The Daughter of an Earl (22 page)

“Yes, mum. I will do so.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and then disappeared.

The footman had Brett's card, and Emily now had the maid's assurance. Between the two, they should soon receive word of Winfred's whereabouts.

To return to the ballroom, Emily had to cross through a portrait gallery lined with Halford's ancestors, an austere and grim-faced group. She was scowling back at one dour-looking fellow when the click of boots forced her to recompose her features.

She struggled to place the identity of the man approaching, but like a distant object, his name eluded her. Due to her absence from society, this was not uncommon, but it still frustrated.

The man carried himself with a rigid aristocratic bearing, his head tilted slightly back. He was dressed in uncompromising black, his evening jacket and matching waistcoat beautifully tailored, and the knot in his silk cravat a rival to Drummond's. He could have alighted from one of the portraits, because his heavy-browed expression mirrored that of the ancestor with whom Emily had been exchanging scowls.

He stopped short as he caught sight of her, and his austere features softened. “Ah, Lady Emily, 'tis a pleasure,” he drawled as he dipped into a bow.

Wentworth! The Earl of Wentworth
. “Lord Wentworth,” she greeted him as she curtsied.

“I hear congratulations are in order, and your lovely sister and Bedford are the proud parents of twins. Taunton must be so proud—as must you be.”

“Of course. I take my role as the doting aunt seriously, and my sister agrees. She assures me I have turned spoiling into a fine art.”

“I am sure you jest. As I advise my daughter, indulged children may be excused, but they quickly grow, and spoiled adults are not so amusing.” He spread his hands in a
there you have it
gesture.

Yes, he definitely could join the ranks of Halford's humorless portrait gallery. His daughter had Emily's most sincere sympathy. “I shall keep that in mind. Thankfully, I have a few years before the damage is irreversible.”

He nodded, her wry tone clearly eluding him. “Quite right. They are young yet. Please convey my felicitations to Bedford and your lovely sister. I have not had the . . .”

Once again, the clacking of boots on the hardwood floor echoed, and she turned to see Daniel and Brett enter the corridor.

“Emily, Julia sent me to find you, and now I have. Pity all of her requests cannot be resolved so easily,” Daniel said, his amused voice ringing out.

“It appears you can do the honors yourself, Lord Wentworth,” Emily said, grinning at the earl.

The earl turned to greet Daniel. The smile curving his lips wavered and then froze. It was like watching a warm lake ice over, so cold was his expression. Emily resisted the urge to rub her hands down her arms. “Have you met Mr. Curtis of—?” she began.

“Spare me the introductions,” Wentworth rudely interrupted. “We are well acquainted. Unfortunately, our history goes back a long way.”

Brett's eyes flared and a muscle vibrated in his cheek, but if one did not know his features as well as Emily had come to know them, his reaction would have been missed. He did not deign to greet Wentworth or respond to the insult.

Wentworth addressed Daniel, dipping his head. “Bedford. I had heard you and Curtis still kept company, but I refused to believe it. Now that you have come into the title, I had hoped you had outgrown your youthful transgression into trade. Thought you had refined your taste in confidants, considering those whom you solicited to support the
agriculture bill. It appears I was mistaken,” he said with scathing contempt.

“On the contrary,” Daniel drawled and crossed his arms. “My taste is impeccable, particularly in regard to choosing my friends, so the mistake must be yours.”

Mottled spots of red suffused Wentworth's features, and a sneer contorted his lips as he regarded Daniel and then Brett, who had crossed his arms as well. The silence stretched taut before Wentworth managed to reply. “It appears I am too late to warn you against trusting
this
man. Do not say I did not try.”

“I have trusted Mr. Curtis with my life. As I am still breathing, that makes your warning groundless, rather than belated. Wouldn't you agree, Curtis?”

“I do, but considering
my
life was almost lost in saving yours,
I
should have been warned about keeping company with you.”

“You have a point,” Daniel conceded, and then appeared to consider his words. “But I saved you from being pummeled to death in school, so we are even.”

“You may jest, but heed my words,” Wentworth said coldly. “This man is not to be trusted, and you may rue the day that you chose to do so.” Wentworth vibrated with barely controlled rage, before he whirled and stormed from the room.

Wide-eyed, Emily's lips parted as his imposing figure receded.

What in the world?

She and Brett had had their battles in the past, but
this
, this was an all-out war. She turned to study Brett, noticing the crack in his calm façade. He dropped his arms and balled his hands into fists, his jaw clenched, eyes hard.

“I forgot what a pompous arse he is,” Daniel said, breaking the silence.

