The Duke's Dilemma (8 page)

Jared raised his right hand as if taking the oath she demanded. “On my mother’s honor,” he declared, a bitter note sharpening his voice.
My beautiful, fascinating mother whose “honor” did not prevent her from abandoning her only son when he was but six years old.

”Very well then,” Emily acceded, “you may have your kiss.”

Before she could catch her breath, Jared dismounted, grasped her by the waist and lifted her to the ground. It was the first time she had stood next to him. He towered over her and the scent of him—musky, masculine, and faintly redolent of horse and leather—stirred her senses in a most disturbing way. Still, oddly enough, she felt none of the trepidation facing this lawless rogue that she’d felt in the presence of his half brother, the icy duke.

He cupped her face in his two hands and for one brief moment studied her upturned face with his remarkable eyes. Then drawing her gently into his arms, he brushed whisper-soft kisses across her eyelids, closing her into a dark cocoon in which nothing existed except the strange new sensations this man’s touch evoked. As if in a dream, she felt his lips brush the shadowed hollows beneath her eyes, her fevered cheeks, the tip of her nose. Breathlessly, she waited for him to claim her lips.

Finally, when she thought her pounding heart must surely burst from her breast, his lips covered hers—firm, as she’d known they would be, yet softer than she had ever imagined—and so incredibly warm she felt their heat penetrate to the very core of her being.

She gasped, startled by the waves of pure exaltation undulating through her, by the heady feeling that she was detached from earth and only the strength of Jared’s arms kept her from flying up into the boughs of the oak like the sparrow he had called her.

When those arms tightened inexorably around her, she wound her own about his neck and gave herself wholly to the strange and wonderful magic of his lips, his tongue, his very breath intermingling with hers.

Long moments later, he raised his head and grasping her shoulders in his strong fingers, put her from him. She felt instantly bereft, as if in severing his mouth from hers, he had stripped away some vital part of her and left her sadly empty and incomplete.

Dazed and trembling, she opened her eyes to meet his intense silver gaze. “So that is what it is like to be kissed,” she murmured when she finally found her voice. “No wonder Mrs. Radcliffe makes such a to-do about it in her novels.”

Jared drew a shaky breath, stunned by Emily’s impassioned response to his kiss. He had expected her to be reticent, even a little frightened by what he ‘d felt certain was her first physical contact with the opposite sex. Instead, she had responded with such warmth, such pure, uninhibited pleasure, he had momentarily lost himself in the sheer joy of the experience.

He shook his head in disbelief. A strange reaction to a simple kiss from a man who had freely partaken of the endless sensual delights offered by London’s most accomplished Cyprians. How ironic that an inexperienced little provincial from the Cotswolds should be the first to make him suspect there might be more to “making love” than mere physical gratification.

Studying her enraptured expression, he felt one brief moment of triumph that he had been the first man to awaken the passion lurking beneath her prim exterior until he remembered that some undeserving country bumpkin would likely warm himself at the fires he had banked.

With a groan, he pulled her to him and once again claimed her lips in a deeply passionate kiss. Then he lifted her into the sidesaddle atop the little gray, handed her the reins, and gave the mare a sharp slap on the rump.

“Ride for the manor house and safety, Emily, and don’t look back,” he commanded. “Ride as if Lucifer himself were at your heels, for he might well be.”

Edgar was waiting for him at the stables when Jared rode in an hour later. The question in his troubled eyes begged an honest answer.

“No, I did not tell Miss Haliburton the truth of who I was,” Jared said as they walked together through the walled courtyard leading to the duke’s private stairway. “I could not bring myself to humiliate her—or myself by admitting how falsely I had played her.”

He raised his hand to silence Edgar ‘s objections before he could utter them. “But never fear, my friend, my days as a
soi disant
highwayman are at an end. Regrettably so, since I suspect that in many ways my temperament lends itself more happily to that role than to the one I am forced to play.”

Edgar removed his spectacles to polish the grime of the stables from them, and the dust motes circled his head like hundreds of tiny, glistening diamonds in the pale morning sun. “Then what
did
you tell her if not the truth?” he asked.

Jared shrugged noncommittally, grateful he’d had an hour to compose himself before he had to face his perceptive friend. “What else?” he asked, stopping before the door to his private suite. “I simply bade the lady farewell and promised to never again darken the Brynhaven countryside with my wicked presence.”

“And what do you suggest I tell her to keep her from riding out alone until we capture the real highwayman?”

“Tell her the duke forbids it,” Jared said wearily. “She already holds me in disregard. Such an edict will only add one more nail to my coffin.”

