Emily and the Dark Angel (21 page)

“So conventional morality says, but it’s marriage without the church and a far better marriage than a girl like Titania could ever dream of. Not as permanent as Holy Wedlock, I’ll grant you, but generally a good deal more honest.”

“And you have the nerve to ask me to marry you?” Emily snapped.

He reached out and cupped her cheek. “If you marry me, Emily, I’ll never take another woman to my bed.”

“I can’t,” she said blindly, pulled away and marched on towards the house. He attempted no further persuasion.

There she found Randal and Sophie being entertained quite conventionally by Junia in an old grey round gown with a tear in the skirt.

Junia stared. “My goodness, Emily, you must have had a fall!”

Emily looked down at her habit and flushed. “Yes, I did. I’ll just change if you will excuse me, Lady Randal, Lord Randal.”

As she stripped off the muddied garment she wondered how Verderan would explain his soiled clothing. He wouldn’t even bother to try, and anyway, Junia, Randal and Sophie would all guess exactly what had occurred.

He was like water on a stone—or more likely, fire at a pile of kindling. He was destroying her will and the standards in which she had been reared. Each time they met he made the idea of marriage to him seem a little less ridiculous, and a great deal more pleasant.

But could she live with a man who thought whoring an honest profession and hell more attractive than heaven and who shot people who did not share his taste in food?

W
HEN SHE went downstairs, Emily found Verderan had already left, making his damp and muddy garments his excuse. She was alarmed at how much she missed him. The rot was already deep.

After tea, the four walked out into the garden and Junia went ahead with Sophie, while Emily followed with Lord Randal. She was aware of a desire, a craving, to bring the conversation around to Verderan. He did it for her.

“My considered opinion,” he said bluntly, “is that you should marry Ver, you know.”

“Why?” Emily asked.

“Apart from the fact you love each other?” he queried, bringing heat to her cheeks. “Ver needs you.” He flashed her a charming smile. “I know I’m supposed to be your protector, but my friendship with Ver goes back a long way. I have to take his needs into account too.”

“Do you think such a marriage would be to my benefit at all, my lord?” Emily demanded.

“Of course. It does no one any harm to be loved. Of course, if you set tremendous store on pattern-card respectability there would be problems. I don’t think Ver will settle to that any more than I am likely to.”

“I have always thought respectability to be very important,” said Emily. She tried to make it sound like a declaration of faith, but he caught the cavil in it.

“And now?” he asked.

“And now,” she admitted, “I don’t know ...” Emily quickly turned to another subject. “Lord Randal, do horses often get injured in the hunt?”

“Assuredly. Some men regard it as an exercise in derring-do and will fly at anything.”

“What of Dick Christian? Do you know him?”

“Of course. He’s a fine rider and a good judge of horse and obstacle. Still, his job is usually to make the horse look like a prime hunter, to push it. If he thinks a horse could really shine he’ll challenge it. Why do you ask?”

“I need to sell my father’s hunters,” she admitted. “I have hired him to ride them.”

He looked slightly startled. “Is that wise—selling them, I mean?”

“There is no one to ride them,” she pointed out.

“But still. Your brother ...”

“My brother is almost certainly dead or badly injured, Lord Randal. My father wants them sold.” She found herself adding, “The successful sale is the price for me keeping control of the estate out of Cousin Felix’s hands.” What was it about Lord Randal Ashby that broke through her natural reticence?

“Hm.” He seemed very thoughtful. “And the one you rode today. Is he to be sold first?”

“No,” Emily said. “I wanted to see how Christian worked out. He is to ride Wallingford next Monday—a good sound hunter—then Nelson the next day. Will you be at the first meet? It’s the Cottesmore, I believe.”

“No. I’m not hunting this year.” The tender glance towards his wife told Emily the reason. She envied Sophie that kind of devotion and wondered if Piers Verderan would give up hunting for her.

“That’s a shame,” she commented on his decision. “I need someone to negotiate for me. I can do it, or Father—though he’s so tetchy these days. A Meltonian would be better.”

“Ask Ver.”

It was the obvious solution, but one her instincts screamed against. “That wouldn’t be wise.”

