First Season / Bride to Be (26 page)

The door opened and the duchess peeked around the panels. “Have you settled things between you?”

“It appears we are engaged,” replied Richard.

The duchess came into the room and gazed at Emily with a kind of despair. Then she visibly pulled herself together. “I'll send the notice off to the
Morning Post
at once.”

“I'm sure you will,” replied Richard contemptuously.

At that, Aunt Julia was every inch the duchess. She raked him with a look so haughty that Emily quailed.

This was supposed to be one of the happiest moments of her life, she thought. An accepted proposal should mean excitement about the future, tender emotions, and a flurry of felicitations. Instead she felt a sinking sensation and, when she looked at Richard, a tremor of tears. Should she take back her acceptance?

“You have subjected my niece to mortal danger,” said the duchess through her teeth. “You have very nearly destroyed her position in society. I don't believe you have anything to complain of.”

Richard looked as if he might explode. Emily braced herself for she didn't know what. But when he finally spoke, he said only, “As things appear to be settled, I will take my leave.”

Her aunt began a protest, but he didn't wait for it. He was striding out the door before she managed two words. “Well,” she said. “Well.”

Emily reminded herself that the engagement would only be temporary. She would find the assailant and end the attacks, and then she could show Richard that she was above all this sort of thing.

“It is not the match I hoped for,” said her aunt. She paused to grapple with this prodigious understatement. “But under the circumstances…” She swallowed as if something was caught in her throat. “Oh lud,” she murmured.

She was going to have to move fast, Emily thought. She had to find the solution before all this flew right out of control.

Richard sat in the library of his mother's house, his legs extended, a glass of brandy held loosely in one hand. It was past midnight. The household was asleep, and the streets outside had grown quiet. How he had dreamed, six months ago in the jungle, of sitting just so, of being home again. Now, he was, and he almost wished himself back in the wilderness.

Trapped into marriage. It was the last thing he would ever have expected. In fact, he couldn't quite believe it even now. Since he had first entered society, he had had the address—some had called it ruthlessness—to discourage any scheming females. A woman who approached him when he didn't wish it was soon sorry. Not that many pursued a man without fortune. It wasn't a record to be proud of, he acknowledged, but it had kept the question of marriage at bay.

Yet here he was. The notices would appear in the papers tomorrow. It was out of his control. He was as helpless as he had been when the storm swept over the ship and he'd been marooned two thousand miles from home.

He hated it.

Richard sipped his brandy and wondered if Emily Crane had somehow engineered the whole, from the moment of their meeting at her house. But after a moment, he shook his head. It was impossible. All that Emily had done was acquiesce. His mouth hardened; not that he forgave her for that. He would never forgive her.

He tossed off the rest of the brandy and refilled the glass. A toast to his coming nuptials, he thought bitterly. He had meant to marry, of course, someday. He owed it to his name. An heiress was clearly called for to repair his fortunes. But this had always figured as a distant event in his mind. He had never imagined such a humiliating position. Grimacing, Richard addressed himself to the brandy once more. It didn't matter what he wanted. He'd gotten Emily Crane.

He'd gotten the thing he had always hoped to avoid—one of those society marriages where husband and wife shared little more than a residence. They were common enough; and in the past, he had even found their vicissitudes amusing. But he had vainly imagined he could evade that fate, even with the illusory heiress.

Richard snorted in self-mockery. It seemed the old Warrington had had some mawkish romantic notions, despite his careless treatment of women. Perhaps this forced marriage was no more than he deserved.

He turned from this depressing subject to the other matter. He saw again the hooded driver, heard his carriage slam against the side of the curricle. Whatever he might say to Emily Crane, to himself he had to admit that the crash had been no accident. The man had meant to overturn them.

And someone had definitely tampered with the traces. When he examined them, they'd been cleanly cut through. The groom denied imbibing more than a mug of ale. He might be lying, of course; but his record was spotless, and the butler vouched for him. It seemed that someone had actually slipped him a drug and cut the reins.

Richard shifted in the chair, conscious of the aches and bruises throughout his body. He might easily have broken his neck in that spill. Had that really been the idea?

If so, then the other incidents that seemed to obsess Miss Crane might deserve his attention after all. He had dismissed her suspicions, seeing them as fanciful embroideries, female hysteria. Even though Emily had never shown a single sign of excessive sensibility, an inner voice pointed out.

