The Duke of Shadows (17 page)

Things had gotten very black then.

Long ago now. She had changed. And it was very easy to think on these things in Devon. Two hundred miles from London and even farther from his ancestral seat, she could nurse a very pure scorn for him. But here, moving in her cousin's circles … a tremor had set up in her knees.

"You are pale," Delphinia whispered.

"I'm fine," she said, and saw Delphinia flinch. Her voice had come out very cold. "No, truly—I am well. But…" It was hard to accept this about herself: what a little coward she was. "Do not have the majordomo announce us, if you please."

She was glad to see the Earl as they entered the ballroom. He pressed a coup of champagne into her hand and said in an undertone, "It is a brilliant success, Miss Mattin. All that anyone is talking about. You must go into the gallery and listen."

"Will you accompany us?"

His eyes had shifted beyond them. "I will be glad to follow, but in a moment. I see someone I must speak with first."

As he moved off into the crowd, Delphinia sighed. "Such a handsome man. I wonder where his wife is? It was a most splendid wedding—wasn't it, Gid? Several years ago now, and then they went traveling for some time in the continent. It would have been nice had
I
enjoyed such a honeymoon. Only no one has seen her since. Have they, Gideon? I can't imagine he likes to keep her in the country; it was a love match, if I recall."

Lord Chad said, "I beg you will not ask him. He's devilish touchy about it."

"Do not swear, Gideon! We are in company."

He sighed. "I'm off to find the cards."

"Gideon, wait!" As he stalked off, Delphinia stamped her foot. "He is such a
beast
at times. Well, if he does not come to see how Lord Lockwood has arranged the paintings, he will regret it!"

"I do not doubt," said Emma. Lord Chad was a master statesman, but his talent was for democracy. He had no defenses against a natural autocrat like his wife.

As they entered the gallery, the silence struck her. She longed for the fuzziness that the champagne would impart, but her throat felt too tight to swallow any more. Here was her work, then, forced on the world. Never had she imagined that anyone would care to look upon the terrors she'd expunged in oil. Indeed, did they care? The silence offered no verdict. People clustered in small groups, sipping their negus and wine and punch, trading wide-eyed, unsettled glances. Lord Lockwood obviously had peculiar criteria for declaring this a success.

When the pounding of her heart had quieted, she began to pick out some of the murmured comments. "…nightmares, I tell you," one woman whispered. And then a gentleman: "Must have been there, poor thing … tortured…"

The hushed atmosphere was broken by a man in the far corner, who pronounced in shaking tones, "We should have killed the lot of them! The entire goddamned country!"

Her hand tightened on Delphinia's arm.
No
.

"That's not it at all," a woman snapped. "These paintings aren't about assigning guilt. They are about suffering. And perhaps futility. Nothing was won in that war."

Emma's eyes fell gratefully on the speaker. A tall brunette with a long, slim neck, she held herself with confident grace, as if she were accustomed to being thought beautiful. She must be of some import as well, for the first man shot her an angry glance, but did not challenge her.

At least some of them understood. And the rest were not demanding her blood, precisely because they did
not
understand. But the experience was not as rewarding as she had hoped. She felt peculiarly exposed, standing here.

"There you are," Lord Lockwood said at her elbow. "I do beg your pardon, I've just had some happy news and wanted to make my congratulations. But—ah, there she is." He waved, and the brunette who'd defended the paintings came toward them, joining the group as Lord Lockwood led them a few steps out of the gallery.

He paused at the edge of the dance floor to make introductions. After the courtesies were exchanged, he said, "Lady Edon, my very best wishes to you. I've only just heard the news."

She smiled and inclined her head. Delphinia's face brightened. "Oh, Lady Edon! Can it be? Is there a very lucky gentleman to congratulate?"

Emma bit back a sigh. Her cousin loved nothing so much as news of a wedding. The Baroness, whether she knew it or not, had just won a half hour of their time, and a pressing investigation into the details of her private life. "Yes," Lady Edon said, "he—why, here he comes now."

Delphinia turned. Emma must have turned too, for one moment she was still watching Lady Edon. The next her eyes were on him.

He stood a few paces off. Facing away from her, twisted at the waist to speak to a woman whose fan tapped his forearm. She recognized him by the slope of his jaw and the contraction of her gut and the shade of his skin, which even in wet, gray England retained a golden cast.

Shock was a peculiar sensation, like ice washing down the backs of her knees. She let out the breath she'd been holding. The test was finally upon her.
It does not matter, it should not matter.
It seemed now to have always been inevitable.

"You must come visit with me and my cousin," Delphinia was saying. "We can help you choose the flowers. I do love these little projects!"

"But perhaps your cousin does not," Lord Lockwood replied. "I daresay she looks a bit peaked at the prospect. Miss Martin?"

Did
he
hear her name? Was that why his shoulders stiffened? The lady with the fan stepped back from him; what had his face revealed to her? He was turning. She could not bear this. She would run. She would turn on her heel and run.

No. He does not deserve even
that
from you.

She straightened. She felt nothing; she was composed. But as he faced her, oh, it all crumbled, the scene, her resolve, and her mind understood color alone, blotches of it here and there, spreading and shrinking chaotically. Resolving into his eyes. Staring into hers. Greener even than she remembered.
I will come back for you.

She could not do this. He looked … he looked as though she were the very last person he had ever hoped to see and that at any moment he might be sick all over the ballroom floor.

And she had thought he would only ignore her.

She laughed. It was a quiet, slightly unbalanced sound. Lockwood's hand was suddenly cupping her elbow. "Are you quite all right, Miss Martin?"

