A Highland Duchess (18 page)

“If you do not mind,” she said, “I will retire.”

“I shall join you shortly, wife,” Bryce said, the effect of the wine slurring his voice more than a little.

She only nodded, leaving the room, and wishing she could leave the house as well. But there was no respite to be found, no security, no sanctuary, unless it lay within the confines of her own mind. And even there she felt tortured. Too many memories resided there, all too willing to be recalled on this night, of all nights.

Juliana was waiting for her in her chamber.

They barely spoke, but then they rarely had. Their relationship was nothing more than that of servant and mistress. Even though it was Emma’s fortune that paid the other’s salary, Juliana was London born and bred, cultivating a “civility to all, servility to none” attitude that made Emma feel, sometimes, as if Juliana were doing her a favor by acting as her maid. Her loyalty was held in reserve, for herself. Perhaps that was wiser, especially in the Duke of Herridge’s household.

Sometimes Anthony had dismissed someone from their employ simply because the young man had blond hair and he wanted to see brunette or black. One year, he’d taken to employing only footmen with blue eyes. The next year, it had been brown. During one eventful year, he’d fired the majority of the servants, simply because he wanted to see new faces.

Juliana had served her more than adequately. She was always there when needed, always prompt. She kept Emma’s wardrobe in perfect order, ironed impeccably, attended to her jewelry, straightened her room, arranged and cared for cut flowers, and was available to offer any assistance that Emma required.

The fact that she could barely tolerate Juliana had, at its roots, the fact that Anthony had selected the maid for her.

She stood immobile as Juliana closed the drapes before returning to help her off with her skirt and hoops. Night had come suddenly, with no warning of dusk, or setting of the sun on the horizon. One moment it was afternoon, and the next it was dark, as if the earth had simply shut its eyes to sleep.

She knew only too well what would come now. The only difference between Bryce and Anthony would be youth and cruelty. How much did Bryce wish to become a bridegroom? What was he willing to do to accomplish the consummation of this marriage?

The last man to touch her had brought her joy.

She deliberately blocked off those other thoughts, memories only days old. Instead, she thanked Juliana and dismissed her, wishing to finish dressing in private.

Please, God, let him at least be gentle
. God would not see that prayer as too onerous, would He? Would that be considered too selfish of her? Was she simply supposed to endure what her husband chose to do to her?

But at least this husband would not take her on a stage in full view of a hundred people.

She was no longer the Duchess of Herridge, and for that she ought to thank Bryce. No longer would she be known as Anthony’s widow, but the shocking Emma Harding who, months after the duke’s death, married a no one. Not a peer but a Scot.

Society would deem her reckless and foolish, and probably willful as well.

If no one called upon her, that was fine. If no one sought her company, that was acceptable. If no invitations were extended to her and her new husband, she would be able to tolerate the exclusion.

As long as she could tolerate the wedding night.

Tonight she would wear a deep lavender peignoir and wrapper, and forgo the nightgowns that had been dyed black. The color didn’t matter. Nor did the bridegroom, and wasn’t that a sad thought?

P
eter, Earl of Falmouth, watched as his niece’s bridegroom became increasingly drunk. The young man might be decidedly clever but he was vastly unsophisticated in other areas—such as holding his liquor. From what he’d seen of the man, it was a chronic problem.

The damn fool was a dangerous liability.

This marriage was a payment, one of the few he could afford. A marriage to an heiress in return for Bryce’s silence. Now all he had to worry about was keeping the idiot quiet.

“You and I have friends in common, Your Lordship,” McNair had said on that fateful day a month ago.

He’d known the man by appearance only but had agreed to see him because of McNair’s insistence.

“Is this a social call, McNair?” he’d asked, taking a seat behind the desk he purchased not long after coming to live with Emma. His niece had needed someone to care for her—and her fortune—after the tragedy of her husband’s death.

“One of business,” McNair said.

The expression on Bryce McNair’s face had been genial, but the Earl of Falmouth didn’t give a flying farthing about McNair’s mood.

“Then state it.”

“I find myself low on funds,” McNair said. “Here I was, rousting around in my mind for the perfect opportunity to raise some capital when it struck me. I had been overlooking the very means by which to do so.”

“What is it you want?”

“I know things, Your Lordship. Things I shouldn’t know, perhaps. But I’m a cautious man, one who watches my step. I’m also a curious one.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“I have, you might say, a penchant for overhearing things. Interesting things. You might say that I have an ability for being in the right place at the wrong time.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“I was at Chavensworth that night,” McNair said.

“What night would that be?”

“The night the Duke of Herridge died. Unexpectedly. Before his time. Tragically.”

They’d exchanged a look, and for a few moments Peter couldn’t breathe.

“I was often at Chavensworth, Your Lordship. As were you. The gambling was almost as good as the wenching.”

“I never indulged in the wenching, as you so colorfully put it.”

“But you did indulge in the gambling, as I recall,” McNair said.

He hadn’t any choice. He’d no money of his own, and he’d been dependent upon Anthony for assistance. If he wagered and lost at one of Anthony’s parties, the duke covered his losses. Anywhere else, and he had to find a way to fund his markers.

“How very convenient of the duke to die when he did, Your Lordship. You owed quite a bit of money at the time, didn’t you?”

The damn fool didn’t know anything.

But what if he did?

