The Forbidden Lord (11 page)

Then again, he’d always protested violently that he didn’t want a wife. And why had he kissed Emily and Lady Emma with such passion if he loved Sophie? The very thought of him caring for Sophie made jealousy explode in her brain. No, she wouldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t make advances to her if he wanted Sophie.

Unless his advances were an attempt to trick her into telling him what was going on! She scowled and rubbed her temples. Trying to guess Jordan’s motives was giving her the most awful headache.

Suddenly, she realized both Lady Dundee and Lord Nesfield were staring at her.

“Do you feel all right?” Lady Dundee asked.

Sophie dropped her hands from her temples and pasted a smile on her face. “Yes, of course. I’m tired, that’s all.”

“You listen to me, young woman, and you listen well,” Lord Nesfield growled. “Blackmore is as much a suspect as the others. Keep your eye on him, you hear me? And tell me everything he does, every word he speaks to you. You can begin by telling me what he said last night.”

Her headache immediately worsened. Now she had to invent more stories—she certainly couldn’t tell him the truth.

When this was over, she would never get herself into such a fix again. It would be truth and honesty from then on out. Lying was much too taxing.

Lady Astramont proved to be a little hummingbird of a woman, giddy and silly and prone to exaggeration. As soon as her butler ushered Emily and Lady Dundee into her wide marble foyer, she fluttered toward them, all smiles.

“I’m so glad you could come, Ophelia!” The woman had a trilling voice to match her hummingbird figure. “How many years has it been? Fifteen? Twenty? I swear, you don’t look a day over twenty-five! That Scottish air must be good for the skin.”

“It’s not the air, Hortense, but good Scottish food that keeps me young.” Lady Dundee tapped her plump cheek. “It fills out all the wrinkles.”

Looking flustered by Lady Dundee’s forthright allusion to her amplitude, Lady Astramont quickly turned to Emily. “And this must be your daughter. My, my, she is a pretty one. She takes after you, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, yes.” Lady Dundee’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “She’s a veritable copy of her mother.”

“I can see that,” Lady Astramont said earnestly.

Emily had to stifle her laughter as Lady Astramont led them through the foyer toward the parlor. Emily did her best not to stare, but it was hard to ignore the ostentation of Lady Astramont’s house. Lady Dundee had said that Lady Astramont had more money than sense, and that was certainly evident in the vulgar display of wealth that surrounded her. Gilt vases, marble statues everywhere, lavish curtains of gold silk…it was bright enough to blind a person.

And all Emily could think was how much food for the poor such wealth could buy.

“Everyone’s in the garden,” Lady Astramont explained as they crossed the parlor to a set of French doors of cut crystal. “The weather was so nice, we set up the tables out there. But you won’t believe the excitement. It’s all anyone can talk about.”

“What’s that?” Lady Dundee asked.

Lady Astramont stopped, peeking over her shoulder before she lowered her voice to an annoying twitter. “You’ll never guess who accepted my invitation.” She paused for effect. “Lord Blackmore. The great earl himself. At
my
breakfast! Oh, I shall never have to worry about acceptances again after this. He rarely attends anything, and then only the most fashionable affairs.”

Emily’s blood thundered in her ears. Jordan. Coming here. Dear heavens, she wasn’t ready for this. It was all she could do to keep her eyes focused straight ahead when she felt Lady Dundee’s questioning gaze on her. Jordan had said they weren’t finished. Obviously, he’d meant it.

“It’s the most exciting thing to happen in years!” Lady Astramont blathered on. “And you, my dear friend, here to see it! Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Yes, wonderful,” the countess said dryly. “Is Blackmore already here?”

“Oh, dear me, no. That would be too much to ask. I’m sure he’ll arrive late, which is his prerogative, of course. He is Blackmore, after all. But he sent his acceptance this very morning, so I believe he truly intends on coming.”

As it happened, it was another hour before the earl made his appearance. Though Emily tried not to notice when he arrived, it was impossible to ignore. His entrance into the garden with Lady Astramont on his arm was like a stone thrown into a
lake, producing ever-widening ripples of gossip and speculation.

Apparently, no one had believed Lady Astramont’s assertions that the earl was planning to attend a breakfast that only those of little consequence attended. They’d assumed Lady Astramont was lying in a futile effort to enhance her social standing.

