The Emerald Duchess (8 page)

Emily rose from the carpet where she had knelt to pick up some paper the captain had let fall, and backed away, her heart pounding.

“Come, my dear, such shyness,” the colonel said, advancing into the room and going toward the fireplace, where there was a small blaze. He rubbed his hands together, his eyes bright with satisfaction.

“But who would have imagined it?” he asked. “Althea Wyndham’s daughter a common maid. What a waste!” And scornfully he pointed to her apron and cap.

“I—I must ask you to leave immediately, sir,” Emily said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “My mistress will be home at any moment.”

“Not unless she or her husband has forgotten something on their way to the Uxbridge reception,” Colonel Rogers said blandly. “Come, aren’t you going to ask me to sit down? Althea would never have been so unwelcoming.” As if it were his own home, he went to pour two glasses of wine from the decanter kept on a side table.

“You had better sit down yourself. And you look as if you could use this,” he said as he came toward her, and rather than have him make her do so, Emily obeyed. Their fingers touched as he handed her the glass, and she would have dropped it if he had not fastened her fingers around the
ste
m
, smiling a little when he felt her tremble at his touch. “Drink it up. You will soon feel more the thing.”

Emily stared up at him, waiting until he had moved away to a chair opposite. Indeed, she did need the wine, for his appearance had been such a shock. And, she thought desperately, there is no one to call for help, for the housekeeper had left not two minutes after the Quentins’ departure, and Sergeant Boothby had gone with them. By now, the little maid would either be finishing the dinner dishes or dragging herself up to her attic pallet. There was no help there.

After a few sips, she put the glass down on a table beside her and folded her hands in her lap, trying not to clench them.

Colonel Rogers stared at her over the rim of his wineglass. The years had not been kind to him. He must now be in his fifties, she thought, and his face showed only too plainly the life of dissipation he had led since last they met.

“Feeling better?” he asked, his courteous question at odds with the intent leer he gave her. “I had no wish to frighten you, my dear, but you see, I really could not allow myself to be so abruptly dismissed—and by a slut’s daughter, as well.” Emily stiffened.

“Oh, yes,” he said, nodding to her and saying in a conversational tone, “your mother was a slut. A very desirable, fascinating, and beautiful woman—but a slut, nevertheless. And here you are, her daughter. Did you know, Miss Wyndham, that I once asked your mother for you? She was not at all amused. In fact, it signaled the end of our relationship. I did miss her—for about a week!”

“My mother was not—not what you said! She was forced by circumstances to behave as she did,” Emily could not help crying.

“I have no intention of arguing with you about such an unimportant point. I will say, however, that no decent woman would ever have enjoyed herself so much in her, hmm, chosen profession. But who am I to sneer at her, after all? There is a need for women of your mother’s persuasion in this world. Bless me, what would we men do without them?”

He laughed at his pleasantry, and Emily wished she could kill him.

“But I am much more concerned about
your
profession, my dear. Oh yes, very concerned. It is not at all fitting for such a lovely thing to be carrying slops and changing m’lady’s gown, and kneeling to put on her slippers. So much better to have you kneeling at my feet, and not to put on my slippers either!” He laughed, a hoarse, throaty chuckle. “As I said just now, what a waste. Now, I am here to remove you from such drudgery, and you may count yourself lucky that I will do so. In fact, after I have the schooling for you for a few weeks, I am sure you will change your mind about which is preferable as an occupation. And if I cannot, small loss. There is always another lovely girl to be had. Tell me, m’dear,” he said, leaning closer, “can I be so fortunate as to be your first? Somehow I cannot imagine Althea Wyndham’s daughter reaching your current age without losing her virginity. And yet there is an air about you of purity, as if no man has touched you. What a lucky plus if it were so.”

Emily thought she would have to strike him if he did not keep his filthy mouth off her mother’s name, and something of her feelings must have shown in her face and her blazing emerald eyes, for he stood up abruptly and came to her, pulling her roughly out of the chair and into his arms. At once she began to struggle and beat him with her fists as he
ran his hands up and down her back, cupping her buttocks and digging his fingernails into her flesh.

He laughed at her efforts, for, fifty and dissolute or not, he was very strong. The long years in the service had given him iron-hard muscles, and he easily captured both her hands in one, and with the other pushed her head back by the hair and kissed her. It was a brutal kiss. He forced her mouth open and thrust his tongue inside, and if Emily had not been so angry at his description of her mother, she might have fainted. As it was, she waited until he lifted his head, and then she kicked him as hard as she could. He laughed and held her away from him. “Little wildcat! That’s all right, my popsy, do your worst. I like ’em wild.”

Suddenly he pulled her to him again and began to caress her breasts, now heaving under her neat apron and dark gown with her efforts to escape. With one hand he began to undo the buttons at her throat, and Emily knew it was only a matter of time before he would have her naked, right there in the salon. All at once he put his hand inside her bodice and yanked, too impatient to bother with the buttons, and the whole top of her dress fell away, leaving her breasts exposed under a thin camisole. As he moved his hand, she ducked her head and bit it, drawing blood. He let her go immediately, but only to raise his other hand and slap her viciously. She staggered away and fell into a chair.

“Don’t ever do that again!” he growled, stepping back and licking his wound, while Emily, her head reeling, tried to pull the to
rn
fabric of her gown up over her breasts as she struggled to sit upright again. He had hit her with an open palm, but she could still feel the hot sting of his hand.

“Such ingratitude,” he suddenly bellowed. “Here I have every intention of setting you up in such luxury you may meet your mistress walking and nod to her from your own carriage, dressed as fine as ninepence in satin and laces and jewels. Have a care, wench. I will not hesitate to punish you much more severely than
that
little love tap!”