McNair looked directly at him, and Peter restrained his shudder only barely. He motioned to the chair beside the desk. For a moment he thought that Bryce would refuse, but then he rounded the desk and sat.

“Are you married, McNair?” he asked.

The other man smiled, but it didn’t ease the cool look in his eyes.

“I have it within my power to grant you more money than you’ve ever seen in your entire lifetime,” Peter said, smiling. “What would you say if you could control a vast fortune?”

He named the cumulative amount of Emma’s inheritance. The other man’s eyes widened, and the cool look vanished.

“In return for what, exactly, Your Lordship?”

“Eternal silence?” Peter smiled. “Is that too much to request? What you think you know might prove to be embarrassing should it be repeated. People might give it some credence.”

McNair watched him with hooded eyes. “Not to mention that the authorities would be interested.”

“Are you married, McNair?” Peter asked again.

This time the young man answered. “I am not.”

“Have you any objection to be married?”

“To your niece?”

“My niece.” Peter sat back, studying McNair.

“Your proposal sounds interesting, Your Lordship. But why would you be so quick to turn over the administration of that fortune?”

“I would, of course, expect to be remunerated from time to time. An allotment, if you will.” He smiled. “Shall we toast to it?” Peter had asked, going to the sideboard and selecting his finest brandy.

He sat back now, sipped at his own wine with moderation and watched as Bryce became increasingly more intoxicated. The fool would be easy enough to manipulate. A great deal easier than Anthony had been.

Men like Bryce McNair didn’t come to the well only once. He would continue to come until the well was dry. Better to let him think he was getting all the water at once.

He’d been tempted, though, to take little Emma’s offer of her fortune. Tempted, until he realized that he’d have the same problem with McNair. No, this way was better. A little longer, perhaps, but more secure in the end.

Life could not get much better, could it?

T
he door opened and her bridegroom stood framed in the doorway, both hands braced on either side of the frame. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, his jacket discarded somewhere, and his shirt half out of his trousers.

“My lady wife,” he said, beaming at her. “I am here, your bridegroom.”

She walked through the sitting room to face him.

“Come in,” she said, in a voice much softer than his.

He bent, picked up a bottle of wine, holding it aloft triumphantly as he entered the room.

“I bring gifts!” he said, in a voice that bordered on a shout.

The very last thing she wanted was for all the servants to hear her wedding night.

“Bryce,” she said, hoping to calm him, “come and sit down. Let me pour you some wine.”

He smiled brightly at her, an expression that made her wonder exactly how old her bridegroom was. Was he her junior? At the moment, he was acting like a boy, and she felt ancient.

Unbidden, Ian came to mind. She could not bear it if she remembered Ian now. Later, when she was alone, she would think of him, and dream of him, and remember him.

Not now, please God.

Bryce sat in a chair by the window, stretching out his legs. She took the bottle of wine from him and placed it on the top of the bureau.

“I’ll just request some glasses,” she said. She rang for the maid and then stood at the door. When the girl arrived, she conveyed her request, and returned to Bryce’s side to tell him that the glasses would be coming shortly.

To her very great surprise, her bridegroom had fallen asleep, his head at an angle, his mouth gaping open.

A good wife, a proper wife, would have eased him to the bed. She would have begun to disrobe him so that he was more comfortable, or at least remove his shoes and loosened his neck cloth.

Emma did none of those things. She just extinguished the lamp beside the chair and tiptoed into her bedroom, grateful that, for this night at least, she’d been given a respite.

Chapter 16

T
he day after her marriage, Emma awoke to find her husband asleep in the chair in exactly the same position she’d left him.

Instead of attempting to wake him, she summoned her maid. When Juliana arrived, she greeted her at the door.

“Does my husband have a valet?” she asked.

“I do not believe so, Your Grace,” Juliana said.

“Is there anyone among the footmen who could be promoted to the position?”

Seeking Juliana’s opinion would be considered a mark of respect in the servants’ quarters, not to mention the power it would give the girl.

Juliana drew herself up to her full height and smiled, one of the few times Emma had ever seen that particular expression on her maid’s face.

“Robert, Your Grace. He’s new to Your Grace’s employ but he’s a fast learner and an honest man.”

“Send Robert to me, then,” she said. Before Juliana left her, however, she stopped the girl. “I’m no longer to be addressed as Your Grace,” she said.

Juliana only nodded, before hurrying to inform Robert of his potential position.

She had certainly begun a new life, hadn’t she? First, by attempting to garner Juliana’s support, and secondly, by evincing some concern for her husband.

Bryce needed a valet, and this morning would certainly be a testament to Robert’s tenacity. If he could get Bryce dressed and about, she would promote him to the position of gentleman’s valet immediately.

I
an took the first available train back to London. Thankfully, there were no accidents on the line, and the trip was relatively uneventful. Except, of course, for his thoughts. Even though he’d brought his notes with him, as well as his journal, he hadn’t been able to concentrate.

Sitting back against the seat, he closed his eyes and imagined Emma at Lochlaven, strolling through the formal gardens, admiring the roses and the sight of the island in the distance. Or sitting on the edge of the lowest of the brick fortifying walls. She would swing her legs back and forth, hands braced on the wall on either side of her, her gaze fixed on the mist-blanketed hills.

He didn’t care what plans the Earl of Falmouth had for Emma. He didn’t even care about his own engagement. Both impediments could be dealt with, and although he was certain he was going to make quite a few people angry, he would deal with that as well.