A Highland Duchess (15 page)

“Quite so, Your Grace,” he said, bowing once more. “His Grace has given instructions for substantial changes, however. You might not find the suite in the same condition as you left it.”

“Is the gold wall still intact?”

“Yes, Your Grace. The duke would not alter that, since it is one of the treasures of Chavensworth.”

She smiled her thanks and made her way to the grand staircase. At the base of the stairs, Ian held out his arm. She knew it wasn’t for balance but support. She glanced at him, wanted to thank him, but her face was immobile, her features frozen into the expressionless mask she’d always worn at Chavensworth.

Dear God, she did not want to be here.

He reached out and placed her hand on his arm. She nodded, all she could manage at the moment. Reluctance held her limbs stiff, her joints immovable. She would not be able to climb that staircase even if the bottom floor was on fire.

Somehow, though, she was. With Ian beside her, with his firm arm beneath her hand, she took one step and then another, her right hand clenched in a death grip on the ornate banister. Snippets of conversation flew by her ears, trailing on ribbons of sound. She heard laughter, too bright and too loud to be without enhancement of some sort—tobacco, alcohol, or the Chinese powders with which Anthony liked to experiment. From some faroff place in her memory, a woman screamed, and she couldn’t remember if there had been ecstasy or terror in the sound. As she climbed the stairs to the second floor, the buzz of words rivaled her heart’s beating for dominance.

Dear God, please don’t let me be here.
Let this be a dream, as she’d wished on all those other nights. But she hadn’t been dreaming then, and she wasn’t now.

“I would have spared you this if I could have,” Ian said. Although he had spoken softly, the words echoed around her, companion to the ghosts of all those other memories.

She could not look at him, could not respond in any way. She was no longer frozen—she’d become one of the specters that haunted Chavensworth, one of the wraiths. She was no more substantial than a filament of fog. She was ethereal and almost angelic, save for the tenor of her thoughts and the content of her recollections.

They were at the top of the steps now. Without stopping, without allowing herself to think, she began to walk toward the Duke’s Suite. Ian followed her without speaking, and she wanted to let him know how much she appreciated his presence and how vital it was right at this moment.

Impulsively, she held out her hand, and he grabbed it. She entwined her bare fingers with his, gripping so tightly that it must have been painful. But he didn’t say anything, only held on, as if he knew her connection to him was the only thing anchoring her to reality. Otherwise, she might go catapulting into the past.

She hesitated at the door to the Duke’s Suite, then placed her left hand on the carving, her fingers trailing over the vines and flowers. Still, Ian didn’t speak. Another man might have attempted to cajole her, ease her terror, fill the silent seconds with words. Instead, he held her hand tightly and stood beside her, a friend when she most desperately needed one.

You’ll do what I say, Emma.
A ghostly voice.
I doubt I need to persuade you of the need to obey me, now, do I?
A voice she’d not heard in eighteen months.
You’re such a willful creature. Why do you make me keep training you, my dear?

He was dead. He was dead. He was dead—a refrain she’d uttered for days, weeks at a time. She bowed her head, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Chapter 13

T
he door opened on oiled hinges. The staff at Chavensworth had always been commendable and diligent about maintaining the property.

As she stepped into the Duke’s Suite, she straightened her shoulders. How many times had she held herself tight, telling herself not to reveal any emotion? Remaining the Ice Queen had been the only way she’d stayed sane. The only way she’d occasionally won in the eternal battle with Anthony.

“If you’ll tell me where it is, I’ll retrieve the mirror,” Ian said from beside her.

She glanced over at him and smiled, the first genuine expression she’d had since entering Chavensworth. But she didn’t answer him, needing to face the ghosts herself.

Except they were no longer in residence. The massive four-poster bed was missing from the dais. Good, that was one sight she didn’t have to see. The vanity had also been removed, as well as the armoire.

On the opposite wall were three rows of five cupboards with gold leaf doors. Each door bore a separate painting, scenes of the estate. A treasure, Williams had said, and she supposed it was.

But to her, Chavensworth was Hell.

She opened the farthest cupboard on the bottom left-hand side but the mirror wasn’t there. Neither was it in the middle row, or the top. Ian began on the right-hand side of the wall, and the two of them met in the middle.

“It isn’t here,” she said, dismayed. Had she made the journey to Chavensworth for nothing?

He didn’t respond but she could almost hear his unspoken question.

“I put it here,” she said. “I never took it out again.”

She could remember the moment on her wedding night when Anthony had given it to her.

This is for you, my dear, on the occasion of our wedding. I doubt this mirror has ever witnessed beauty as vibrant as yours, however.

Probably the last kind comment he’d ever made to her. There hadn’t been an audience that night, only two people consummating their marriage. One of them had been a satyr in bridegroom’s clothing, the other a woman too innocent of what was to come.

She looked around the room and realized that even though the furniture was gone, the memories still lingered.

“Of course I’m disappointed,” Ian said. “But I can honestly say that I’ve done my utmost to retrieve the Tulloch Sgàthán. And so have you.”

She closed the last cupboard and turned to him.

“Damn it, Emma,” he said, startling her by pulling her into his arms.

She knew better than to fight. She wasn’t as strong as a man. Yet Ian did nothing more than extend his arms around her waist and rest his cheek against the top of her head.

