Emily and the Dark Angel (11 page)

“‘ Yes, Father. Yes, Father.’ Anyone’d think butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.”

Emily felt her color flare. What had that man said? “What do you mean, Father?”

His eyes narrowed as he tutted more in sorrow than anger. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re of an age to turn silly. First you drench yourself with cheap perfume; then you fling yourself at any man you see.”

Emily thought she was going to faint.
He’d
said . . . “I deny it!” she declared. “How dare—”

“Oh, give over,” said her father wearily. “It’s my fault for not marrying you off years ago. Selfish of me. Good to have a woman around the place, and God knows, Junia’s no use. I suppose I’ll have to bring Marshalswick to the point.”

“No!” cried Emily, leaping to her feet. Then she clamped control on herself even though she was burning with fury. “Don’t you dare, Father. I wouldn’t marry Hector Marshalswick if he was the last man on earth. I will never marry any man!” Her voice was shrill and she took a deep breath. “I don’t care what that—that
rake
told you, Father. I am not throwing myself at men, especially not at him. I am not drenching myself in cheap perfume. That was all his fault. I—I—”

She fought back words which would be much better left unsaid.

“What?” said her father in blank astonishment. “You trying to tell me now
Verderan’s
been sniffing at your skirts? You’ll catch cold at that, my girl. I know the type of woman he favors, and you’ve never been that type, even when you had youth on your side.”

“I said no such thing,” gasped Emily from a black pit of hurt and rage. “I know he wouldn’t . . . Father ...” She put a hand over her eyes as if to press back the tears that threatened.

Her father made an embarrassed growl, then said with gruff kindness, “ ’Course he wouldn’t. Now stop having the vapors, girl, and sit down.” Emily had herself in hand again and faced him, but remained resolutely standing. He frowned and said, “As you wish. This is what comes of letting a girl play a man’s role. Addled your wits.”

His tone turned kind again, however. “Oh, Emily-chick. You’ve doubtless fallen head over heels for the man, which ain’t surprising, given his phiz. But if I let you go bothering him, you’ll not thank me when you come to your senses. His tastes don’t run to country spinsters. And though he’s a fine man in the field he isn’t husband material for any respectable woman. But if you do something foolish,” he said bitterly, “there’d be damn-all I could do about it from here, would there?”

Emily’s rage lessened in the face of her father’s anguish. Plenty of it remained, however, stored up for Piers Verderan when next they had the misfortune to meet.

She was able to answer calmly. “There will be no need for you to do anything.” She laid a hand over his. “Truly, Father, I don’t know what he said, but it is all moonbeams. I’ve only met the man twice before today, and both times we merely conversed, with a digression into mild disagreement. You know me, Father. Would I ever look to a rake for a husband?”

Sir Henry eyed her doubtfully. “Not in your right mind, no. But women tend to fall out of their wits with remarkable speed around men of his ilk, especially women past their last prayers. I could tell you stories—-” He broke off and cleared his throat. “Well, let’s just say you wouldn’t be the first plain miss to throw her cap at a handsome rake and have it caught. But only for a brief amusement. That’s all you’d be to him.”

Emily was shocked by the pain his words caused her; she’d always known she was plain, and attractive only for her comfortable dowry and practical skills. Why did it hurt so to have it pointed out so bluntly? She fought to remain impassive. If the only thing she had left in the world was her pride, she would at least hold on to that.

“Father, I have no interest in the man,” Emily said tightly. “You trust me with your business. Can you not trust my good sense?”

His eyes suddenly widened and he chuckled admiringly. “Oh, now I get it. Business, oh? Realized you’ll need someone to hunt those horses. But you’ll catch cold with Verderan, Emily. He’s got his own string, every one a prime bit of blood and you’re hardly likely to besot him into doing you a favor. Now, this friend of Felix’s may be a better bet, but from the story I’ve heard it’s clear you don’t know how to wheedle a man. You should be able to turn him up sweet and still keep the line.”

Emily wasn’t sure if this was better or worse. Now she wasn’t a man-mad spinster, she was a failed seductress with mercenary motives. Well, she could put an end to this.

