The Duke's Dilemma (11 page)

“The cause of Miss Haliburton’s indisposition is irrelevant,” he declared firmly. “The fact remains she should be taken to her chamber at once.”

“Your grace!” Pettigrew sounded shocked beyond belief. “I beg of you, let me summon a footman to carry the young lady.”

“Miss Haliburton is
my
guest and, therefore,
my
responsibility. I shall see her to her chamber,” the duke replied in a voice that brooked no opposition.

Emily cringed at the thought of being carried like an invalid—and by the duke at that—but she was still too numb with shock and grief to protest.

Across the vast hall and up the massive staircase he carried her, a grim expression darkening his handsome features. Because she had no choice, Emily relaxed and he instantly tightened his grip, making her all the more aware of the muscles rippling in his strong arms and the hard, male feel of his chest.

“Which is your door?” he asked, and when Emily pointed it out, he set her on her feet in front of it, retaining a firm hold on her upper arms.

“There is something I must say to you,” he said, gazing down at her from his great height. He cleared his throat. “Something for which I am most heartily sorry. “

Emily stared at him in dismay. His exertions had rumpled his precisely tied cravat and a lock of jet-black hair had fallen over his forehead. For the first time, the stiff-necked duke looked almost human, and his resemblance to Jared was so strong, Emily was hard-put to keep from bursting into tears.

He appeared to be trying to apologize for something. What, she couldn’t imagine. Unless. Good heavens, did he think that demanding she perform had upset her to the point of bringing on her vapors?

Emily blinked back her tears. “Thank you for your concern, your grace, but you have no cause to blame yourself in the least,” she said wearily. She gazed longingly at the door to her chamber. Her head was still spinning and her stomach felt as queasy as if it had in fact developed an antipathy to the innocent lobster Lady Hargrave had impugned.

She reached for the doorknob, desperate to escape the duke ‘s presence before the full impact of the squire’s dreadful news hit her and she made an even greater fool of herself than she already had.

“No, wait.” He put out a hand to stop her. “Please, you must listen to me. I…”

But before he could finish his sentence or Emily could turn the knob, the door burst open, revealing Maggie Hawkes’ formidable figure and behind her a frightened-looking Lucinda. “There you are, my poor miss,” Hawkes exclaimed. “Lady Lucinda came looking for me all in a pother—said you was ailing something awful.”

She wrapped a protective arm around Emily’ s shoulders. “Now don’t you fret, Miss. I’ve turned down your bed nice and comfy and sent a footman to the kitchen for peppermint tea with a drop or two of laudanum in it. Nothing like it to sweeten a sour stomach and make you sleep like a babe. “

Without a backward glance at the duke, Emily relinquished herself to Hawkes’s motherly care. She could feel the tears she could no longer control welling at the corners of her eyes and knew she was just seconds away from collapsing in sorrow. All she wanted was to be left alone.

Vaguely she heard the duke utter a protest, heard Hawkes’ brief, no-nonsense reply and the decisive click of the door as the elderly maidservant closed and locked it. Then she heard no more. She sprawled across the bed, buried her face in the cool freshness of the lavender scented pillow and gave herself up to her grief over the untimely death of the charming scoundrel, who, along with all his other thefts, had stolen her heart.

In the darkened hallway, Jared stood alone in stunned silence, rooted to the spot where a mere servant had relegated him, the Eighth Duke of Montford, and then slammed the door in his face. Had the world gone mad? It surely must have, he decided, as he stood outside Emily’s door, feeling more like a green stripling who ‘d been put in his place than a powerful peer of the realm.

His first inclination was to kick the damned door down and toss Lady Lucinda and her officious maidservant into the hall. He needed to be alone with Emily, needed to take her in his arms and confess his shameful duplicity so he could beg her forgiveness.