“You have an enemy in Wentworth. What in the world did you ever do to cross him?” She blurted out the question before considering the impropriety of it.

Brett snapped his gaze to hers, and she nearly recoiled
from his fury. “What did
I
do? I had the audacity to fall in love with his daughter. I then compounded that infraction by asking for her hand in marriage.” He turned and with long, agitated strides, strode from the room.

Stunned, she moved to hurry after him, but Daniel caught her arm, holding her back. “Let him go. Give him time.”

She wanted to protest, to follow Brett and apologize, but Daniel was right. She, of all people, understood the difficulty in weathering the painful siege of memories. Like a strong current, they could catch you unaware and sweep your feet out from under you. It took time to claw your way back to solid ground. “I cannot recall Wentworth's daughter. I do not believe I have met her.” It was an inane comment, but she did not know what to say.

“Lady Janice Wentworth. You might not. She came out about a decade ago,” Daniel said. “I do not know if their feelings for each other would have lasted, but Wentworth never gave them a chance. And Janice Wentworth was not strong enough to stand up to her father—even though she was of age and had her own inheritance, so she was at liberty to make her own choice.”

Emily frowned, because once upon a time, she had possessed that strength. When she had fallen in love with Jason, she would have done anything, risked anything to be with him. Devil take the consequences. Brett had deserved better than this Janice, but Wentworth's reaction was no surprise. “As an earl, Wentworth had some lofty duke destined for his daughter, I take it?”

Surprised at her bitter tone, Daniel glanced at her.

She shrugged. “Our aristocratic marriage market is like Curtis Shipping, an exchange of lucrative goods. I was fortunate that our father did not feel compelled to barter Julia and me away. Julia married for love, and I would have as well,” she said softly, her smile wistful.

“I forget that not everyone is as fortunate as I,” Daniel said, and then he turned serious. “If you recall, I was not Julia's first love. I like to think I would have been had I not been an ocean away, so I did not have the chance to stop her from making the
worst decision of . . . Well, she eventually came around to my way of thinking. It took some convincing because Julia can be . . .” He stopped and looking abashed, began again. “The point I keep losing is that broken hearts mend. So there is hope for Brett and you. However, I suggest you do not give him too much of it. Hope, that is, unless you are serious.”

She froze, not sure that she had heard him correctly.

“I do not know what is between you, but tread carefully. I do not want to be picking up the pieces of two shattered hearts.” He gave her a wry look. “Do not stay too long. Julia will worry.” And then he left her alone.

She pressed an unsteady hand to her temple, her thoughts swirling in a maelstrom of emotions.

If Daniel had seen something between Brett and herself, had Julia noticed it as well? And if Daniel was right, was she giving Brett false hope? She recalled his embittered expression, and curled her arms around her waist. Lady Janice Wentworth was responsible for that
—
not Emily. But the woman had etched a scar into his soul, and Emily could not bear to add another.

She did not want to hurt Brett, but was not ready to give him up.

She . . . she needed him. And . . . he needed her.

He needed her to show him that not all women were as weakhearted as Janice.

B
RETT
slid his pen into the inkwell, leaned back, and swiped his hands down his face. What time was it? He glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. It was nearing midnight. He sighed. He should retire. Despite Taunton's loan of his office, he was getting little done. It was difficult to concentrate on the present while trapped in the past.

He could almost feel the dampness of that long-ago night seep into his bones. The rain had been intermittent, but it had eventually soaked him through. How long had he stood on that blasted street corner, waiting like the daft love-struck idiot that he had been?

Lady Janice Wentworth.

Good lord, he had loved her so. He had been but three-and-twenty, and Janice had been three years younger and so lovely. She had remained unwed at age twenty, because her domineering father had refused to let her go, and so Brett had planned to rescue her from her father's tyranny. He had thought she loved him, and she had, but not enough—or not enough to defy her father.

“Stupid, besotted fool,” he muttered into the empty room, unable to summon sympathy for his younger self.

In the past, work had rescued him from that street corner. It had carried him through those early years and the last few days, but had failed him tonight.

Damn Wentworth.

Damn the bastard for rising like Lazarus to surprise him. Brett had vowed to be prepared when he confronted his nemesis again. To be the confident, successful man of business that he was. To be the bastard's equal, despite all Wentworth had done to destroy him.

He snatched his drink from the desk and crossed to the hearth to glower at the dying embers of the fire. Grabbing a poker, he stabbed at the coals, needing to chase away the chill of that damp street and the shock of Wentworth.

He returned the poker to its stand, draped one arm over the mantel, and brooded into the fire.

