The Forbidden Lord (4 page)

Jordan watched her, trying futilely to gather his scattered wits. Judging from her hurt expression, he was saying this all wrong. No doubt she’d expected him to swear his undying love. That was precisely why he avoided virginal, respectable women.

Experience had always been paramount in his encounters with women. A lusty woman whom he could forget as quickly as she forgot him—that was all he’d aimed for in a lover. He knew better than anyone that seducing virgins was a dangerous sport.

But with Emily…Good God, he could still taste her on his lips, apples and cream and a hint of champagne. And when she’d parted her lips for him…He sprang to life just thinking of it. Lust raged through him, tearing down the barriers of sense and reason. Even now, he wanted to toss her down on the seat and bury himself inside her. And he couldn’t.

He felt like a child who couldn’t get his fill of sweets, even though he knew they would make him ill. Her lavender scent filled the carriage, enticing him even further. He wanted to taste her, all of her, to strip the clothes from her and press his mouth against every inch of her pale, delicate
body. The damned hunger—He clenched his jaw. It was so intense, it hurt.

“Look here, Emily—” he began, wondering how to explain his lapse in judgment.

“Please don’t say any more. It’s all right. I…I suppose the full moon affected…both of us.”

“Yes—the full moon.”

It was as good an explanation for complete insanity as any other. Only complete insanity could make him lose control. And for a prim little rector’s daughter!

A prim little rector’s daughter who might end up his wife if he weren’t careful. He tightened his jaw as he glanced out the window. Pray heaven no one was in the garden now. Marriage to Emily Fairchild would be sheer disaster. She barely knew him and couldn’t hope to be happy with him. She would chafe at a forced marriage. Being a starry-eyed innocent, she would want more from him than he could give. Before long, they’d be locked in the same kind of disastrous battle that had ruined his parents’ marriage and destroyed his mother’s life.

A memory flashed before him, of his mother screaming in his face that he was the reason she couldn’t have fun, the reason she was in hell, the reason for her misery. And though he’d long ago realized that it was the drink that made her say that, he also knew it was partly true. If not for him…

Forcefully, he drove back the pain. Perhaps Emily would react differently to such a marriage. But perhaps not. Pray God he never had to find out.

Besides, for all her softness and easy capitulation to his kisses, she was still a sweet-faced gentle-woman with firm ideas about proper behavior. If he married her, he’d be making love with the can
dles snuffed and asking permission to attend his club. And the more he wanted her, the worse it would be. He’d rather shoot off his deuced cock than face a lifetime of that.

Still, she’d defended him without even knowing him. No woman except his stepsister Sara had ever defended him. Raged at him, yes. Gossiped about him and lusted after his money and title, most definitely. But not taken his side.

“Lord Blackmore, may I ask you one question?” she said timidly.

Her voice jarred him. Ah, so they were back to formalities, were they? Hard to believe that scant minutes ago, she’d whispered his name with something like affection. But this entire evening had been like a dream, and it was time for it to end. “Ask whatever you wish.”

Her gaze dropped to her hands, clasped demurely in her lap. “You…said you prefer indecent women to decent women. Yet you danced with Lady Sophie.”

She was too polite to call him insincere, but he knew what she thought. “Lady Dryden asked me to dance with your friend, so I did. I’m not so rude as to ignore my hostess’s wishes. But that’s all it was, I assure you, no matter what Lord Nesfield made of it.” A smile touched his lips. “Why? Are you jealous?”

That got her dander up. “Of course not. I’m not that foolish. I know I am…I know this was…merely a fleeting flirtation for you. We move in entirely different circles. If I do manage to reach the house without being noticed, I doubt I’ll ever see you again.”

Her bald description of what he’d already been thinking irritated him. “I’ll be here for a week more. We could—”

“Have more scandalous tête-à-têtes in your carriage? I think not.” She glanced away, the fluid light catching the porcelain stillness of her face, a stillness betrayed by eyes that showed every emotion. “I don’t think I could survive any more such meetings.”

Nor could he. Good God, if he had another chance at it, he’d probably make a complete fool of himself. He refused to lose his head over any woman, especially an upstanding young gentle-woman like Emily Fairchild.

But the carriage was rapidly approaching the gardens again, and as the horses clopped nearer, his heart dropped into his stomach. He wished he could know her better. What a shame that was impossible.

All too soon, the carriage was slowing, and she was staring out the window. “Thank God, they’re gone,” she said, her relief evident.

Did she find the idea of being forced to marry him so distasteful? Of course she did. She thought he was the kind of scoundrel who could have a “flirtation” with a young woman, kiss her senseless, then send her off without a thought.