His booted foot was raised and ready to strike when he thought better of it. He had already wounded Emily’s generous heart; he could not risk ruining her reputation as well. And it would indeed be ruined if even the faintest hint of the havey-cavey game he had played with her this past fortnight became public knowledge. Such a scandal could be so titillating to the gossipmongers, it could even follow his little country sparrow to her village in the Cotswolds.

He pressed his fingers to his aching temples. But now he must face the long night ahead, knowing Emily was grieving needlessly and he was powerless to keep her from shedding a single tear. He only hoped Cook would have the sense to put enough laudanum in the tea to sink Emily into a deep and dreamless sleep.

He was not surprised to find Edgar waiting for him when he made his way to the library a few minutes later. “No, I did not get the chance to tell her the truth,” he said before Edgar could ask. “Some ancient she-devil in a mobcap snatched her away and tucked her into bed before I could get a word out. I had to choose between saving her from a night of unnecessary grief and protecting her reputation. Under the circumstances, the latter seemed the wisest choice. But come what may, I will speak to her first thing in the morning.”

Edgar crossed to the sideboard and poured two stout brandies. “I should hope so, your grace,” he said in that tightlipped way Jared had come to think of as Edgar’s voice of disapproval. “Because rightly or wrongly, Miss Haliburton believes she is in love with you—or I should say with your alter ego.”

Jared cringed as if Edgar’s barbed words had drawn blood. “I have come to realize that,” he said quietly. “I doubt I shall ever forget the look on her face when Squire Bosley declared that I…that the highwayman was dead.”

“Nor I, your grace. Nor I.”

Jared downed a healthy swig of brandy. “Fool’s courage” he had heard it called, and if ever a man needed the courage to say what should be said, he was that man. “As know, my friend,” he began, “I have not always led the life of a saint in the thirty years I’ve walked this earth. “

Edgar said nothing but the look in his dark, myopic eyes spoke volumes.

“And strange though it may seem to an upstanding fellow like you, I have few regrets.”

“To feel regret over one’s actions can be rather humbling, and humility is not a trait one normally associates with a duke,” Edgar remarked dryly.

Jared gritted his teeth. Edgar wasn’t making this easy. He finished his brandy, set the glass on the table beside his chair and took a deep breath. “But I confess I deeply regret deceiving Emily Haliburton about my identity. She deserved better treatment than that from me.”

Edgar raised his glass in a brief salute. “There may be hope for you yet, my friend.” He eyed Jared speculatively. “Miss Haliburton is an extraordinary woman. One who would make any man, even a duke, a fine wife.”

“A Duke of Montford marry the dowerless daughter of an Oxford don? You cannot be serious. My blue-blooded relatives would never recover from the shock. Nor, I think, would the Regent and the rest of the Royals. Why, even
you
once remarked that she would never be accepted in polite society.” “Is that so important, Jared?”

“To another man—possibly not. But I hold a title which is nearly as old as England herself. I have no choice but to take such a consideration into account when I choose my duchess.”

Jared stared morosely into the bleak, soot-coated interior of the cold fireplace. “You are the family historian, Edgar. Tell me, has any Duke of Montford ever taken less than an earl’s daughter to wife?”

“No. Nor, to the best of my knowledge, has any Duke of Montford ever married for love. But that is not to say it cannot be done.”

“Love?” Jared laughed bitterly. “A fairy-tale spun to entertain the common folk. Such gullibility was bred out of my aristocratic genes long before the first Tremayne crossed the Channel.”

Edgar pushed his spectacles higher onto the bridge of his nose. “Good!” he declared. “Then you can have no objection to my pleading my cause with the lady in question once she recovers from her present insanity. “

A picture of Emily’s lush, warm body pressed against another, Edgar ‘s hands on her full breasts, his mouth tasting the sweetness of her soft lips flashed before Jared’ s eyes, and a stab of fierce, hot jealousy shot through him.

