Rhyme and Reason (22 page)

Even with a score of people in the room, it did not seem crowded. Emily was amazed to see Valeria and Mr. Simpkins amid the guests. She had not guessed they would be joining Damon here. Why had Valeria said nothing of this invitation?

Before Emily could speak to them and ease her curiosity, Papa motioned for her to join him and Miriam. “Look at this glorious mural!” he said as she walked to them. “
This
is what we shall have some day.”

“When you are victorious at the card table?”

His smile wavered at the bitterness she had not been able to silence. When Miriam chided her, Emily sighed and said, “Forgive me. I am fatigued after the day’s long ride.”

“If you had joined us in the carriage instead of riding cross-country like a hoyden,” Papa reprimanded gently, “you would be more of a mind to converse tonight.” He turned as footsteps approached.

Emily’s spirits sank further when André appeared in the doorway. The man seemed incapable of simply walking into a room. He had to make an entrance as if he were taking a cue on stage. As well he should, she reminded herself. He was playing a rôle with every breath.

Miriam rushed to him, her pink silk skirts bouncing to reveal the openwork on her white stockings. “Do join us, André.”

Stiffening, Emily saw a flash of disquiet in Papa’s eyes before his smile returned. She was surprised. If Papa did not favor a friendship between Miriam and this fake marquis, Emily wished he would halt it.

“What a charming scene
en famille,
” André said, his gushing tone making every word seem even more insincere.

Or it might be nothing more than her ears hearing the truth, Emily decided. She took Miriam’s hand. “Come with me. I want to give Valeria a scold for not telling me she was joining us here.”

“Emily—”

“Do come.”

When Miriam opened her mouth to protest, André kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Go,
ma chérie
, and greet your
amis
. That will give me and your
père
a chance to speak of subjects that would bring your feminine ears ennui.”

Emily had not thought she could dislike the fake marquis more, but she had been wrong. How dare he act as if her sister had no more wit than a slowtop! Linking her arm through Miriam’s, she tugged her sister across the room.

“Emily, you were most uncivil to André,” Miriam chided.

“Me?” She shook her head. “If you wish to let him insult you, I should leave you to fry in your own grease.”

“He didn’t mean to be a sad vulgar. He is French.”

“Which should make his manners more polished, not less.”

“You look for fault in him in every way you can.”

“It does not take much looking.”

“Emily!”

“Emily!” cried Valeria at the same time. Rushing to them, her gown as ruddy as the sun at dawn, she hugged Emily and Miriam at the same time. “I am so glad to see you. I feared you had become lost in this draughty mausoleum.” She gave a genteel shudder as she turned to include Mr. Simpkins in the conversation. “Who would have guessed Beelzebub’s Paradise would look like this? Not a fitting place for a demon, is it?”

“That is no way to speak of our host,” Mr. Simpkins said quietly.

Emily fought to hide her shock. She had never heard him disagree openly with Valeria. Seeing amazement on Miriam’s face and a softening in her smile, Emily wondered if her sister might have perceived something in Graham Simpkins that others had missed.

“Mr. Simpkins,” Emily asked, “will you and Valeria join Miriam and me in admiring the murals?”

“Delighted, I am sure.” He bowed toward her and nearly upset himself on his nose. His fingers fumbled as he reached out.

Before he could touch Miriam’s hand, if that, indeed, had been his intent, André grasped it. The
faux
marquis pressed it to his sleeve before flashing Mr. Simpkins a superior smile.

“Lady Fanning,” he gushed, “it is ever a pleasure to see you. I should have guessed
ma chére
Miriam would rush to your side to share with you all the tidbits of luscious conversation we enjoyed en route to this austere place.” His nose wrinkled to reveal his opinions of Wentworth Hall.

Emily said coolly, “Mr. Simpkins was about to escort us to the murals.”

“He is,” the marquis said, his eyes as cold as two unlit coals, “without question, welcome to join us in a tour of the
tableaux
.” He took a step away, pausing when Miriam did not follow like a well-trained pup. “Miriam,
ma chérie
?”