As he came toward her again, Emily spoke in desperation. “Stop! I—I have something to say to you, and you must, you
will
listen!”

The colonel paused, admiring the picture she made, her blond hair tumbled around her face, reddened from his slap, and her green eyes sparkling with the tears she was trying valiantly not to shed. Her creamy shoulders and half-concealed bosom aroused his lust again, but he was perfectly content to let her speak while he admired such gorgeous plunder as she displayed.

“Very well,” he said, sitting down and taking up his wineglass once again. Fifty had learned what twenty did not know: that anticipation could be as pleasurable as the act itself, and there was, after all, no need to rush. Lord Uxbridge’s receptions always lasted such a very long time.

Emily drew a deep breath and, holding her gown more closely to her, began to speak in what she hoped was a confident, convincing voice. “You asked me earlier, Colonel, if I was aware that you had asked my mother for me, many years ago. As it happens, I did know. Not because she told me, of course, for I was not aware of her activities until after her death, but because I found your letters.”

She had held his eyes with hers as she spoke, and now she saw him start up in amazement. It gave her the courage to continue. “You were most unwise to put that in writing, sir. As it happens, I still have that particular letter.” She paused and waited for him to comment.

“Well, and so what if you do, girl? What is that to say to anything?”

Even to her ears, Emily felt he was bluffing. “You must be aware, Colonel, that if such a letter should come to the attention of your commanding officer, it would have the most dire results. An officer of the Coldstream Guards, soliciting a mother for her thirteen-year-old child!”

Her voice was scornful, and he flushed and said quickly, “But you would be most unwilling to air such scandal about your mother and yourself, would you not, Miss Wyndham?” The thought seemed to give him confidence, for he leaned back and finished his wine. “No, I hardly think it possible that you would so demean yourself, for then all the world would know who you are, and more important, what kind of background you have.”

Before he could rise, Emily held out her hands. Her voice was low and bitter, and it stopped him as effectively as a bullet would have done.

“But what possible shame can come to me that would be worse than your attention, sir? And since I have changed my name and become what you describe as a common maid, why would having my name bruited about dis
t
urb me? My mother is dead: you cannot hurt her anymore. I tell you this:
I
would do anything in the world to escape you. I will even go as high as the duke himself, if necessary, and I imagine your career would be short-lived if the contents of that letter became common knowledge.”

The colonel stood up, and for a moment she felt she had failed, but then he turned away from her and stared into the fire. What she said was true; he knew how he would be scorned, he might even be asked to tender his resignation, and he knew also that if he lost his commission, he did not want to live. He was a soldier—it was all he knew or wanted to know. What was one female beside
that
!

“
Touché
!”
he said finally. “It appears you have won the engagement, Miss Wyndham. My compliments!” He bowed ironically and turned to go. “By the way, you are making a mistake, you know. No one as desirable as you are was meant for anything but love. I count it a definite loss that I am not to be the man to initiate you in its pleasures.” He bowed again at the door and left the room.

Emily did not move or even breathe until she heard the street door slam, and then she put her face in her hands and burst into tears. How long she sat there crying, she had no idea, but at last she rose and went up to change her clothes and redo her hair. The gown was ruined, and she was glad it was beyond repair, for she could never have worn it again. She shivered as she took it off, and then, remembering his last words, she stopped and stared at herself in Lady Quentin’s mirror. Her cheek was still red from his blow, but she was not looking at that, but rather deep into her own eyes. He had said that she was desirable, that she was made for love, and she remembered that for one shameful moment while he was caressing her, she had felt an answering surge, even in all her fright. Could it be true, that she was just like her mother, and not a decent woman at all? And then she remembered Lady Quentin and her obvious enjoyment in making love, and she felt much better. It had nothing to do with morals, or whether you were good or bad. It was just a normal part of being a woman.

Lady Quentin spent an extraordinary amount of time choosing her gown and jewels for the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, for she wanted to look her best for Tony. He had promised her that nothing would interfere with his escorting her to what promised to be a most festive evening.

“Perhaps I will even dance with the duke, Nelly,” she said. “He always likes a pretty woman, you know, and he smiled at me so warmly the other evening at Lord Uxbridge’s that I am sure I have piqued his interest, even if he is, as they say at the moment, intrigued with Lady Frances Webster. What fun if Tony should be jealous!”

She giggled with laughter at the thought, and Emily smiled with her. She had not seen or heard from Colonel Rogers again, and every day that passed reassured her that he had accepted his defeat.

“I do wonder, though, Nelly,” Lady Quentin was saying, “if Tony was right, and the allies are about to go into battle. He says so little of it, but there is a look in his eyes lately.” She shivered and went to sit down in the chair by the window that she often used while she watched the street and waited for her husband.

Emily saw that she had forgotten her maid, and left the room quietly.

It would be hard for anyone in Brussels not to know that there was something going on. Units appeared and disappeared; the streets rang with the sounds of booted feet and harsh commands, and at the next moment, they were gone. Supply wagons rumbled in long lines down the street, the horses hooves clattering on the cobblestones in response to the cracking of whips. Emily felt as if the population of Brussels was holding its breath, and a part of her wished the war would begin. Since it appeared to be inevitable, the suspense of waiting for it, day after day, was terrible.

But by June 14 they were still waiting. Emily helped Lady Quentin dress for the Richmond ball in a gown she had been saving for this special occasion. It was a pale-green silk with the fashionable round neckline that only half-concealed her breasts. The sash and the trimming on the tiny puffed sleeves were of grass-green satin, and her sandals matched exactly. With this gown she wore a rope of pearls, and Emily dressed her hair regally high, the curls caught up with pearl combs. She looked stunning, and when she came down the stairs, Captain Quentin bowed very low, his handsome face beaming with his love and admiration.