“What is all this?”

Jerking, he whirled, sloshing brandy over the cuff of his dress shirt.

Emily
.

He cursed as he patted at his wet sleeve. “What the devil are you dong here? And dressed like
that
?”

She wore a light pink robe over what clearly was her nightgown. The dancing light of the fire cast a warm glow over the beauty of her features. She looked like an ethereal angel—until she opened her mouth.

“You have been avoiding me. Do not deny it.” She brushed aside his concerns like a pesky interruption and speared him with an accusatory glare. “I do not appreciate it.”

She was more she-devil than angel anyway. “I was working. If you remember, I do have a company to run.”

“Yes, yes,” she sighed. “Your company, your responsibility.” She studied the plans and furrowed her brow. “These look like the interior of a ship. Are you building another ship?”

He blinked at her. The woman had no boundaries, did not give a fig for propriety, and was now nosing about in his
business. And it was nearly midnight! He stormed over to snap up the plans, but the excitement in her voice stopped him.

“These must be the improvements to the staterooms on your packet ships. Melody said Jenkins was nattering on about this to her. He wants to increase the size of the staterooms and make them more luxurious.”

“Melody said that Jenkins was
nattering
on?” he echoed. His sister had played him well. He could imagine Jenkins's enthusiasm, because God knows Jenkins had been nattering on about his idea
to him
—and unlike Melody, he shared Jenkins's excitement. His mood improved at the image of Melody's eyes glazing over.

He nodded to the sheets of paper. “Jenkins has a sound idea, and has hired an engineer to render detailed plans. We can charge higher fees for the plush accommodations and entice passengers into booking on our ships over a competitor's.”

“So this plan has returned Mr. Jenkins to your good graces?”

“Sometimes the man proves his worth,” he conceded. “But I will mention Melody's interest in his plan to him. I may suggest he discuss the advent of steam the next time they meet. Melody would be riveted.” He lifted his glass in a toast and drained it.

Emily laughed. “You are too cruel.”

“She deserves it, after singing the good Mr. Jenkins's praises to me for the past week. She is lucky I did not wring her neck.” Their eyes met, and lost in the amused warmth of hers, it took him a moment to pull his gaze away. “I was just cleaning up here.” He set his drink down to gather up the plans. He ignored Emily as she picked up his discarded glass and disappeared with it.

Papers tucked under his arm, he turned—and froze. Emily had settled herself on the burgundy settee, her skirts like a billowing cloud around her. She sipped from his now-refilled crystal tumbler.

“My father called this office his oasis of solitude. We were warned not to disturb him when he was within. But we always did, so he started locking the door,” she said, smiling at the
memory and fingering the key she held. “He soon discovered that he missed Julia and me making forts beneath his desk or my mother pestering him with tea. He demanded to know how a sane man was expected to get any work done in a silence that echoed. After that, he only locked it during particular times—and with my mother on his side of the door.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

He leaned against the desk, wondering at her game. “So I take it that I am trapped?”

“As I have said, you have been avoiding me, and there are things that need to be discussed.” She lifted the key that hung on a slim rope and slipped it over her neck. It disappeared down the collar of her robe.

“Do you think it is safe there?” he drawled. He was good at games, and this one intrigued him.

“Maybe not, but you will not be getting it until I am ready.”

“Is that a dare?” He nearly laughed.

“Behave,” she warned. “Now come sit by me.” She patted the space beside her, tucking her skirts around her.

He glanced at the clock, and then sighed. Whatever Emily was up to, as usual, they had to play by her rules. “Can this not wait until the morning?”

He did not know if he could focus, having been unable to concentrate on anything all evening. Then again, a feminine distraction would get his mind off Wentworth. Perhaps the night was not a complete waste. That is, if he could convince her to play . . .
with him
.

His mood lifted, he set aside his papers and quickened his steps to join her on the settee. Once seated, he grasped her by the arms with the intent of pulling her onto his lap.

Her palm, flat against his chest, stopped him. “Not yet.”

She was going to be the death of him. Or at least certain parts of his anatomy. He exerted a little more pressure.

“Stop that! I told you to behave.”

“I do not think you are in any position to comment on
my
behavior, when you flout all the rules.” He pressed his lips against the soft underside of her chin because she had
lifted her face to strain away from him. “Good thing I never cared for your English rules. Find them tedious.” He rained a trail of kisses down the slim column of her neck, inhaling the scent of some floral soap. “Your skin is soft as satin.”

“You need to listen. I want to discuss something with you.”