Very well. Let her think it. It was better that way.

He knocked on the carriage ceiling and ordered the coachman to halt. Then he sat back in his seat. “I’ll go in first. If anyone asks me about you, I’ll declare I have no idea what they’re talking about. You wait a while, then stroll in from the gardens as if you’d been out there all along. With any luck, you won’t have to tell any lies.”

“Thank you,” she said primly, then turned the handle, opened the door, and descended from the carriage.

“Emily—” he began as he followed her out, wanting to stop her, yet knowing it was pointless.

She faced him with a look of expectation. He didn’t know what to say. What could he offer her? What did she want from him? Did she want him to throw caution to the winds, ask her if he could call or announce his intentions to her father? If she did, she wouldn’t get it. As she’d said, this was an interlude. And he wouldn’t change the outcome.

When he remained silent, she flashed him a wan smile. “Thank you for a very enlightening evening, Lord Blackmore. I shall never forget it.”

Nor shall I
, he thought as she hurried into the gardens, a quiet grace in her movements even as she raced to be away from him, disappearing into the night like Cinderella after the ball.

Except for one awful difference. She’d left him without even a glass slipper to remember her by. And there would be no future between them. None at all.

Willow Crossing
May 1819

S
ince it was the servants’ day off, the rectory was still and the kitchen deserted in the wee hours after dawn. Emily stood at the stove heating watered-down brandy, glad for the solitude on this spring morning as she prepared her father’s breath-sweetening tincture.

She touched her finger lightly to the glassy surface of the liquid. Good. It was finally warm enough. Turning to the table, she poured the hot brandy water over the cloves, wild sage, and marsh rosemary she’d crumbled in the bottom of a china bowl. As a crisp, festive herbal scent wafted through the kitchen, it roused memories of mulled wine and wassail…and feasts served at elaborate masquerade balls given by wealthy nobility.

Sticking her tongue out at the bowl, she dropped into a chair and crossed her arms over her chest.
Oh, why couldn’t she banish that wretched night from her mind? Two months had passed since the ball, for pity’s sake. Her period of mourning was over, and she’d been invited to countless dinners and parties since. A young man or two had even paid her some attention. By now she should have forgotten the entire incident.

Lord Blackmore had surely put it out of his mind the very next morning. Although she’d foolishly hoped he might pay her a visit in the days that followed, he hadn’t taken any more notice of her.

Of course he hadn’t: he’d made it quite clear that it had meant little to him. He’d even thrust her away from him as if she were some nasty troll. Obviously her lack of experience had disgusted him. She was the only one foolish enough to dwell on their kisses and savor the memory of his mouth locked to hers, his hands pressing her down on the seat of the carriage…

Oh, wretched, wretched imagination! Why was she so tormented with embarrassing memories?

Because it had been her first kiss. She blushed. No, not just her first. Her first and second and third. How many more might there have been if he hadn’t stopped? She’d been ready to let him ruin her right there in that carriage! The man certainly knew how to make a woman’s first kisses memorable.

Curse him for that. Until then, her life had been mostly content, an ordered procession of small cares, light duties, and casual friendships. She attended church and paid morning visits and tended house for Papa. What did it matter if she sometimes felt a breath of dissatisfaction in her preordained life? If she occasionally found the tedium overwhelming? Her life was better than many people’s, and she’d been taught to thank God for that.

Then Lord Blackmore—Jordan—had entered her placid world, disturbing its unruffled surface and forcing her to see what she’d missed. She hadn’t known a man could startle a woman’s heart into joyous beating or inflict upon it a pain so intense, it was almost akin to pleasure.

Now she understood the poet Thomas Gray’s words, “Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.” She’d been happy in her ignorance. Gaining wisdom, or experience, about men had indeed been folly. The worst kind of folly.

“There you are,” came a voice from the doorway. Her father strode into the kitchen. “I should’ve known I’d find you here.”

Edmund Fairchild was a tall, thin man who’d never looked like a clergyman. Until her mother died. After that he’d taken refuge in his work, always citing the most restrictive scriptures, the most solemn verses. The mouth that once had always worn a smile now seemed tugged perpetually downward with the weight of his grief. The hands that had often hugged her now fell limp and stiff at his sides.

Guilt settled sickly in her belly as she surveyed his rumpled clothes and blue eyes fogged by sleep. “I’m so sorry, Papa, did I wake you? I tried to be quiet. I just couldn’t sleep.”

Lowering his lanky frame into a chair, he threaded his fingers through his disheveled graying hair, and for once a smile softened his hard features. “You didn’t wake me. Didn’t you hear the carriage drive up outside? Before they could ring the bell and wake you, I came down to see who was calling at this unreasonable hour.”

