his shoulder.

“Tell me, Emma. Tell me everything.”

His husky whisper, spoken against her temple, seemed to knock down the last barrier, and the details of her painful past came tumbling out. “I felt so lost and foolish. I did not know what to do. I wrote you letters I did not send, because I was still so angry with you. But weeks went by and I realized that you could not have loved me.”

She hated the way her voice broke, but felt powerless to stop the flow of words.

“I had known Charles all my life, and with my mother and my uncle pressuring me the whole time, I grew numb. After months went by, I quit waiting for you and told myself that I could forget you. Charles and I married and I was relieved because my family seemed happy at last. I did not start hating you until—” She tried to choke back the sentence, for it was too painful to finish.

His hand stroked the length of her back and she could feel the warmth of his body through her thin gown.

“When did you start hating me? I need to know, Emma.”

Suddenly, she wanted him to know it all. Every sad, ugly truth of it. “Did you know I had a child?” she whispered.

“Yes.” His words were more of a rumble in the ear she pressed against his chest. “I heard you had a little boy.”

“Yes. Then you must also have heard that he died,” she whispered, barely able to choke out the words.

“I did. I am so sorry, Emma.”

“Henry was almost nine months old when he became ill with a terrible lung ailment. After—after a time hope was lost. During the funeral, my husband told me that he wished it had been me instead of our son who had died. I left him that day and started a new life in Melham. I began to hate you when I realized that if only you had not been drunk and lost the night we were to elope my life would undoubtedly have turned out in a vastly different way.”

Her anguished voice trailed away but she did not move away from him. Neither spoke and the feel of muscular arms and his cheek against her temple calmed her quaking limbs.

She knew not how long they stayed this way, embracing in the warm night air. Slowly, though, being in his arms became an intolerable comfort. She felt too unsure of her emotions—and his—to be soothed this way. Opening her hands, she pressed them against his chest and an instant later she was free.

She found the look on his face unreadable as she said in a much more composed voice, “I had no intention of telling
you any of this. In truth, I doubt these thoughts have been fully formed in my mind until this moment. But returning to London has brought so many memories back—it's as if I barely know myself anymore.”

She paused, but he did not speak and continued to gaze at her with an intense yet unreadable expression.

“Truly, my life has been very fulfilling these last six years,” she continued quickly. “Nevertheless, I am sure this has been something like letting poison from a wound, and there is no need to fear that you shall have to suffer through another outburst.”

She made a heroic effort to inject a light note in the last sentence, for now that her emotions were spent, embarrassment began to set in at exposing so much of her feelings to him.

“Damn it, Emmaline, do not slip back behind that perfectly polished mask after what you just shared with me.”

She could find nothing to say, feeling oddly empty after her outburst. Turning her head away, she looked out over the lantern lit garden.

“Marry me.”

The firm, huskily spoken words had the effect of a pistol shot upon her overwrought senses. Whipping her head back to him, she stared for a moment, hardly believing she heard him correctly.

“Have you gone mad?” she whispered.

There was a tenderness to his laugh she had never heard before.

“You cannot deny what is between us. I now see what happened in a different light, Emma, and there is much we have to discuss. But for now—marry me.”

Moving to the bench, she picked up her violet silk shawl. “Really, Lord Devruex,” she began in a surprisingly composed voice, “there is no need to be so gallant.”

Sweeping past him, she refused to meet his gaze and hurried up the path. She could sense him right behind her
and as she ran up the wide terrace steps he caught up with her.

“Emma, don't—” His words were cut off by a sudden burst of raucous laughter from a nearby crowd of young people playing some sort of game with one of the ladies' fans.

She glanced back to see Jack's frown as he was forced to pause to let one of the dandies by. Emma took the opportunity to quickly cross the terrace and slip back into the house, where the sudden lights and noise dazzled her terribly confused senses.

“Y
ou are here rather earlier than I expected. Was the Litchfield ball not to your liking?” Sally Willoughby asked coyly as she reposed upon the chaise in her salon.

Monteford had arrived a half an hour ago and had gone straight for the brandy. To her exasperation he had not said a word, not even complimenting the emerald green lace negligee she wore.