Randal let the matter drop. He found this eagerness to sell the horses amusing, considering the imminent return of the son of the house, but he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about Marcus Grantwich’s goings-on.

Later that day, however, he reported the conversation to Verderan.

“I had the impression the sale of the horses was some sort of wager,” said Verderan. “It sounds a dim-witted one. Typical of Sir Henry, I suspect.”

“What do you think is going to happen when Captain Grantwich comes back to find his stables bare?” Randal asked with amusement.

“Serves him right,” said Verderan callously. “I’ve taken the man in dislike in absentia. He never seems to have valued Emily as he should and has shown a callous disregard for his family in the past year. Even if his activities were secret he could have assured himself of their well-being. In fact, I’ll be happy to do my best to sell all the horses as quickly as possible.”

“Then Emily will need someone to handle the sale for her.”

Verderan smiled. “Indeed she will, and it will give substance to rumors of closeness if I do it. As well,” he added wickedly, “as giving me an excellent reason to visit her tomorrow.”

 

 

Thus Emily was brought the news at the breakfast table that Mr. Verderan wished to see her. As she was alone—Junia was breakfasting in bed—she indulged in sheer bravado and had him brought to her at table.

“You’re about so
early
,” she said meaningfully, “you are probably hungry. May I offer you anything?”

He sat down opposite her, completely at his ease. “Anything?” he queried, causing her to blush. “I have eaten,” he went on smoothly, “but I would like some coffee if there’s any left in the pot.”

Emily prayed for cool cheeks as she rang for an extra cup. “A little early for a call, is it not?”

“You’re such an
active
young lady,” he riposted. “I was afraid you’d be out again. I’m getting too old to be always haring around the countryside after you.”

Emily choked on a piece of toast at such an obvious bouncer.

Instead of Mary, Mrs. Dobson stalked into the breakfast room with a cup and saucer in hand. She banged it down on the table dangerously hard and surveyed Verderan, tight-lipped. He flashed Emily a questioning, even alarmed, look. She had to fight a case of the giggles. How exactly did one introduce a rakish suitor to an overprotective housekeeper?

“Eh, Dobby, this is Mr. Verderan. Casper Sillitoe’s heir. Mr. Verderan, this is Mrs. Dobson, our housekeeper. She’s been with us forever,” she explained.

He turned on one of his most charming smiles and rose to his feet to bow. “Mrs. Dobson, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Dobby actually blushed. If it wasn’t a flush of anger. Her words made it clear she was no more immune to his inveigling than any other woman. “Well, I never. Pleasure I’m sure. Not but what it’s a mite early . . . but then again ...” She looked around at a loss and grasped her true business with relief. “Perhaps you’d like some toast, sir. Or ham. I’ve lovely fresh eggs ...”

“Having tasted your cooking recently I’m very tempted, Mrs. Dobson, but I’ve already breakfasted.”

“Yes, well,” said the woman hazily. “I’ll be on my way, then.” She showed she was not totally bamboozled by adding, “I’ll just leave the door open, Miss Emily.”

“Well,” said Emily, as she poured coffee into his cup. “What a disgraceful exhibition.”

“You shouldn’t be so harsh on the poor lady.”

“I was referring to you, Mr. Verderan,” said Emily frostily. “Have you no shame?”

“No,” he said with a smile. “I like this.”

“What?” Emily asked warily.

“Sitting across the table from you in the morning.”

Emily smiled tightly. “And you without a hangover. How remarkable.”

“Emily, darling, put some sugar in your coffee. I never have hangovers.”

She suppressed all awareness of the “darling” and raised a skeptical brow.

“I told you I’d never lie to you. I don’t get hangovers. These days I rarely drink enough to even get bosky.”

“Next you’ll be telling me you don’t gamble.”

“Certainly I do, but that’s one reason I don’t drown my wits. If I gamble I keep my head straight.”

Emily remembered some of the stories her brother and father told of their nights at the tables. “Isn’t that a little unsporting?”

He chuckled. “Doubtless. But I don’t force others into the fourth bottle.”