“Do so,” he snarled, “and though I look on you as the brother I never had, I swear I will see her a widow before I see you take her to the marriage bed. “

“As I thought,” Edgar chortled, and his laughter still rang in Jared’ s ears long after the annoying fellow had taken his leave to wish the houseguests a peaceful sleep on their last night at Brynhaven.

T
he black, storm-tossed night had finally come to an end, giving way to a dawn as bleak and dismal as Jared’s mood.

He had stood for hours by his bedchamber window staring into the inky darkness and listening to the wind howl through the ancient oaks for which Brynhaven was famous. For a brief time, hours earlier, he had watched jagged streaks of lightning slash across the sky so close to the manor house the answering thunder rattled the window panes in their leaded casements—and all the while his jumbled thoughts chased each other around his brain like so many befuddled rats in a cage.

All was quiet now at Brynhaven except for an occasional rumble of distant thunder, but it was a strangely expectant quiet, as if nature were simply gathering her forces for another spectacular assault on the ancient estate.

Jared’s gaze lingered on the banks of dirty gray clouds gathering on the horizon and he frowned darkly. For the last hour or two, brief spits of rain had lashed the window
like carelessly tossed pebbles—forewarnings of the coming deluge destined to turn the nearby roads into seas of mud that would bog down the strongest of horses and sturdiest of carriages.

This was more the weather of early March than late May and, as a proper host, he would be expected to extend his hospitality until such time as his guests could safely travel back to London. He groaned. From the look of things, this infernal house party he’d foolishly initiated could drag on indefinitely. Well, that would be Edgar’s problem, because weather be damned, he fully intended to leave for Staffield the minute he finished his talk with Emily.

He would stay there until autumn, and hopefully by the time he returned to London Emily would be safely back in the Cotswolds and Lady Lucinda safely betrothed to young Percival.

But that was all in the future; right now he faced the unpleasant task of divulging the truth of his duplicity to Emily. The very thought made his blood run cold. She already held the aristocracy, and him in particular, in disgust; she would probably thoroughly despise him once she learned the true identity of the highwayman she had championed. But the task was one which must be done. He was first and foremost a man of honor, and he could think of nothing less honorable than letting a woman mourn needlessly.

Still, sound as the reasoning might be, the very idea of confessing his sins rankled him. He was not accustomed to being held accountable for his actions; he was the Duke of Montford and no man in England dared raise a voice against him. Even his cheeky man-of-affairs knew enough to tread lightly when expressing disapproval. Yet here he was, a peer of the realm, deferring his travel plans so he could bare his soul to a country spinster he would probably never see again—and feeling every bit as guilty as when he’d been caught in a school boy prank at Eton. The world had indeed gone mad and he with it.

He had half a mind to order Edgar to handle the miserable business for him—a coward’s way out, he knew, but smacking of reason just the same. Emily already thought him a snobbish prig; what did it matter if she thought him a coward as well? Besides, Edgar had rare talent for smoothing ruffled feathers—something he, himself, had never needed to cultivate.

Restless, he paced the floor, debating with his conscience the wisdom of this simple solution to his problem. The more he thought about it, the more he realized what a mistake it would be to confront her himself. The poor woman would likely have another attack of the vapors from sheer embarrassment. Why, he wondered, had he lost sleep over the matter, when all he had to do was leave the necessary instructions for Edgar and then depart for Northumberland post haste.

Feeling very pleased with himself indeed, Jared stopped his pacing long enough to change from his evening clothes into the rough shirt, britches and well-worn boots he always
wore when traveling alone. and on horseback. Out of deference to fastidious valet’s tender sensibilities, he would dispatch him to his London townhouse along with all the elegant clothing so unsuitable for the monastic life at Staffordshire.

He packed his razor and a few other necessities, including a container of that miserable shaving soap his valet insisted on preparing for him, in his leather travel pouch, then crossed to the window to make a final check on the weather.

The usual flurry of morning activity was in progress in the courtyard below. Stable boys rushed to and fro like ants tending their hill—some hauling barrows of manure and stale hay out through the wide flung doors of the vast stable, others carrying bales of fresh hay in.

