The Heir and the Spare (19 page)

The conversation moved on, covering the theater, and mutual friends, and tales from when George, Juliet, and Devon were growing up. Emilia occasionally managed to pay attention, but spent far more time being aware of the man next to her.

She noticed the scar he had pointed out. She noticed how perfectly his gray jacket molded to his broad shoulders. She noticed small lines at the corners of his eyes, suggesting that he laughed and smiled often. She noticed how he became more relaxed as the evening progressed—he leaned back in his chair, and he spoke more, laughing from time to time.

Whether it was him or the champagne, she didn’t know, but something was making Emilia feel rather light-headed. Dizzy. Tipsy. She closed her eyes for just a second. Just a second.

“Emilia, dear, you look as if you are in need of some air,” her aunt said quietly to her.

“I think I do. Please excuse me,” Emilia said. That sounded like just the thing. She would step outside for a moment and let the cooler air revive her. As she slowly made her way to the terrace, she wondered if she was drunk.

“Someone ought to go with her,” Devon said. He looked around at the others, and they were all staring at him. No one volunteered. He looked to Lady Palmerston, and she merely raised one eyebrow in challenge.

“Welcome back to England, and the machinations of chaperones,” Knightly said, raising his glass to his friend.

“Right then,” Devon said before standing and making his way to the balcony.

“Do leave the door open, please. I’m sure we could all use some air,” Lady Stillmore requested.

On his way out, Devon heard Juliet say, “I wish my chaperone would allow me to wander out on a balcony accompanied solely by a handsome gentleman.”

“For that I shall ensure that you have two chaperones following your every move,” her brother replied.

“Isn’t this how you were tricked into proposing?” Knightly asked George.

“I wasn’t tricked. I was going to propose anyway, I simply took advantage of the moment.”

“It’s true. He had a ring with him,” Annabelle said.

“But really, Lady Palmerston,” George asked. “Devon is honorable, but what sort of chaperoning is this?”

“Really, George, you forget that a chaperone’s goal is to get their girl to the altar, by any means possible,” Juliet replied.

“That may be true,” Lady Palmerston said. “But I thought they might like a moment alone to talk privately. Besides, we can all see them through the window.”

“And if we’re quiet, we can hear them,” Annabelle said.
“Shhh.”

Devon had noticed the way Emilia stumbled slightly on her way to the terrace. He had also noted how often she took a sip from her glass. With the footmen constantly refilling the glasses, it was conceivable that she was a bit tipsy. Knowing her tendency to be clumsy when sober, he didn’t even want to imagine her moving around while intoxicated.

She was leaning on the railing of the terrace, facing the gardens. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was shallow. He stood beside her—in full view of the window, and everyone inside.

“Are you all right, Miss Highhart?”

“No, I am not all right at all,” she mumbled.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, just go away,” she said, slurring her words. It sounded more like “gway.”

“You shouldn’t be alone right now. You should go home.” Without thinking of it, he rested his hand on the small of her back to comfort her.

“I shouldn’t be alone with you. Go away before we are forced to be married or something awful like that. Lucky not to get caught already,” she said with a sigh.

“Miss Highhart—” he started, but she told him to go away again. He took a step back, but couldn’t leave. Not with the way she was leaning forward over the railing, as if she might topple over.

“Emilia. Open your eyes. Look at me,” he said. “You are drunk, and I will take you inside so that Lady Palmerston can take you home.”

“Don’t tell my father,” she whispered. “He’ll be very disappointed in me.”

“I promise,” he said, gently wrapping his arm around her waist. God, how perfect that felt. He pulled her to face him. The chattering voices that had been filtering through the partially opened doors ceased. Emilia looked up at him. He brushed a wayward strand of hair from her face. He couldn’t help it. His fingers brushed against her soft skin.

Emilia wished she hadn’t opened her eyes to look at him. He was holding her steady and the dizziness ceased for just a moment. The way he was looking at her . . . she thought she detected concern in his eyes, but it was also the way he had looked at her before he kissed her. If he did that now, they would be seen and he would be forced to marry her and would spend the rest of their entire life together regretting his concern for a girl who drank too much champagne.

“We ought to go inside now, before . . .” he started in a husky voice, which trailed off into silence. Without words to distract her, she became all too aware of the way he surrounded her, and how very upset her stomach was at the moment, and how she needed to get away from him, soon. She wrenched out of his grasp and took a few steps away from the doors and into the shadows. She then promptly cast up her accounts into Lady Stillmore’s heirloom rose-bush.

When she turned around, she noticed that Devon had looked away. She sent up a prayer of thanks for small favors, and then a fervent wish that she could just disappear. After a moment, it became apparent that she was not going to vanish.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Again.

“Better now. Except for being completely mortified,” she admitted. “Can we pretend that never happened?”

“Pretend what ever happened?” he asked with a smile.

When
Emilia awoke the following morning, she was struck with a blinding headache, a slightly queasy stomach, and a general feeling of wretchedness. She lay in bed, eyes closed, sifting through memories of the previous night. Dinner at the Stillmores’. Champagne.
Him.

She had been in agonies all throughout dinner, all because she had been so determined to hate him, and he made it so hard to do so. She had clung to his flaws and mistakes, and used them as an excuse to keep him away and as reasons that she shouldn’t fall for him. But last night, she had to admit that he was just a man—with good qualities to match the bad—and that he was his own man, not just another version of his twin.