“I’ve hired Dick Christian to ride the horses,” she said coolly, “starting with Wallingford at the first meet.”

“Christian?” Sir Henry repeated blankly. “But he has his regulars.” His eyes narrowed. “And what did you offer him, eh?”

Emily ignored the disgusting insinuation, though she could feel her cheeks heat. “A guinea a day,” she said crisply. “His normal fee, I believe.”

“And he just said yes,” scoffed Sir Henry. “I don’t know what deep game you’re playing, my girl, but if you bring shame on us I’ll wash my hands of you, damned if I don’t.”

Emily had had enough. She headed for the door.

“And keep away from Verderan,” Sir Henry shouted. “You’re not up to his weight. He’s doubtless bored, and if you show your ankles once too often he’ll break them for you!”

At the implication that she’d end up with a bastard, Emily gave in for once to her baser urges and slammed the door.

She stormed down to the stables. What she needed was space and time to come to terms with her pain. She stopped in the shrubbery and pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. She
had
felt warmly about Piers Verderan. Had it been so obvious to everyone? To him? Had it unconsciously translated into pathetic seductive gestures? Had she been the source of that uproarious laughter?

She wanted to die.

She’d seen women simpering and fluttering around an attractive man. Had she done that without even being aware of it? Even so, did he have to laugh?

She went on to the stables, desperate only for escape. She managed to present a calm face as she mounted Corsair and rode out, then muttered and cursed for a good two miles, berating herself for being such a ninny and him for being a conceited, arrogant swine.

Eventually she steamed herself dry and could no longer summon the passion. She wearily concentrated on her duties instead. She rode into the village to inspect some leaking roofs.

That accomplished, she found that anything was better than returning home, so she rode a slow circuit to see how the last of the harvest was coming. The dry weather would soon break, but another day should see all the crops in. All seemed well with her world, as far as estate management went, at least. But, passion was returning, accompanied by intense embarrassment, and she was torn between a desire to avoid Piers Verderan for life or to seek him out in order to drive a long sharp knife into his cold, arrogant heart.

Returning to the Hall, she gave in to an impulse and stopped at the vicarage to see Margaret.

Over tea, she soon found herself telling the whole story of the day’s events and then sketching in some of the previous excitement.

“Heavens above!” Margaret exclaimed, her cup of tea cooling untasted. “I never thought things like that happened in our country backwater. Perhaps Hector is right and having a rake in our midst will cause all sorts of commotions. What fun!”

Emily shuddered. “It wasn’t fun at the time, Margo, I assure you.”

“I suppose not,” said her friend unrepentantly. “But it makes a wonderful story. Just like a novel. And,” she said with a playful frown, “I haven’t missed the fact that you have apparently been hobnobbing with our local viper without a word to me.”

Emily looked a guilty apology. “There just didn’t seem a good time.”

“Now is an excellent time,” said her friend implacably. “Not, I gather, flea-bitten and on his last legs.”

“Definitely not.”

“Seedy? Debauched? Sallow and bloodshot from constant dissipation?”

Emily shook her head.

Margaret’s silence demanded an answer.

“He’s very good-looking,” Emily said feebly.

“Details,” demanded her friend.

“Tall, dark, and handsome,” retorted Emily crisply. “The man’s a walking cliché.”

“Handsomer than Marcus?” asked that gentleman’s betrothed.

“Perhaps not in your eyes, Margo, but yes, I would say so.”

“Handsome is as handsome does,” quoted Margo. “What of Hector’s nasty stories?
Is
he a seedy reprobate?”

Emily gave this much thought. She could have given a lecture on the subject, but in the end she just said, “No.”

“I thought not. So,” asked her friend, bright-eyed. “Why haven’t you snared him already?”

Emily broke into tears.

When Margaret had finally calmed her and got some of the story of the morning’s interview with her father, she apologized. “I was only funning, dearest. You know how we’ve always teased about our beaux. How horrid to have your father think you’ve been throwing your cap at him.”