As Jared watched, the elderly head groom appeared, leading a horse already saddled, and headed toward the mounting block. Jared shook his head in disbelief. Which of his guests was such an avid rider, he would choose to pursue the activity on a morning like this? Couldn’t he hear the ominous rumble of thunder in the distance?

He looked again. Hell and damnation ! He might have known! It was the dapple gray, and there was Emily in her ill-fitting green riding habit and a foolish little hat that would afford her no protection whatsoever from the inclement weather.

What was the fool woman thinking of? Didn’t she know how dangerous it was to ride during a thunderstorm? And what business did his head groom have putting her to mount without permission from either Edgar or himself?

Moments later, after a mad scramble down his private stairwell, he reached the stables on the run. It was too late; Emily had already ridden off. Without even stopping to give the groom the tongue-lashing he deserved, Jared saddled the black stallion himself and took off after her.

He knew instinctively where she was heading—the great oak tree that had been their trysting place—the worst possible place to be if lightning struck. The sentimental little fool probably had some crazy idea of bidding a last good-bye to the scoundrel who had stirred her virginal passions.

He felt another of the painful jabs of conscience that had plagued him ever since he’d had the misfortune to lay eyes on Miss Emily Haliburton. Never again would he make the mistake of fixing his interest, even temporarily, on a woman who was ruled by her emotions. A man might as well commit himself to Bedlam since she would drive him there eventually. Give him a vacuous little debutante any day, or better yet, a jaded aristocrat or demimonde who knew the rules of the game.

A flash of lightning split the stormy sky and the stallion reared in protest. With a firm grip on the reins, Jared calmed the frightened beast and once again urged him forward.

His thoughts returned to the woman he pursued. If the testy little gray had been spooked as well, Emily could have been taken unawares and thrown from the saddle. She could this very minute be lying crumpled and broken in the meadow or the patch of woods that lay between him and the oak tree.

He was not normally given to panic, but a rushing tide of it welled in him now, and his chest heaved with the effort of drawing a breath past the great lump filling his throat.

Anxiously, he studied the landscape ahead but could see no sign of the gray or her rider. What if he had guessed wrong about Emily’s destination? It would be just like her to be heading nowhere in particular, but simply riding willy-nilly, numb with grief. In such a state, she could fail to note her surroundings and become hopelessly lost for hours. At the very least, she was certain to get herself soaked to the skin.

The wind was blowing in earnest by the time the giant oak came into view, whipping the thick branches about as if they were slender twigs. He instantly spotted Emily and expelled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. She was standing with her forehead pressed against the trunk and God help him, she was tracing her fingers over the ridiculous heart and initials he’d foolishly carved the day he’d bid her farewell. What, he wondered now, could have possessed him to do such a thing?

He dismounted and walked toward her. He might have known she would be crying, and Emily crying was not a pretty sight. He’d seen ladies cry; they sniffed daintily into lace handkerchiefs. He’d witnessed the apocryphal wailing and moaning of his various mistresses when he’d given them their
congés
. Emily followed neither of these patterns. She emitted great, loud, racking sobs that seemed to be ripped from the very depths of her soul.

He had never heard a woman cry like that; he had certainly never thought to hear one cry like that over him. The sound ripped through his heart and left him feeling both humbled and sickened by the thought that he had unwittingly brought her to this.

He found himself despising the fictitious alter ego he’d so conveniently created, yet envying the scoundrel as well. He seriously doubted any woman would ever cry over Jared, the Eighth Duke of Montford with the same heart-rending passion Emily cried over Jared, the highwayman.

It was obvious she hadn’t heard him approach. He stepped closer, eager to speak yet afraid he might shock her if he did so.

“Emily.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Emily,” he repeated when she failed to answer him.