” I will tell her. But I fear she will sorely miss her morning rides. I suspect that is the only real pleasure she derives from her stay at Brynhaven.”

For a long moment, Jared massaged his aching temples, deep in thought. “Have a pianoforte moved into one of the small salons and make it available to her,” he said at last. “It will help her pass the time. Anyone who plays with such skill must have a great love for music.”

“Capital idea.” Edgar hesitated just outside the door to the suite, an anxious look on his narrow, aristocratic face. “I take it your brief sojourn into the world of the common man is over then?”

“Over and done with,” Jared said, steadfastly ignoring the persistent ache deep in his chest.

“Then perhaps we should discuss the ball your aunts are proposing you give Saturday.”

Jared groaned. “A ball! Good God, must we?”

“I am afraid so. Your guests expect it, as do your neighbors. It has, after all, been close to two years since you have been in residence at your ancestral home.”

Jared grimaced. “I despise Brynhaven. It holds nothing but unhappy memories for me. If I had my way, I would never spend another night beneath its roof. But if you feel a ball is in order, then we must, by all means, have a ball.” He beckoned Edgar to follow him into his suite.

A glimmer of understanding shone in Edgar’s dark, myopic eyes but, as always, his advice was profoundly practical. “Bury those ugly memories as you buried the people who caused them, Jared. For here you must reside until you plant your seed in your future duchess. Every Duke of Montford, since the time of Charlemagne, has first seen the light of day at Brynhaven. Tradition dictates your son should do the same.

“My future duchess,” Jared said grimly, “who I am expected to choose from the five vapid creatures my aunts have decreed the most eligible candidates for the title.”

Edgar raised a questioning eyebrow. “Need I remind you the method of choice was of your own devising?”

“In other words, I am getting exactly what I deserve.” Jared sighed deeply. “You are probably right, Edgar; you usually are. Certainly, this time you are on the side of the gods.”

“The gods?” Edgar echoed with a puzzled frown.

Jared made a sweeping gesture which encompassed the luxurious room in which they stood. “Quite a clever balance actually. It appears they deem it only just that a man who enjoys such an embarrassment of riches should suffer a poverty of spirit.”

“A
re you certain you are quite well, Miss Haliburton?” With Emily’s permission, Mr. Rankin had joined her on the small divan in the blue salon where a late afternoon tea was being served the duke’s guests. He adjusted his spectacles and peered at her through the thick lenses. “You are very pale.”

“It is nothing more than a slight headache, I assure you,” Emily lied, squirming uncomfortably beneath his scrutiny.

“Another headache, ma’am? You have certainly been plagued with them this past sen’night.”

In reality, what she had been plagued with in the six days since her emotional parting from that scoundrel, Jared, was a deplorable tendency to moon over a man she should be grateful to never see again. Emily was thoroughly disgusted with herself. It was beyond her how any woman in her right mind could ache with longing for a man who had blackmailed her into allowing him to kiss her in a most improper fashion and then promptly dismissed her as if she were just another local dolly-mop he had tumbled behind a hedgerow.

Yet, ache she did and it didn’t help that she must sit down to dinner each night with a man who looked enough like the cause of her insanity to be his twin. She could scarcely bear to look at the icy duke, yet she couldn’t stop casting furtive glances at him—an added embarrassment since he invariably rewarded her with a scowl as black as the dreary rain clouds which darkened the skies above Brynhaven.

Of course, Mr. Rankin had noticed she had fallen into the doldrums. The man was entirely too perceptive, and too kind to be believed. He had even gone so far as to have a pianoforte moved into a small salon on the third floor so she could practice her music whenever Lucinda had no need of her services.

The duke’s man-of-affairs was everything she could admire in a gentleman, guilty of neither the contemptuous, full-of-himself attitude of the stiff-necked duke nor the vulgarity of his baseborn half-brother. As true a middle-of-the-road man as she was a middle-of-the-road woman. The solid backbone of England on which king and country had depended throughout the nation ‘s history.

Why couldn’t she have developed a
tendre
for such a man as this? He made no secret of his admiration for her, and she half believed that given the least bit of encouragement, he might even declare himself.

“Might I suggest a quiet lie-down before dinner?” Mr. Rankin’s soothing voice cut into her ruminations. “And I shall instruct cook to prepare one of her excellent tisanes.”

Emily smiled her gratitude for his concern. “I do believe a lie-down is exactly what I need.”

“Just so. You will want to be at your best for the ball tonight.” Mr. Rankin made his selection from the dainty cakes on the tea tray and placed two of the most delectable looking on her plate. “The staff have been working round the clock and it is bound to be the social event of the season in these parts. Dare I hope you will save me the supper dance? It is, I believe, a waltz. “

“Thank you for your kind offer, sir, but I have never learned to dance the waltz. It is still frowned upon outside London, you know. “

“Then perhaps we could take a stroll on the terrace before supper.”