Now that he was here, everyone had to offer a whispered opinion to their neighbors on why he’d condescended to attend. And since nearly everyone had heard about his dancing with Lady Emma at the ball, most of the speculation focused on her.

Oh, why couldn’t they all hush? She’d never imagined that such a lot of gossips and frivolous rumormongers ruled London society. Clearly, nobody had enough to do. For goodness sake, how could they move about a city like London every day and not notice all that needed to be changed and all the people who needed help? If they’d only channel their energies into something useful instead of repeating mindless tales, the world would be vastly improved.

Lady Astramont’s chirping voice carried across the lawn. “Lord Blackmore, I hope you find everything to your satisfaction. Do try the roast duck. It’s your favorite, is it not? And there’s an apple tart and…”

As she babbled on inanely, Emily cast a quick glance at Jordan. Although he had a faintly pained look on his face, like that of a man wearing shoes that pinched, he responded to the woman’s gushes with a charming smile and some murmured words about how glad he was to attend.

It took Emily by surprise. After the way everybody had spoken of him—as if he were the Deity Himself—she’d half expected him to be cold and
barely civil to their fawning hostess. Although she didn’t like Lady Astramont any more than he probably did, she felt kindly enough toward the woman not to wish her to be treated condescendingly in her own home. It warmed her that he felt the same.

Still, Emily could hardly blame him when he extricated himself from Lady Astramont’s clinging arm as soon as possible. He spared Emily a long glance that told her exactly why he’d come, then took his time making the rounds of the other guests, like a tiger toying with his prey.

He waited until Lady Astramont carried off Lady Dundee, the second most important guest at the breakfast, for a tour of her house. Then he sauntered toward where Emily sat on a garden chair beneath an oak.

Thankfully, she wasn’t alone. Mr. Pollock, who’d apparently also decided to attend at the last minute, had been at her side throughout the breakfast. Until then, his plaintive complaints about the bright sun and “ghastly” poached salmon had begun to wear on her. Mr. Pollock had the tendency to act as if their acquaintance was more intimate than she recognized. Still, she was grateful to have him nearby now that Jordan was here.

Pollock scowled as Jordan reached them. “Afternoon, Blackmore.”

“Good afternoon, Pollock. Lady Emma.”

She nodded coolly. “Where’s your friend Lord St. Clair?” Was he even now falling into their trap?

“Ian doesn’t attend many social occasions.”

“Can’t say I blame him for missing this one,” Pollock retorted. “I’m surprised to see
you
here, Blackmore. It’s not like you to socialize with Lady Astramont.”

“Nor you. But I dare say you’re here for the same reason I am.” Jordan’s gaze drifted to Emily. “I
came to see Lady Astramont’s garden, of course. I’ve been told it contains some truly
original
flowers.”

When hot color flooded her cheeks, Pollock positively glowered at Jordan. “Yes, I forgot—you like trampling flowers underfoot, don’t you?”

“Not at all. The perfect flower needs the perfect setting, however, and I’m here to ensure that it gets one.”

“Oh? What do you consider the perfect setting?” Pollock said sourly. “In your buttonhole?”

“No. In the country.” He cast Emily a lazy smile. “That’s where flowers belong, don’t you think?”

Emily met his gaze, every nerve ending screaming with the urge to tell him to go away and leave her alone. In the country, indeed. How could any man look so…so handsome and be such a beast? She’d never seen him in anything but evening dress, and his casual attire today only enhanced his attractions by making him look accessible, even to a rector’s daughter like her.

And younger, too. He leaned against the oak’s trunk like a youthful swain in a pastoral poem, the afternoon sun glinting off his auburn hair and setting it ablaze. His expression was anything but pastoral, however. It taunted her, challenged her to engage in his battle of words.

He thought he was so clever.
Say what you think
, Lady Dundee had advised. That would be perfectly easy with Jordan. “I’m not sure I understand your trite metaphor of the flower correctly, Lord Blackmore. Do you mean I should return to Scotland?”

“Not at all. I don’t think Scotland would suit you. The English countryside seems more appropriate for a girl with your…attributes.”

Pollock glanced from her to Jordan in bewilder
ment. “Are you insulting the lady, Blackmore? Because if you are—”

“Insulting her? Of course not. I’m paying her a compliment. Scotland is too barren and cold for a woman as lovely as she. Our English countryside is much warmer and better suited for such beauty.”