A strangely comforting embrace, and one she’d not expected from him. Her head turned, her cheek resting against his chest. She took a deep breath, exhaled it, and allowed her fists to unclench.

How very odd that she suddenly felt as if she were going to cry.

She became aware that he was saying something, whispers so quiet that she could barely hear him.

“On the seventeenth, air was allowed into the chamber with no filter apparatus attached. On the nineteenth, observation was made that there was no decay present. On the morning of the twentieth, however . . . ”

She pulled back and asked him, “Are you quoting your speech?”

He looked a little embarrassed. “No, I was reciting the notebook I keep of my experiments.”

“Why?”

He only shook his head.

“Why did you embrace me?” she asked.

He put his hand on her face, a touch no more substantial than a breath. His thumb brushed her chin, rested on the slight hollow below her bottom lip, held her prisoner while his fingers touched her cheek.

Tenderness softened his dark eyes as a small and intimate smile curved his lips. Words fled her as his other palm pressed against her opposite cheek, fingers spearing into her hair, thumb resting on the corner of her mouth.

She was held in thrall by his touch, so soft and gentle, as if she were the most delicate and rare of treasures.

“Because,” he said, his voice a whisper, an ache of sound, “I couldn’t bear the look on your face.”

Could moments be frozen? Could time be convinced to remain still? Would she be able to recall this moment for a thousand lifetimes? If she could remember Anthony, then Providence should allow her to remember this as well.

She wished he would look away, that he would study something else in the suite other than her. She might point out the painting of the lavender fields on one of the cupboard doors. Or the view from the windows of those same fields.

For long moments they simply looked at each other. Finally, she stepped back and his arms dropped.

She turned to leave the Duke’s Suite, closing the door behind her with a feeling of relief. From the windows on the landing she could see the sun bright in the western sky, a presage to dusk and nightfall.

“I’m sorry we made the journey for nothing,” she said. “Perhaps Anthony disposed of it.”

He didn’t respond, merely came to her side. He was still looking at her, his gaze intent.

“I’m less concerned about the mirror than I am you, Emma.”

She glanced at him.

“He cannot hurt me anymore, Ian. Anthony is dead, and there is another Duke of Herridge.”

He didn’t look as if he believed her. She couldn’t blame him; memories of Anthony survived even the grave.

Williams was standing at the base of the stairs. When she reached him, he bowed again.

“Did you find your mirror, Your Grace?”

She shook her head. “Would you convey a message to the housekeeper, Williams?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“Would you tell her,” she said, “that if she locates the mirror, to send it to me in London? It’s gold, with a ring of diamonds around the face of it.”

“It would be my pleasure, Your Grace. Before you leave, may I provide refreshments?”

“Thank you, Williams, but no. We need to return to London before dark.”

Once again Williams looked at Ian. Again the questions were not forthcoming. If he had been the type to gossip, she would have discovered that fact before today. There had been enough fodder for all sorts of talk when Anthony was alive.

“Thank you, Williams,” she said. She leaned forward and in a thoroughly improper gesture kissed the middle-aged majordomo on the cheek. “For all your kindnesses.”

He didn’t say a word as she and Ian left Chavensworth.

S
ilence was a third passenger in the carriage all the way back to London.

Darkness had descended upon London by the time his carriage halted in front of Emma’s home. A footman opened the door, but before she could exit, Ian leaned forward and placed his hands on the edge of the seat on either side of her.

This would be the last time he saw her. The knowledge didn’t sit well with him, and because it didn’t, a warning bell rang in his mind. What kind of man was betrothed to one woman and thought constantly of another? Not an honorable one, for a certainty, and he’d always prided himself on his integrity.

What forces had been put into motion by his entering her home? For that matter, what emotions had been released by seducing the Duchess of Herridge? How would they deal with both?

He would soon be home, working on his experiments, being laird to his community, and preparing for his wedding.

“I don’t want to leave you here,” he said.

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be in Scotland, Emma,” he said. “Too far away if you need me.”

She held up her hand as if to forestall any further words, then tempered the gesture with a small smile.

“I shall not need you, Ian. But thank you.”

What the hell did he say to her? He felt caught between his honor and his wishes, between his obligations and his needs.

“Forgive me,” he said.

Her smile altered character, became a little sadder. “Please don’t say that. Do you think I fault you for what happened between us?” She looked down at her clasped hands. “I wanted it as much.”

How did he leave her?

She was the one to open the carriage door.

“Then I wish you the very best of good fortune in your future, Duchess,” he said as she made to leave the vehicle.

What was she thinking when she looked at him with such a steady regard? Was she remembering the passion they’d shared? Or the laughter that had so effortlessly flowed between them?

“May you find all that you want in life, Duchess.”

Another warning bell rang.

“I think I liked it better when you called me Emma,” she said, as she gripped her skirts with one hand and reached for the strap beside the door with the other.

He watched her climb the steps to her town house, telling himself that this strange interlude was over. The fact that he deeply regretted leaving her was something he would have to reconcile, along with his bruised and dented honor.

E
mma pushed down all the emotions threatening to overwhelm her, and entered her home.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” the majordomo said.

He said nothing about her three-day absence. Nor did he mention that she arrived home looking a little worse for wear, since she was attired in the same dress she’d worn three days ago. He was simply deferential, as he’d always been, his demeanor the same for her as for a stranger.