Emilia had seen the way Winsworth and Knightly had acted toward Phillip, and how manners masked their lack of respect for him. With Devon, it was different. There was an easy familiarity, a genuine liking that not even a five-year absence could erase.

And in that five-year absence, Devon had done somethingwith himself and with his life. He had left his home, his family, and his friends, and started over completely. All Phillip had done was skulk around ballrooms, preying on innocent and foolish women. Juliet had been right: once one saw something more than their faces, it was the easiest thing in the world to tell them apart.

She was falling for him for real now—falling for the man, and not just his kiss.

Last night it seemed for a moment that he might kiss her. Drunk as she was, she saw the look in his eyes. But he hadn’t. Was it because she was drunk? Because they were within view of half a dozen people? Or because he didn’t want to? Or because . . .

Oh no. No. Emilia rolled over onto her stomach and buried her groans in the pillow. She had been sick in front of him. The memory was too horrifying to contemplate. He would certainly want nothing further to do with her now. Emilia muttered a very unladylike word into her pillow.

In the drawing room, Lady Palmerston was grumbling to herself. Last night had gone well enough. She has ascertained that Devon Kensington was not at all like his twin, especially in the way that mattered to her the most. This twin cared for her niece, and perhaps might even be half in love with her. Lady Palmerston was quite certain her niece felt the same way. Anyone could see it in the way they looked at each other, or, more tellingly, in the way they deliberately avoided looking at each other half the time.

Lady Palmerston would have wagered a small fortune that Kensington—the good one—would call this very afternoon. She just hoped that her niece would see fit to make an appearance. As if on cue, Emilia stepped into the drawing room.

“Good morning,” Emilia said.

“Good afternoon. How are you feeling?”

“Horrible.”

“Do take some tea,” Lady Palmerston said, motioning to the tray on the table. “It will make you feel better. I must apologize, dear, for allowing you to overimbibe.”

“No, it’s my fault. And it shall never happen again. I’m sorry I forgot myself last night.”

“A word of advice: drinking overmuch will not make you fall out of love, should you even be so foolish to wish for such a thing.”

“I’m not in love,” Emilia pointed out.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” she replied. “It seems I was mistaken then.” With that, she picked up a newspaper and started to read, and more to the point, started ignoring her niece.

“And even if I was, it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t return the sentiment.”

“Mmm.”

“I mean, he’s probably just paying attention to me because of my father. He used me once, why won’t he do it again? He is probably just flattering me so that I shall speak highly of him to my father.”

“Perhaps not,” Lady Palmerston replied, still reading.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” Lady Palmerston said, setting down the paper, “that your father already holds him in high regard, and you should give him a chance to prove himself to you. What do you have to lose?”

“What about my pride? And dignity? Or my heart?”

“What about all that? Emilia, I have watched you expendan extraordinary amount of energy trying to seduce Phillip, when it was Devon you wanted all along. And now, all that confusion has been sorted out. I’m just suggesting you forgive him and let him prove himself, and allow for the possibility that he might actually care for you. Don’t push him away.”

“I’m not pushing him away. I’m just being more careful this time around. I’m trying to learn from my mistakes.”

“You’re too young to act with such prudence. Go with your heart, Emilia.”

Devon stared at the mountain of correspondence on the desk at the London office of Diamond Shipping by the docks, and wondered where it had all come from. There were reports of imports and exports, forms for this and that requiring his signature. Decisions had to be made and implemented. With a sigh, he sat down and began to go through each and every sheet. After a few hours, he got to the bottom of the pile and found Harold Highhart’s letter requesting that he call on Emilia. He had not yet responded.

Devon reached for a fresh sheet of paper and began to write.

Devon crumpled the sheet of paper and threw it in the fireplace. He pulled out another sheet and once again dipped his quill in the ink. He sat poised, ready to compose the letter, but the words would not come. He watched as a blob of ink dripped from the tip to splatter on the page. He watched it bleed. He didn’t know what to say.

He pushed his chair away from the desk and leaned back, stretching his legs out before him. Perhaps if he called on her again, he would then be able to write that she was perfectly fine and enjoying her season thus far. Or was he really just looking for an excuse to see her again? He refused to ponder that, but he made his choice.

The problem with following your heart, Emilia thought, is that it sometimes gives conflicting advice. When Devon arrived, part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms. Part of her demanded restraint. What did she know about him, really? And furthermore, what did she know of herself? She needed more time, she thought.

The clock on the mantel was ticking. Loudly. It was all Emilia could hear during the silences of a slightly strained conversation. Her aunt had muttered something before leaving the room, so she could be of no assistance in filling in the silence. Emilia was sure, however, that her aunt was eavesdropping from the hall.

“How are you feeling today, Miss Highhart?” Devon asked, and for a moment she feared that he would mention That Awful Moment from the previous evening. But there wasn’t even a glimmer of suggestion in his eyes. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

“Quite wretched, thank you,” she said pertly.

“Lady Stillmore is quite generous with her champagne.”

“Too generous for my tastes,” Emilia replied, glancing at his gloved hand resting on the settee. Only a few inches separated his from her own hand. She watched as he made the bold move of putting his hand over hers. She looked at Devon, first noting the scar above his eye, before dropping her gaze to his mouth. That bestower of magical kisses was curved into a smile that was almost a grin.

“Did you have a reason for calling?” Emilia asked.

“Not really,” he replied. “Well, I had wanted to make sure you were doing well, so I could answer your father’s letter. I should have done it sooner, but I have been distracted,” he said, tracing his thumb along her palm.

“Oh,” was all Emilia had to say. She found herself distracted.