“And I haven’t, Margo,” declared Emily with a mighty blow of her nose. “Honestly. I know he’s wrong for me on all counts. It’s him . . .
He
kissed my hand, which is not at all a normal thing to do to a lady one meets on horseback.”

“He kissed your hand?” echoed Margo, wide-eyed.

“
He
fixed my bonnet, and smiled at me in that way he has.”

“Indeed.”

Emily looked up to see lively interest and distinct amusement on her friend’s face. “It isn’t funny, Margo. If I ended up smelling like a tart, it’s because
he
gave that horrid powder to the woman and then caused her such distress she hurled it at him. And then he tells my father I’m going around throwing myself at men. Oh, if only I had him here to give him a piece of my mind!”

Prompt to her cue, the vicarage housekeeper knocked and entered the parlor. “There’s a Mr. Verderan here to see the Reverend,” she said. “Shall I tell him he’s out?”

Margaret gave a little laugh and bit her lip.

“Margo!” Emily whispered urgently. “Don’t you dare!”

“Why don’t you show him in, Mrs. Findlay,” Margaret said. “I will have a word with him.”

Emily leapt to her feet and looked for an escape, but there was none other than the door that led to the narrow corridor down which Piers Verderan was now presumably walking.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” she demanded of her friend, sotto voce.

“I want to meet him. And you did say you wanted to give him a piece of your mind.”

Then he was in the room, looking curiously at them. Margaret immediately rose and made introductions. Emily found herself obliged to give him her hand. If he dared to kiss it, she told herself, she’d blacken his eye.

“Miss Grantwich,” he acknowledged as if they were strangers. She realized he was going to allow her to dissociate herself from him.

Or was he trying to pretend they were strangers for fear she’d throw herself at him in a mad burst of passion?

“Mr. Verderan,” she said, hoping the ice in her voice would give him frostbite.

A brow twitched, but he turned to speak to Margaret, merely explaining that he was making himself acquainted in the area. He asked her to assure her brother that he would keep up the contributions his uncle had made to various charities, and would probably increase them if appropriate.

“Hector will be pleased to hear that,” said Margaret pleasantly. “There are many worthy causes in the parish. Won’t you stay and have tea, Mr. Verderan?”

After an inscrutable glance at Emily, he agreed.

“Then I’ll just go and fetch another cup,” Margo said brightly, and disappeared before either of her guests could object.

He turned from watching the speedy exit, faint surprise still on his face. “Do I gather you wish to speak privately with me, Miss Grantwich?”

Emily could feel her cheeks burn. “Never!” she declared. “I never want to speak to you again!”

His expression chilled. “Then your friend’s behavior is extraordinary.”

Emily emboldened herself and faced him straightly. “I did say I wished to speak to you,” she admitted curtly. “I suppose I may as well take this opportunity and get it over with. You will please keep away from my house, Mr. Verderan. If there is any need for us to communicate on business matters, I’m sure it can be accomplished by letter.”

She gathered up her hat, gloves, and whip and headed for the door.

He grasped her arm and stopped her.

“How dare you!” she gasped. “Release me!” His grip did not slacken.

All Hector’s warnings took on new life. “I have been warned that you cannot be trusted with a lady,” she snapped, pulling against his hold and only succeeding in hurting herself. “The warning is proved true!”

He swung her around, and his hands settled hard on both her shoulders. His fine features were etched sharply with cold anger and showed no trace of remorse. “I warned you myself, Miss Grantwich,” he said curtly. “Be that as it may, this morning I saved you from a fate worse than death. A modicum of gratitude would be more becoming than a tirade.”

“Are you lecturing me on good behavior?” she demanded. “How absurd.”

“I am lecturing you on common decency.”

She gave a brittle laugh. “That is even more absurd!”

His eyes flashed a warning, and Emily’s instincts told her she was in dangerous waters. His lips were tight as he said, “I am doubtless going to have to kill a man on your behalf, you little termagant—”

“No choice of mine, sir! I abhor violence.”

His hands tightened and he smiled unpleasantly. “You desire to further your acquaintance with the estimable Jake?”

She would have hit him if his hands had not still confined her. He probably felt the twitch. “I merely demand that you give up any idea of duelling over me.”