“I should like that above all, but I cannot promise I shall be free. Lady Hargrave has instructed me to stay close by Lady Lucinda all evening, and I am at her command as long as I am in her employ.”

“In other words, she has instructed you to keep the girl away from the Earl of Chillingham while there is still a chance to make a higher connection.”

Emily flushed hotly, embarrassed that her aunt’s deviousness should be so transparent.

Mr. Rankin pushed his spectacles higher onto the bridge of his nose—a gesture Emily was beginning to realize he often made when he had something on his mind. “Will you think me completely out of hand if I offer you some advice, Miss Haliburton?”

“Of course not, sir, I would welcome anything you have to say.”

“Do not be too assiduous in your guarding of Lady Lucinda. She could do far worse than young Percival in choosing a husband. He may be an awkward colt right now, but he has the makings of a fine man—and an extremely rich one once he comes into his full inheritance.”

“My observation exactly.” Emily hesitated, wishing she could confide in this kindly gentleman, but she would only jeopardize Lucinda’s chance for happiness if she let slip the fact that the Earl of Hargrave was so deep in dun territory, he had to
sell
his only daughter to keep out of debtors’ prison. “I take it you feel as I do, that the earl much more suitable
parti
for Lady Lucinda than the duke,” she said finally.

Mr. Rankin nodded his agreement. “And she would appear to be the perfect wife for him. The earl’s requirements for his future countess are relatively simple—a pretty face, a sweet nature and a willingness to listen to an endless discourse on the merits of his prime cattle. The lad has, I am afraid, spent a great deal more of his young life with horses than with people…or books.”

He made another minor adjustment to his spectacles and surveyed her with what could only be termed intense scrutiny. “The Duke of Montford, on the other hand, is endowed with both an exceptional intelligence and a depth of feeling. It will take a very special woman to make him a proper wife.”

Emily choked on her tea. She found it difficult to believe a man of such obvious acuity could utter this drivel with a straight face. She had no way of measuring the arrogant duke’s intelligence, but his method of choosing his duchess gave the lie to any pretense of depth of feeling. She could only assume the duke’s man-of-affairs was blinded by his loyalty to his employer.

Mr. Rankin removed his spectacles, polished them on a linen handkerchief he drew from his waistcoat pocket and returned them to his nose. “I can see by the expression on your face that you cannot envision the duke as anything but the haughty, inaccessible aristocrat he purports to be. I’m not surprised; it is a part he plays to perfection in his dealings with the
beau monde.
Why, I am not certain. Though I suspect it is a defense against the swarms of toad-eaters who court him because of his title and wealth.”

“I suppose that is possible,” Emily said, though privately she considered the duke’s standoffish ways a bit too convincing to be merely an act.

“In actual fact,” Mr. Rankin continued, “his grace is one of England’s most dedicated

statesmen—was instrumental in the movement in Parliament to abolish the slave trade and since the beginning of this fracas with Bonaparte has served both the War Office and the Board of Governors of The Duke of York Military Hospital.” He paused thoughtfully. “Granted, he does tend to deal more easily with people
en masse
than with individuals, but many a man more reclusive than he has been drawn out of his shell by the right woman.”

“It is plain to see you hold your employer in great respect,” Emily remarked, for lack of anything better to say. She found this idealistic portrayal of the duke almost as difficult to credit as the concept that one of the five empty-headed beauties who vied for his hand could be that “right woman” who would warm his frigid nature.

Mr. Rankin scowled, as if reading her thoughts. “The duke is more than my employer, Miss Haliburton,” he said quietly. “He is, by blood, my second cousin, but we were
raised like brothers from the time we were small boys. I owe him my life—but that is a story best told at another time. Suffice it to say, I would gladly give my life for him, should the need arise.”

Emily gaped in astonishment. She felt certain Mr. Rankin was not a man given to idle chatter, but she found his amazing revelation about the powerful duke beyond belief. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked warily. “My opinion of the duke can scarcely matter a whit, and I cannot believe he would approve the telling.”

“He would most likely be vexed all out of reason,” Mr. Rankin agreed.” And I am undoubtedly the world’s greatest fool for sinking my own ship before it ever leaves the harbor. But I have come to realize in the past few days that these are facts you should know, Miss Haliburton, and I am certain you will never hear them from the duke himself.”