“So who was the rude creature?” When her father frowned, she added, “I do hope it wasn’t the mayor’s wife, asking for birch-leaf tea again. I’ve
told her repeatedly to visit the apothecary, but she insists I’m the only one in Willow Crossing who can help her with her rheumatism. If it was her servant, please tell him my answer is still no.”

“It wasn’t the mayor’s wife.” Her father concentrated on rubbing his bony, arthritic legs. “You know, Emily, lately your answer to anyone asking for physic seems to be ‘no.’ You used to enjoy helping people with your medicines. Now you seem almost fearful of it, unless it’s something inconsequential like the elixir you made for his lordship’s daughter.”

Rising suddenly from her chair, she turned her attention to the duck that needed plucking for dinner. Papa must never know the real reason she was afraid to dabble in medicines anymore. “I’m making breath sweetener for you, and that’s a help, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but it’s not the same thing as making physic.” When she said nothing, he added, “If this concerns your mother—”

“Of course not! I-I’ve merely lost my interest in doctoring.” That he would even mention Mama surprised her. They’d grieved apart, neither one encroaching on the other’s remembrances, as if speaking of Mama might make the world explode. Their unspoken agreement had grown more strained of late, however.

Quickly, she changed the subject. “If it wasn’t the mayor’s servant at the door, who was it?”

Papa slapped his head with his palm. “My word, I forgot! Lord Nesfield’s footman is waiting outside with his lordship’s carriage.”

“Lord Nesfield? I thought he was still in London for Sophie’s coming out.”

“I thought so, too. But it seems he’s returned.”

She began to pluck the duck’s feathers with
sharp, angry strokes. “And of course, the first thing he did was demand your presence at a ridiculous hour. You’d think you were his blessed servant. You’d think—”

“No, dear. He didn’t send the carriage for me. He sent it for you.”

The duck dropped onto the counter with a thud. “For me? Why?”

“Lord Nesfield wants you at Ormond. His footman said it concerns Lady Sophie. And you
are
her particular friend.”

Wiping her damp hands on her dimity apron, Emily stared at her father. Sophie? Had something happened to Sophie? But why would that prompt the marquess to send for her when he thought so little of her friendship with his daughter?

The last time she’d seen Sophie had been at the ball, when she’d given the girl the nostrum…A horrid chill slinked down her spine. Goodness gracious, what if something had gone wrong with it?

No, nothing could have gone wrong. The thing had been perfectly mild. And surely Lord Nesfield wouldn’t have traveled all the way from London to lecture her about a harmless collection of herbs.

But what else could have brought him here and prompted him to call for her?

Her father apparently misinterpreted her uneasy silence. “I know you don’t like the man, but it would be wise for you to go, my child. He is my patron, after all.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll go at once.” Untying her apron, she set it on the table. She had no choice but to leap when Lord Nesfield snapped his fingers.

While Papa spoke with the footman, she took a few minutes to change into her sky-blue sprigged muslin, the only one of her day gowns suitable for an audience with the haughty marquess.

When she descended the stairs, Papa was pacing the hall, the lines in his face etched more deeply than usual. “Don’t let Lord Nesfield’s ill humor rouse you to harsh words, Emily.” He bent as she lifted her head to kiss his cheek. “We owe him a great deal. He may be troublesome, but he’s still one of God’s creatures. Try to remember that.”

“I will, Papa. Don’t worry. I’m sure this is nothing at all.”

Later, however, as the Nesfield carriage rumbled up in front of the ancient mansion set amidst acres of tenant farms and forest, she found it increasingly hard to be nonchalant. The imposing facade of stone and brick with its myriad windows emanated an awesome power. The Marquess of Nesfield held complete sway in Willow Crossing. If he wanted to ruin her and Papa, he could do so with a snap of his cruel fingers. And unfortunately, she’d given him the wherewithal to do it.

A shudder passed through her. When she descended from the carriage and entered the gilt-edged foyer to find Lord Nesfield himself waiting for her, the shudder grew to a raging alarm. Something was amiss, to be sure. But what? How could it possibly concern her?

It must be terribly important. His lordship’s attire, usually extravagant and self-important, was casual, mussed, and grimy. He looked as if he’d just now arrived from London. He was treading a circle around the foyer like some great vulture surveying a dead carcass, and his ivory cane beat a choppy rhythm on the marble floor.

As soon as he caught sight of her, his frown added more wrinkles to his aging brow. “At last! You took your sweet time, didn’t you, Miss Fairchild? Come with me. We have much to discuss.”