Emily was finding this all too beguiling. She too could imagine the joys of regularly taking breakfast with him. “So, Mr. Verderan,” she said firmly, “what is your reason for this early visit? If you are concerned about the sheep on High Burton, I have arranged for the repairs to be made.”

“I don’t give a damn about the sheep on High Burton,” he said amiably. “For all I care, they can eat the covert and the foxes too.”

Emily gasped.

“I came for the simple pleasure of seeing you, my ruling passion, my all-consuming flame.”

Emily felt a proper lady would flee, but it seemed foolish to flee mere words. Some words, however, did not merit the description “mere.” She heard herself gasp a pathetic, “Please don’t!”

“Emily,” he chided gently. “Throw off this dull conformity. You don’t want or need it any more than you want your grandmother’s stomacher. I’m taking pleasure from just sitting here across the table from you. Can you deny you are pleased to have me here?”

She pushed away from the table, away from him. She put the width of the room between them. “You confuse me,” she complained.

He stayed at the table, cradling his coffee cup. “That’s because you are confusing yourself. The part of you that’s been raised to be good, to be modest, to be meek, is fighting with the part that wants to be bold, adventurous, and free.” He put the cup down. “I’m offering freedom, Emily, so unfortunately I can’t, or won’t, force you.”

She looked at him, her gaze level and uncompromising. “What are you doing now, then?”

“Persuading,” he said with a smile and rose to come over to her. There was something in his eyes which made her take a few steps back until she bumped against the wall.

“Don’t.”

“What?” He stopped an arm’s length away.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“I do, and so do your senses.” His voice was as soft and mellow as a fine instrument. “I could seduce you here and now, Emily, and you know it. I could touch you,” he said softly, and his eyes began to wander caressingly over her body, “and flames would run down your nerves ...” She felt those flames come from his gaze and burn on her skin. “Flames that would join together to fill you with heat and send you shooting into the sky like the sparks from a Guy Fawkes bonfire.”

Emily was lost in the fire and in his deep blue eyes. “I could stretch out my hand,” he said steadily, “and you would put yours into it ...”

Belatedly, Emily realized she had done just that. She tried to tug free, but he drew her slowly towards him. “. . . and I could do with you whatever I would wish. . . . That however,” he murmured, when she was nestled in his arms, “would be forcing, no matter how cunningly done.”

His voice took on a more normal tone. “You’re too vulnerable to this sort of thing, my dear.” He let her go and moved away. Emily wrapped her arms around herself, feeling vulnerable and frighteningly bereft. “So I can only persuade,” he said laconically. “I came to offer to handle the sale of your horses.”

“What?”

“Wallingford et al.,” he gently reminded her. “Christian is riding them. If there’s interest, and I’m sure there will be, I will handle the sale at the club. Do you have a minimum?”

She shook her head, still struggling to make the transition to business.

“You should. Let’s say eighty. If he runs well you’ll get a hundred. You’ll get more for Nelson. Possibly up to two hundred. Will that be enough?”

“Lord Randal told you?” she asked.

“Of course. How much do you need?”

She disciplined her mind. “Three hundred in all,” she said.

“That should be possible,” he agreed and prepared to leave.

“Mr. Verderan,” she said sharply, and he turned.

“I thought we’d progressed to Ver,” he complained.

“Only when you’re risking your life over impossible obstacles,” she retorted.

“What an interesting marriage we’re going to have, my smoldering ember. Are you going to marry me?”

The question was tossed out so casually that it took a moment to register. When it did, Emily fought insanity and shook her head.

He sighed, but did not seem to be crushingly discouraged, which in view of his recent demonstration of power was not surprising. “What were you going to say?” he asked.

“What?” Emily couldn’t remember. Then she gathered her wits. “You are not to buy my horses,” she said.

“Why not? I like the look of Nelson.”

“It’s a wager. It wouldn’t be fair to fix it that way. You are not to buy them or arrange for them to be bought. I have to do this fair and square.”

He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. “As you will.” He came back to her and touched her cheek gently. “Think hard about freedom, Emily. It is not always easy to claim our liberty, but the pains are worth it. ‘Freedom has a thousand charms to show, that slaves howe’er contented, never know.’”