Richard rubbed his forehead, as if that could ease the tension in his brain. He had not seen those other incidents. She might have been mistaken about the footpads, the urn. And they had seemed so trivial after all he'd been through. But taken together…

He sipped brandy. Why should anyone want him dead? He had no enemies on that scale. He had no money to tempt his heir. The idea that his cousin Donald, a wealthy man in his own right, would kill to assume a mere barony—it was ludicrous. There was absolutely no reason for him to be the victim of a murderous plot, and yet he was very near to conceding that he was.

The door latch clicked. Richard's muscles tightened reflexively. But when the panels swung open they revealed only his mother in a long white nightgown and mobcap, a paisley shawl swathing her shoulders. “Richard?”

He rose and went to her. “Yes, Mother. Why aren't you asleep?”

“I was just wondering if you were all right.”

A complex question. “Of course I am.”

“That awful accident.” She gestured vaguely. “So worrisome.”

“But I came out of it perfectly well. You should go back to bed. You look tired.” She did indeed, he thought. Tired, and older than her fifty years.

His mother sighed, looking around the room. “I hardly ever come here since Walter died. He always sat here.”

His stepfather had loved books, Richard remembered. He had indeed spent countless evenings in this room with a favorite volume and a glass of brandy. How strange that he had chosen the same retreat, when he had scarcely entered it during his stepfather's life. A pang of regret startled Richard, as unfamiliar as most of the feelings that plagued him lately.

His mother had wandered over to the bookshelves, scanning the spines as if they held some message for her.

“Would you like a little brandy?” Richard asked. “Perhaps it would help you sleep.”

“And this engagement,” she said, still gazing at the books, not appearing to have heard him. “It is so sudden.”

“Come and sit down, Mother.” He guided her to an armchair and poured out another glass of brandy before sitting opposite. They had been through all this earlier, but clearly it had not sufficed. He could hardly blame her.

“I didn't even know you liked the young lady. You've known her such a short time.”

“These things happen quickly sometimes,” he offered.

“And you say she has no fortune at all?”

He shook his head.

“I don't wish to interfere, but do you think that is really wise, Richard?”

It was the antithesis of wise. It was a disaster from start to finish.

His mother sampled her brandy. Gazing at the amber liquid with approval, she repeated the dose. “One can't live on love, you know. I thought your father was the most glorious young man on earth. But once we were married, it was…difficult.” She drank again.

“Mother, I—”

“My family opposed the match, but I wouldn't listen.” She looked straight at Richard, not the least bit befuddled.

He was amazed, and wholly at a loss. It seemed grossly unfair that he had to defend an engagement he had never wanted in the first place. “Miss Crane is…” He grimaced slightly, not knowing how to finish.

She waited. The silence stretched out uncomfortably. Finally, his mother sighed and sipped from her glass again. “It is a good family. The duchess has been very kind.”

Richard refrained from comment. He was picturing his mother's introduction to Alasdair Crane.

“If you need some help with setting up your own household—”

“I won't take your money,” interrupted Richard harshly.

She looked surprised. As well she might. He had never refused her money before.

“But how will you…?”

“I don't know! But I will manage it on my own.” Perhaps he would take Emily to live on his Somerset estates, he thought savagely. A few weeks of leaking roofs and rotting floorboards—not to mention the odd rat—would show her what sort of bargain she'd made. She'd demonstrated a remarkable fortitude, a treacherous inner voice commented. He stifled it by draining his glass and reaching for the decanter.

His mother looked a bit daunted. She seemed to cast about for a new subject. “Did I tell you Lydia is coming for a visit? I haven't seen her for an age. She's Walter's niece, you know.”

Lydia Farrell was one of the members of his stepfather's family who had received a legacy from him, Richard remembered. He had resented them fiercely at the time.

“Such a lovely girl.”

Lydia must be well into her thirties, Richard calculated. He thought she was married and had a couple of children. He hadn't seen her since he was a stripling. In his hazy recollection she was a skinny, silent creature with little to recommend her. “She lives in Wales?”

“I'm sure she must be heartily sick of the country. We'll show her a bit of town life.”

The idea appeared to please her, which was enough for Richard. His mother badly needed a diversion.

“I wonder if I can get her vouchers for Almack's.” She looked down into her glass, found it was empty, and held it out to him.

“You are going to be thoroughly foxed, Mother.”

She gave a trill of laughter. “Don't be silly. Just a sip more.”

She didn't laugh nearly as much as she used to, Richard thought as he poured it. He sent a silent thanks to his almost cousin Lydia. Though she didn't know it, her timing was impeccable.