She bit back a hot retort. She would never get
used to Lord Nesfield’s utter lack of courtesy toward anyone beneath him. He barely allowed the butler time to take her pelisse before he clasped her by the arm, dragging her to the drawing room as if she were a recalcitrant child. Dear heavens, what was going on? She’d never seen Lord Nesfield so agitated, and he made a profession out of peevishness and agitation.

As soon as they entered the lavishly appointed room, he released her. She surveyed her surroundings, discovering to her surprise that someone awaited them there. A woman of substantial proportions filled up a large wing-backed chair like a great stuffed peacock.

And with such brilliant feathers! Emily couldn’t help but stare. The woman’s expensive-looking satin gown was so vividly purple it made her pink-cheeked face look like a peony floating in a sea of violets. Emily judged her to be about fifty, though it was hard to tell since she wore a turban of golden satin over her hair, and the plumpness of her skin smoothed out any wrinkle that would dare to crease its surface.

One thing was for certain. Only a woman with utter confidence in herself could effectively wear such an outrageous ensemble.

Lord Nesfield broke the silence. “Ophelia, I present to you Miss Fairchild, my rector’s daughter. Miss Fairchild, this is Ophelia Campbell, the Countess of Dundee. Lady Dundee is my sister.”

Emily gave a deep curtsy, her curiosity thoroughly roused. So this was the formidable Lady Dundee. According to local gossip, the woman had turned down offers of marriage from an English duke and a marquess to marry her Scottish earl. Some said she’d married for love, and others said she’d married to spite her indifferent parents.
Whatever the case, rumor had it that her wit, intelligence, and forthright speech had garnered her respect and power among Scottish society despite her English upbringing.

She straightened to find Lady Dundee examining her like a jeweler perusing uncut gems.

“You’re probably wondering why I’ve brought you here, Miss Fairchild,” Lord Nesfield continued. “As you know—”

“Randolph, must you be so rude?” Lady Dundee scowled at her brother. “Let the poor girl sit down first. And call for some refreshment, for heaven’s sake. We’ve been on the road for days, and I’m dry as a bone.” With a regal nod cast loosely in Emily’s direction, she added, “You must forgive my brother’s ill manners, Miss Fairchild. He’s very tired. We traveled all last night to make up the time we’d lost to poor weather.”

Gesturing impatiently to the settee across from his sister, Lord Nesfield barked. “Sit down, Miss Fairchild,” then strode to the doorway, and bellowed for a servant.

Emily did as he bade at once, not daring to do otherwise. While they waited for the tea, Lady Dundee peppered Emily with questions—about her parents, her upbringing, the sort of books she read. By the time the tea arrived, Emily was on the verge of rudely informing Lady Dundee that none of it was her concern. Goodness gracious, was this some sort of test? Or did all women of exalted society interrogate their guests?

“Now then, Miss Fairchild,” Lord Nesfield began, “as you may have guessed, I’ve brought you here because I need your help.”

Her
help? How very strange. “Your footman said this concerned Sophie.” Emily sipped at her tea, all
too aware of Lady Dundee’s intrusive gaze on her. “She’s not ill, is she? May I see her?”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Lady Dundee answered for her brother. “My niece is at my estate in Scotland with her uncle.”

“Scotland!” Emily set her cup down so abruptly that tea sloshed over onto the delicate china saucer. “But I thought she was in London having her coming out!”

“She was.” Lord Nesfield shoved his hands in his coat pockets, his expression grim. “Until she tried to run off with some bounder.”

Emily forgot about her tea completely. “Sophie? Timid little Sophie? Off with some man?”

“Yes. Timid little Sophie, off with some man,” he echoed sourly. “That’s when I whisked her away to Ophelia’s in Scotland. And that’s where she’ll remain until I find out who the scoundrel is.”

“What do you mean? Don’t you know who he is?”

“Unfortunately, no. One night a few weeks ago, I heard a sound and went downstairs to find Sophie sneaking out of the London house. I ran through the open door after her. A carriage awaited her in the street, but when the driver saw me, he set off at a frantic pace. I called for my horse and gave chase, but it was too late, of course. The man had disappeared. And I never got to see who he was. I still do not know.” A dangerous look entered his eyes. “But I will find out. You can be sure of that.”

Emily might have thought this some strange joke if not for two things. One, Lord Nesfield never joked. Two, Lady Dundee was loudly seconding her brother’s vow to find the scoundrel.

But who would have believed that shy, skittish Sophie would ever attempt elopement? Then again,
Sophie
had
made that odd comment about the footman.

Something in her face must have alerted Lord Nesfield and his sister to her thoughts, for they both burst out together, “You know who he is!”