"I am fine," she said, turning back to the group. It was true. Thank God, she was fine. A shock of coldness, a brief windless horrible moment—that was all. Far better than some of the ways she'd imagined the scenario playing out. A small problem: she could not speak. Her tongue felt leaden. She tried a smile, but her lips could not balance it.

"Julian," said Lady Edon, "do come over here."

And now they would be introduced. Now Lord Lockwood would say, "Miss Martin, this is the Duke of Auburn." And Emma would say, "How do you do, your grace," as if nothing had ever passed between them.
He
so clearly had forgotten it—

But why would the Baroness call him by his Christian name?

"Perhaps the prospect of marriage is unsettling him," said Delphinia. "It is often so, I fear."

God could not be this cruel.

He moved all at once. He was in the far periphery of her vision; and then he was coming up to her in two long strides. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her around to him, the spin so fast and strong that her skirts belied out.
"Emma,"
he said. His hand ran up her arm to her shoulder, while Lady Edon gasped and Delphinia said something shocked and sharp and Lockwood said,
"Jules,
what the—"

His hand stopped at the curve of her neck. "You are here," he whispered. "It is
you."

His hand tightened. The pain registered but she did not really feel it. His long breath was audible. "Christ—Emma. What—how—"

"Julian," Lockwood said. He stepped forward. "Julian, let her go."

"Julian, you are making a
scene,"
hissed Lady Edon.

Her bewilderment was growing. His eyes wandered over her. She looked past his shoulder. Yes, people were looking, whispering. Her dress was very low-cut, after all. And her sleeves so long. There were very few places her skin could be touched. That dip at the base of her throat, just above where her collarbones joined. His hand spanned her shoulder and his thumb fit into it, as if to test her pulse. As if he had the right.

It woke her from her daze.
"Damn
you," she said. "Get your hands off me."

Lockwood grabbed Julian's wrist and forced it away. "Auburn! What in God's name!"

"How long have you been here?" His eyes were on hers. Burning. She would like to hit him. The urge made her shake.

"Not above an hour," she said, "and now I am
leaving!"
She turned on her heel and he lunged forward to catch her arm.

"The hell you are," he said.

She yanked out of his grip. "If you touch me again—" Lockwood stepped forward, and Julian made a guttural noise. The Earl went very still. "All right," Lockwood said. "All right then. Let's adjourn to my study. Discuss this."

"Oh, I would like to discuss it very much," Lady Edon said. "Not with you, perhaps."

Discuss
it? All sitting around in a circle and sipping champagne? "No," Emma said, and to Julian, "Stay away," and pushed into the crowd. Swimming through it. And the room was swimming too, as if she'd drunk too much when really, she'd only just begun.
Touching
her! Somewhere in this ridiculous house was a place where she would smash her fist into the wall and then scrub his touch off her throat. She went shoving through guests, heedless of whom and where she pushed. Exclamations of irritation shot up in her wake. She did not care. Let them yell.

This was not Delhi, however. It had been a nasty week of weather, and the night was chill and sullen with remembered storms. A strong wind slapped a spattering of rain through the tree branches as he descended the steps to the lawn. He paused to listen, senses acute, intent. If she would not come to him, he would find her.

The thought briefly pierced his trance. He would
find
her.

Then something rustled in the direction of the elder bushes, and his senses narrowed again. He moved toward it, slowly, making no sound.

She was sitting just beyond the hedgerow, on the edge of a drained marble fountain. An open magnum of champagne rested on her knee. Her thumb circled the lip of the bottle. She raised it to take a long swallow. The novelty registered, dimly. Drinking from the bottle. Not something he had ever seen a woman do. So casually she sat there and did it.

She lowered the bottle. Her head turned.
Emma.
It was undeniably Emma. Again that sensation. A fist in his gut, clawing, twisting.

"I told you not to follow me," she said.

He stood there for a long moment. Minutes? Making sense of that. Not follow her. She was alive.
Alive.
Not follow her?

All at once, the fog in his brain dissipated beneath a mighty lick of rage. "I thought you were
dead!"

Another sheet of rain gusted through the garden. A downpour, soon enough. He could not trust himself to approach her. "How long have you been in London?"

"Not long."

"How long?"

"Before that."

"Devon."

"How long there?"

She shrugged. "Three years now? Yes, that's about right."

"Three years," he whispered.
Devon
.
Bloody Devon. A day away by rail and road, that was all. While he—he had haunted London like a ghost, grieving for her,
mad
with it— "And before Devon. How did you … get out of India?"

Her eyes narrowed. "If you're looking for itineraries, I do not have the ship and train timings on my person."

"The devil take you," he spat. "Do you have
any idea—"

"Why in God's name did you not
come
to me?"

She came to her feet.
"Me?
You ask why
I
didn't come to you? I…" She turned away for a moment, then wheeled back. "How
dare
you, you
bastard!
You cannot
imagine
what I went through, waiting for you to—" She stopped abruptly. "No.
No.
I will not do this. I am done with this. I am done with
you.
Long done. Oh yes." The champagne bottle waved a dismissal. "Go back inside, sir. Lady Edon will be looking for you."

"You little fool," he bit out. He did not know what to do with his fury. At her.
At her.
"Do you imagine I'm going
anywhere?
For four years I thought you dead, and now you simply—pop back into my life and expect me to—what? What
did
you expect? Christ! That I would
bow
to you? Let Liam introduce us as though we were strangers?"

"We are strangers," she said flatly.

"To hell with that.
You will give me an explanation."