* * *

Emily sat very straight as one of the footmen placed a filet of sole on her plate, then moved along to her uncle, who sat at the head of the long table. She never quite got used to the formality of dinner in a ducal household. A liveried servant was posted behind every chair. And there were always two full courses and a remove. Her aunt and uncle, and tonight her cousin George as well, seemed to take it for granted. They only remarked on the ceremony if something went amiss, or if a dish was particularly good.

“What did you do today, Emily?” inquired the duke.

She smiled at him. He tried to be kind, she knew, but he spoke to her as if she were twelve years old instead of almost twenty. “I rode in the park.”

He nodded as he sampled the sole. “Your horse is satisfactory?”

“Yes, thank you. You couldn't have found a better one for me.”

He acknowledged this benignly.

“She's a spanking rider,” said George.

“Slang, George,” said the duchess automatically.

Under other circumstance, Emily would have told them that her father had taught her to ride, and that he was ridiculously proud of her fine seat. But she wasn't to mention her parents. Under other circumstances, they might have been chatting about bride clothes and wedding arrangements, but that topic was equally awkward. In fact, she couldn't think of a single thing to say, even though she found the scrape of cutlery in the silence oppressive.

Thankfully, the gentlemen fell into a discussion of the duke's racing stables, which obviously interested them far more than anything Emily might have said. She finished her fish and sipped her wine. She had wished for more stability and convention, she remembered. She hadn't realized her wish would be granted with a vengeance.

The sound of raised voices drifted back from the front of the house, followed by a thud. A door slammed. Emily's aunt frowned and cocked her head at the noise.

An argument had broken out in the entry hall. There was another thud. “What on earth?” said the duchess. “John, go and see.”

One of the footmen bowed and went out. The apparent altercation continued.

“What is that?” asked Uncle Henry, apparently just noticing the disturbance.

His wife shrugged. “I have no idea. I've sent…”

“I damned well will interrupt them,” declared a masculine voice. “Get out of my way, idiot.”

“What in blazes?” George started to rise, but Emily was well ahead of him. “Papa!” she cried to the rakish figure who came striding into the room just then, and threw herself onto his chest.

Alasdair Crane embraced her with one arm while gazing around the room with a mixture of contempt and amusement. “Hullo, Julia,” he said. “Duke.”

“Alasdair,” responded the former in a faint voice. “Where is…?”

“Right here,” said Olivia Crane, walking gracefully into the dining room. “I beg your pardon for descending on you unannounced.”

Emily transferred her hug to her mother, who returned it full measure.

“Alasdair was in a hurry,” she added, looking amused.

“Hurry?” bellowed Alasdair. “Damned right I was in a hurry. What the devil have you been up to, Julia?”

The duchess raised her eyebrows and gave him a look that would have withered any member of society on the spot.

It had no effect whatsoever on her brother-in-law. “We send Emily to you, against my better judgment, mind.” He glowered at Olivia, who smiled serenely back. “And before she's been in London a month, we hear she's engaged.”

As she watched her aunt struggle with her temper, Emily was overwhelmed with relief and affection. She was incredibly glad to see her parents. Though it had been only a few weeks, she had missed them far more than she realized.

“Engaged!” roared Alasdair. “Without so much as a by-your-leave. To some fellow I've never heard of. It's insupportable.” He had stepped close to Aunt Julia and was looming over her in a way that she clearly disliked. “Nothing to say for yourself?”

“I see that your manners haven't improved, Alasdair,” was the cold reply.

“Not likely to, since I haven't any.”

“Indeed,” murmured the duchess.

“Are you Philip or George?” Emily's mother said.

Her cousin made a strangled noise in his throat. “Er, George.”

“I am your aunt. Your other aunt.”

“I know.”

His stunned expression seemed to amuse Olivia a good deal. “Hello, Henry,” she said to the duke.

The latter nodded. Of all his family, only he seemed unperturbed by the interruption.

“I
am
sorry for the sudden arrival, Julia,” she added. “But once we got the news, we had to come up, of course.”

“How did you get the news?” wondered her sister faintly.

A good question, Emily thought. She hadn't had time to write herself, and she was certain her aunt had not done so.

“Not from you,” exploded Alasdair. “Is there something havey cavey about this business? Because I'll have you know I won't stand for any…”

The duchess went pale. George choked again. Emily's mother seemed to be enjoying herself. “I still have a few friends in London,” she said. “Cynthia sent me the notice.”