Sally watched him drink a quarter of the bottle—his expression growing more sour with each swallow—before she asked him the question.

Instead of answering her, he sloshed more brandy into his glass and slumped down in the chair with a grunt.

Sally pouted, yawned, and went back to flipping through a magazine. As much as his behavior annoyed her, she knew that he would not speak until he was good and ready.

He continued to drink and she continued to read until the candles burned low. Finally, Monteford turned blurry eyes to her and said, “I'm in the suds, Sal.”

She laughed at his slurred voice. “Whatever are you talking of?”

“M'grandfather has cut me off.”

The starkness of the statement and the desperate tone beneath the brandy-induced slur made her sit up and stare at him in alarm.

“Cut off!” she squealed. “What do you mean,
cut off?
”

Monteford pushed a pale lock off his forehead. “The old man says that I have to marry—now.”

Sally thought a moment, then relaxed a little. “Well, he has been after you to get married for years.” She hoped it was just the amount of liquor he had consumed that made him so dramatic.

“Yes, but this time he says he's stopping the blunt until I present him with my intended bride.”

Sally tossed the magazine aside, jumped up from the chaise, and began to pace from one end of the room to the other.

“What about your mother? Surely she will see to your bills?”
And what about my bills?
she wondered in growing alarm.

Monteford shrugged and slid farther down the chair until his chin rested on his chest. “Perhaps, but not enough. There is nothing else for it—I'm going to have to find a wife.”

Sally stopped her pacing to stare at him with narrowed eyes. “Is this why you have been making a cake of yourself over Lady Fallbrook?”

At her sharp tone his expression turned petulant. “I have not made a cake of myself over her. It's that blasted Jack Devruex.”

His odd reference to Lord Devruex did not deter her. “Do you want to marry Lady Fallbrook?” she demanded.

“I don't believe she will have me,” he mumbled.

“So you do want her!” she shouted as she threw her hands up. “No! I will not have this. Anyone but Lady Fallbrook. There must be someone else you can marry.” This was terribly distressing. If Monteford married Lady Fallbrook it would be much too lowering. Everyone would know that he wanted the beautiful widow more than he wanted her. “You cannot want to marry her!”

“Of course I do. Who would not? Blast Jack Devruex. If he had not stepped in, I would have had a chance with her.”

She put her hand on her hip. “Why are you angry with
Devruex? It is not his fault if she favors him. Besides, your grandfather will come around. How can he not?”

“Because that is how he is,” he said, sloshing some of the brandy onto his shirtfront. “I must find a wife as soon as possible—and she must have a decent dowry.”

Sally shook her head in dismay. “This is an odd and insulting subject to be discussing with me.”

“Who else would I talk to about this?” he said, looking up at her with an expression in his eyes that convinced her that this was serious business indeed.

Gooseflesh rose on her arms as she gazed around the room. Everything she had worked so hard to get was in jeopardy. She said nothing and he continued.

“My marriage, or lack of one at this point, affects you as much as it does me. I honestly do not know how long I can afford you, Sally.” He finished with a bitter laugh and took another swallow of brandy.

Sheer panic softened her scorn as she sat down next to him. “Surely, if you spoke to your grandfather again—”

“Hah,” he interrupted, “you do not know the old man. It's not just that he wants me to marry—he has made it expressly clear that he is disappointed in me. He wishes I were more like Devruex,” he said through gritted teeth. “My God, if only I had Devruex's money I'd tell the old man what he can do with his ultimatums. I must find a wife, but in the meantime, I must find a way to raise some capital before my situation becomes embarrassing.”

Sally frowned as they sat in silence for some time, Monteford gazing morosely into his brandy glass. Suddenly, something of great import occurred to her. Reaching over, she grasped his left hand in both of hers and looked beseechingly into his eyes.

“So, Monty dear, does this mean I cannot have a new ensemble for Ascot?”

E
mma awoke very late the next morning. Her head throbbed, but she forced herself to sit up when Milton quietly entered the room and opened the drapery. The maid said she would bring her mistress chocolate and fruit, and then quietly left the room.

Sitting up in the canopied bed, Emma gazed out to the garden, which looked so colorful and inviting in the late-morning sun.