“Not all of Scotland is barren and cold,” she retorted, determined not to let him have the last word. “Parts of it are quite lush and green.”

“All I’ve seen is Edinburgh and the land surrounding it,” he responded, “but it wasn’t to my taste. I prefer our simple English meadows. They’re not quite so…wild and unpredictable.”

She flushed at his reference to her behavior last night. He was still convinced that she was an impostor, and now he was bent on exposing her publicly. Heaven help her.

“Haven’t been to Scotland myself,” Pollock interjected, determined to jump into the conversation. He cast Emily an oddly possessive glance. “What’s it like?”

“Yes,” Jordan said coolly, “do tell us what it’s like, Lady Emma.”

Emily went blank…until she caught sight of Lady Dundee, looking out one of the upstairs windows. Bits and pieces of what the countess had told her floated into her mind, spoken in the woman’s homesick tones. Lady Dundee had made her see Dundee Castle and its lands with perfect clarity. After all, what was a place but what one saw in it?

She gazed up at Jordan, but in her mind, she looked into Lady Dundee’s face, heard her wistful voice. “Scotland as a whole? I can’t begin to describe it all. But Dundee Castle in Campbell Glen, where we live, stands at the top of a grassy hill
with slopes as soft as silk that careen down toward a perfect, clear lake.”

“The Scottish call them ‘lochs,’” Jordan said dryly.

“Yes, of course. I didn’t think you’d know that, being English.” She went on. “Beyond the loch is a craggy mountain where we played as children. The wind and rain have carved the rocks into fantastical shapes, so that it looks like gargoyles watching over us when we swim.”

“Swim?” Pollock said. “Isn’t the water too cold for swimming?”

“Most of the year, yes.” She stared off in the distance, lost in the tales the countess had spun for her. “But in the middle of summer, it’s warm enough. Even Mama swims then. And when the sun sets behind the hill, reaching out its fingers of gold and crimson as if to clutch the earth close a bit longer, there’s no place lovelier.”

“It sounds beautiful,” a female voice said. “Like something out of a dream.”

Only then did Emily realize she’d drawn the rapt attention of several of the ladies.

Jordan rolled his eyes. “Yes, like something out of a dream. Or a fairy tale.”

Mindful of her audience, she said, “The Scottish who live around Campbell Glen do claim that fairies live in the forests beyond Dundee Castle.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “If you venture into the woods at night, you can see them, like a thousand fireflies, swirling in circles with their tiny, gossamer wings.”

When Jordan snorted, the women glared at him, then moved their chairs closer to her. “Do tell us more. You’ve
seen
the fairies?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” The general sigh of disappointment led her to add, “But I’ve seen traces of
them, of course. Circles in the grass on the hillside.”

“How lovely,” a young woman gushed. “I’ve always thought Scotland the most romantic place.”

“Which only demonstrates that you’ve been reading too many far-fetched tales by that idiot Walter Scott,” Jordan said.

“Have you no romantic feeling in you?” the woman retorted. “Can’t you see how such poetry and stories enrich the soul?”

“Yes,” Emily said mischievously, “have you no romantic feeling in you, Lord Blackmore?”

“Blackmore doesn’t have feelings at all, much less romantic ones.” Pollock lounged back in his flimsy wooden chair. “He doesn’t even believe in love. Just last night, he told me love was a fickle emotion for fools to indulge in. Ladies, you see before you a man incapable of romantic feeling.”

Emily’s gaze shot to Jordan.

“Pollock has caught me out, I’m afraid.” Jordan’s voice was as chilly and black as a coal cellar in winter. “I don’t waste time on poetry and ‘romantic feeling’ and such nonsense. As for love, it’s a luxury I can’t afford. I’m much too busy to waste time on spurious emotions.”

“Then your life must be dreary indeed,” Emily said sincerely. “Life is worth nothing without such luxuries. I pity anyone who has no time for them.”

His eyes narrowed to slits, yet she didn’t regret her words. Someone should have said them to him long ago. He shouldn’t go through life believing himself above the very human emotions of his fellow men and women. No wonder he had a reputation for coldness, for being completely controlled.

Every eye was on the two of them now, but Emily ignored their audience, assailed by a profound curiosity to know what had shaped him into this
ice figure. It must have been something very tragic. Or perhaps he was just the rare creature born without the urge to love. If so, she pitied him even more.