Her baffling conversation with the duke’s man-of-affairs had left Emily so confused she’d lost all interest in a quiet lie-down. Now, just minutes before the gala pre-ball dinner was to begin, she found herself wishing she had rested when she’d had the opportunity. The prospects for a peaceful evening ahead were not auspicious.

In a rare show of defiance toward her tyrannical parents, Lucinda had declared, while dressing for dinner, that she would rather die than dance with the “horrible duke” at the ball. This heresy immediately prompted Lady Hargrave to threaten Emily with the withdrawal of her yet unpaid stipend unless she made certain Lucinda behaved herself exactly as she ought.

Through no fault of her own, Emily found herself in the unenviable position of having to choose between promoting Lucinda’s future happiness or insuring her own survival for the next few months. Her mind was in a turmoil, and the headache, which had originally been a convenient figment of her imagination, started throbbing in earnest.

She stared about her at the vast state dining room to which a footman had directed the earl’ s party. It was the first time she had seen this particular room and her initial glimpse of it was almost as overwhelming as her initial glimpse of the great entry hall had been.

The walls were covered with stretched-silk the color of rich cream, topped by an intricately carved rococo ceiling. A series of high, narrow windows draped in rich, green velvet filled one entire wall, and the opposite wall was adorned with paintings which she recognized as the works of Holbein, Reynolds, and Constable, and even one she felt certain was by the great Dutch painter, Rembrandt.

Masses of pale yellow and snowy white roses from the duke’s orangery filled the series of tall silver epergnes marching down the center of the huge table—their fragrance almost overpowering in its sweetness. The service plates, goblets and flatware, in the same beaten silver as the epergnes, bore the duke’s coat of arms, and after her initial awe, Emily found herself contemplating the endless hours of polishing needed to present the dazzling display. Small wonder the Brynhaven staff had been working round the clock.

A number of strangers mingled with the houseguests waiting to take their seats at the table. “Who are all these people’?” she asked Mr. Brummell when he stopped to pay his respects.

“The duke’s neighbors, so I’ve been told. Twenty of them to be exact, and a more dowdy-looking lot of provincials I have never seen.”

He raised his quizzing glass to study a stout silver haired matron in a many-hued gown, which gave her the appearance of a well-fed peacock. Beside her stood an equally stout gentleman in a long-tailed jacket of watered silk and purple satin knee britches. “Heaven help us, I do believe the fellow is wearing a bagwig,” the Beau exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “The ridiculous things went out of fashion fifty years ago.”

He shuddered. “And these people are the cream of the local gentry. God only knows what we may expect from the sixty who ‘ve been invited for the ball and midnight supper. I begin to understand why Montford rarely visits this particular estate.”

Emily was duly seated near the foot of the table between the Earl of Sudsley and Squire Bosley, neither of whom was the most inspiring of dinner companions. The earl, as usual, was so castaway he ended up face dawn in a plate of roast venison and currant sauce, and was quietly carried to his chambers by two brawny young footmen.

The squire, on the other hand, belched his way through all nine courses, simultaneously reciting the pedigrees of the thirty-odd foxhounds, setters, and pointers that made up his excellent kennel. By the time dessert was served, Emily felt certain that if she never learned another thing about the breeding of hunting dogs, she would still know far more than she cared to.

Meanwhile across the table, Lady Lucinda flirted openly with the Earl of Chillingham despite her mama’s fulminating looks and Lady Sudsley’s pointed remarks that a certain young lady was obviously no better than she should be. Emily cringed, her premonition of impending disaster so strong, she patted her hair to make certain it wasn’t standing on end.

Lady Hargrave’s whispered comment as the ladies adjourned to the gold salon, leaving the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars, only added to her presentiment. “Don’t you dare let Lucinda out of your sight for one minute tonight, or so help me, my girl, you’ll have more than your penury to worry about,” she hissed in Emily’s ear. “This is no time for the featherhead to cut up smart. I have it on good authority the duke is planning to select his duchess tonight and I can tell, from the warm way he looks at her, Lucinda leads the pack. “

Emily’s blood ran cold at the thought, but she felt certain Lady Hargrave was simply indulging in her usual wishful thinking. As far as she could see, the duke’s handsome £ace was still frozen in the same look of unremitting boredom he had worn since he’d arrived at Brynhaven.

Exactly thirty minutes from the time the ladies withdrew, the gentlemen joined them to repair to the ballroom. To Emily’s surprise, Mr. Brummell offered her his arm. “Ah, Miss Haliburton, you are a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured in his rich, cultured accents as they strolled the perimeter of the vast ballroom.

“Don’t you mean a sight to make eyes sore, Mr. Brummell?” Emily asked with a smile, glancing down at the only gown she owned which approximated a ball gown—the despised red and white.