She turned around and instantly every drop of color leached from her face. Staggering backward until she was pressed against the tree trunk, she stared at him with a look akin to horror.
Jared?
she mouthed, but no sound came out. She rubbed fiercely at her puffy, tear drenched eyes. “Jared?” she squeaked and rubbed her eyes again. “But it cannot be. Am I hallucinating or are…are you a ghost?”

“Neither, Emily. “He took a step toward her and held out his hand. “Touch me and you’ll see I’m every bit as real and alive as you.”

Emily shrank back against the tree trunk, gripping it with both hands as if to keep herself from falling to her knees. Her eyes widened to two red-rimmed circles of disbelief. “But the squire said… How could he have been mistaken? He said you were lying dead in the road.”

“The highwayman who has been robbing the locals was lying dead in the road,” Jared said gravely. “But I am not that highwayman. I told you as much but you refused to believe me.”

“Dear God, it is true, then. You really are alive.” Emily pressed her hand to heart. “I can scarcely credit it.”

“I am very much alive, little sparrow, and I swear if I’d had any suspicion that witless thatch-gallows would be so careless as to get himself killed, I’d have made you listen to the truth. I would never have let you grieve needlessly. “

Emily swiped the last of her tears from her cheek. “Of course you wouldn’t. No one could be that cruel. It is all my own fault. I should never have distrusted you.”

Guilt, sharp as a knife, stabbed Jared and every word Emily said twisted the blade a little deeper. Once again she was leaping to a wrong conclusion, assuming she was the one at fault in the sorry business. He swallowed hard.

“You misunderstand me, Emily. The blame is mine and mine alone. There is something I must tell you. Something for which I am deeply sorry.”

“No more sorry than I, I’m sure,” Emily declared. “If only I had listened to you. If only I had trusted you. I have always been much too quick to make judgments, you see. Much too sure of my own opinion. It is a grievous fault and one for which I paid dearly this time.” She pressed her fingers to her trembling lips. “Because when the squire described the dead highwayman, I was so sure and I just couldn’t bear to think…but you’re not…you’re really alive!”

Jared squirmed uneasily. He could never remember feeling guilty about anything before he met Emily, but then Emily made him feel a great many things he had never felt before. He stared at her, wondering what there was about this woman that made him see her differently from all other women. At the moment, her hair was wildly disheveled and hung from beneath her bedraggled little hat in an untidy braid, her face was swollen and blotched from crying, her eyelids red and puffy and she’d evidently been in such a hurry to dress, she had most of the buttons on her riding habit in the wrong buttonholes, which made her look oddly lopsided.

She was the closest thing to a complete disaster Jared had ever seen…and so unbelievably desirable, she took his breath away.

“Hell and damnation,” he said, holding out his arms. He told himself he merely wanted to give her a bit of friendly comfort, but she launched herself at him like a ball from a cannon, and the next thing he knew, they were tangled together, body pressed to body, mouth pressed to mouth.

“Emily, sweet impossible Emily,” he murmured, tasting warm, salty residue of the tears she’d shed for him—yet not really for him. A hot rush of desire swept through him and he tightened his hold, trapping her soft, womanly curves between the unyielding tree trunk and the hard evidence of his own maleness.

She gave a small, startled gasp and color flooded her pale cheeks. With a groan, he deepened the kiss, exploring the secret sweetness behind her parted lips with all the hunger of a man on the brink of starvation. He felt her arms slide around his neck and her hands in his hair, and forgetting everything but this moment and this woman, abandoned himself to the passion she stirred in him—a passion as wild and dangerous as the storm breaking above them.

Lost in Jared’s embrace, Emily was dimly aware she was acting like the worst kind of wanton. She didn’t care. Her joy was too great to contain. He was alive, and if only for a moment, his strong arms were wrapped around her, his warm lips pressed to hers. She had no illusions about the depth of his feelings for her, but wonder of wonders, he had cared enough to seek her out so she would not grieve needlessly.