“You have my undivided attention,” he murmured. His position forced her to lean back against the curved arm of the settee, and he moved his body over hers. He supported himself on one hand and threaded the other through her hair, sending pins scattering and dismantling the chignon holding up her hair. The freed strands tumbled about her shoulders.

“What are you doing?” She slapped his hands away.

He laughed. “If you have to ask, I am not doing too good a job of it.” He dipped his head to give her a scalding kiss, but she turned her face away. “I am finishing what you have started.”

“I did not start anything—”

“On the contrary. You locked the door,” he teased. He would have preferred her lips, but he settled on a curved cheek.

“Stop it!” she cried, and pressed against his chest with more force.

The aggrieved tone cut through his passionate zeal, and he drew back. At the sight of her distressed features, he immediately sobered. He shifted away, allowing her to sit up. “What is it? Has Drummond—”

“For goodness' sake, it is not about Drummond. Not everything is about him and the blasted portfolio!” She belted her robe tight around her slim waist.

Incredulous, he gaped at her, unable to believe he had heard her correctly. “Hang Drummond and the ledger with him for all I care. That is
your
goal, not mine. Mine is to keep your fool head safe, so do not accuse me of being single-minded when you have clenched that bit between your teeth, and woe to anyone who seeks to remove it.” His voice had risen, but seeing her stricken expression, he relented and gentled his tone. “What is this about, Emily? If it is not about Drummond, then what or whom does it concern?”

“You! You imperceptive, blind man,” she blurted, her features flushed and furious.

“Me? What have
I
done?”
Daniel
. Damn the man. He had asked him to keep his confidence. He swiped his hand through his hair. “Look, I can explain. He—” He broke off when she jumped to her feet and paced before him.

“Our situation. It needs to change. It is not right. You have held me in your arms, kissed me, and we have been intimate, yet there is this chasm between us. Gaping holes filled with all we do not know about each other.”

Not Daniel.
His tension eased. “I have hidden nothing from you. You have seen me almost as naked as Adam in the Garden of Eden, but I am happy to rectify that,” he teased, moving his hands toward the buttons on his trousers.

“Do not be obtuse. You are not usually, but being a man, and this being a discussion about a relationship and feelings, it might be out of your realm of understanding.”

That was
not
a compliment. He was not sure if it maligned
his
intelligence or the ignorance of his sex as a whole. He feared it did both. Worse, she could be right. “What is it that you would like to know?” The question was out of his mouth before he could snatch it back, for he knew.
Wentworth
. The man was a wretched plague on his life.

She returned to the settee and sat beside him. “You must have loved Janice Wentworth very much to have asked for her hand in marriage.”

This was
not
the distraction he needed. He nodded curtly. “I did.”

“Do . . . do you love her still?”

He stared at her, reading the concern in her somber expression and marveling at the shadow of worry clouding her eyes. Did she believe he was still that daft fool pining away for his forsaken love? “Of course not. It was nearly a decade ago. She is long married by now, no doubt with a brood of children.”

Emily furrowed her brow. “I do not understand. If you do not care for her, why were you so upset—?”

“I did love her and I asked her to marry me. She accepted,
her father declined. We planned to flee to Gretna Green, but at the last minute, she lost her courage.” He shrugged. “It is a familiar and trite story. She was of age and the choice was hers, but her father was overly protective. I expected too much of her, because her family would have disowned her. At the time, I did not have anything to give her but an uncertain future. I expect she came to her senses before I did.”

“You gave her your love. That should have been enough. It would have been enough for me,” she said earnestly.

Surprised and oddly touched, her words dispersed the remnants of the chill that had gripped him earlier. “That is very romantic, but over the past decade, I have learned that one cannot eat on love. Nor can love put a roof over your head.”

“Could she not wait for you to accomplish your goals? You think that I am a naïve romantic, and that I expect too much from her. Maybe so, but she has turned you into a cynic and that is worse. If she claimed to love you and had agreed to marry you, you had a right to expect everything from her. I planned to follow Jason to India. I would have followed him to Hades if need be.”

She was magnificent. He had stood on that bloody street corner waiting for the wrong woman. He swallowed, and with a rush of tenderness, he brushed loose strands of hair back from her forehead, letting his hand linger and then sweep down her hair. “I believe you would have. Good thing India is not that far south,” he teased.

“You mock me, but you are wrong to be so forgiving of her. She did not have the strength or the loyalty to stand by you, and that failure is hers alone.”

He stared at her fierce expression. She was his warrior, Athena. And for once, she was fighting for him—or the injustice she believed had been done to him. Something rolled over in his chest. He feared it was his heart, giving up the fight against her.