Emily held her breath as she watched her sister stare at Mr. Simpkins, who, for once, seemed to be returning her gaze. She resisted the yearning to put her hands on Mr. Simpkins’s shoulders and give him a shove toward Miriam. Was the man half blind that he could not see how Miriam eyed him with longing? Mr. Simpkins need do no more than give Miriam the least hope that a relationship was possible, and her sister would toss aside the false poet like a child throwing away a broken stick.

When Mr. Simpkins mumbled something and turned to Valeria, Emily was certain she could hear her sister’s heart shatter. Miriam said nothing as she went with André toward the far wall. Emily wanted to shake some sense into Graham Simpkins. Could he not see how much Miriam wanted his admiration?

She had no chance to put her thoughts into words or action, for Damon strode into the room. He was once again the well-dressed man who would draw every feminine eye in Town. His dark coat was without a spot of lint, and his silver breeches glittered in the light from the sconces on the wall. When she heard him whistling, she was astounded. She could not have imagined him being so light of spirit in Town.

“Where are the rest of our friends?” he asked to no one in particular.

From across the room, she heard Papa answer. “Mayhap they are gathering their thoughts before the challenge of the evening’s entertainment begins.”

When he saw Emily tense, Damon scowled. Dash it! Did Talcott think of nothing save his flats? The man still owed him a century or two from their last encounter at the card table.

His gaze returned to Emily. By Jove, he enjoyed the chance to admire her, even when she was as stiff as a corpse. He preferred her soft and willing in his arms. Looking past her, he saw a straggling, weak sunbeam glittering on the rain left by the swiftly moving storm. Twilight soon would descend on Wentworth Hall, but there still might be time to share with her the secret that drew him back to this tumbledown collection of stones whenever he could put business in London behind him.

As he walked toward her, drawn to her as surely as lightning was lured to the peaks of the house, he tossed over his shoulder, “Resting is not necessary, Talcott, for the entertainment here is simple and revolves around the sun’s rising and setting.” He folded Emily’s fingers between his palms and smiled when they softened against him like a newly burst petal. “If you wish, my friends,” he added, raising his voice, “lemonade is waiting you on the terrace before we enjoy an early dinner.”

“Lemonade?” scoffed de la Cour.

Although tempted to teach the frog poet some manners with his bunch of fives, Damon said only, “I trust you will find the brandy there better suited to your taste, de la Cour.”

His guests drifted toward the door leading to the terrace that had been rebuilt only the summer before, but he tightened his grip on Emily’s hands as she turned to follow. She looked up at him with a question in her sapphire eyes.

“Wait a moment,” he murmured. “If the rest of them are entertained, I think it is time for you to see my most precious secret here at Wentworth Hall.”

A faint rosy glow brushed her cheeks. “Damon, I should remain with Miriam.”

“Your sister has your father to watch over her, and we shall be thoroughly chaperoned as well, I assure you.”

“Who?”

“Come, and you shall see.”

For a moment, she hesitated, then she nodded. At her unspoken trust, which no one had offered him in longer than he could recall, something inside him leaped like a stag crossing the leas. He offered his arm, and she let him lead her to another door.

He wondered if she suspected how he would as lief sweep her into his arms and up the stairs, far from the others. Did she have any idea what power those exotic eyes had on him? Or how he was fascinated by the soft warmth of her whisper as she agreed to come with him? Surely she must know the magic spell just the touch of her fingers sent swirling about him, an enchantment that stole all thoughts but of her from his head. Thoughts of giving his fingers free license to roam about the slender curves that were emphasized so beguilingly by her simple gown. Thoughts of perusing her sweet body with the fervor of opening a long-awaited book, savoring each new revelation, sampling each pleasure. Thoughts of bringing her to the bedroom that belonged to the lord of Wentworth Hall, seeking every rapture and unleashing every ecstasy until her softness merged with him in the sweetest rhythms of love.

He silenced the groan as he forced the enticing, excruciating fantasy from his head. Emily Talcott would be aghast to discover the course of his thoughts. Or would she?

“Where are we going?” she asked quietly.

He noted the tremor in her voice. Mayhap her mind was enmeshed in images not so different from those plaguing him, although he had to own, if such thoughts were a plague, he wished never to recover.

“Patience,” he replied to her as much as to himself. He motioned to a serving lass who was waiting by the stairs. Taking the bonnet she held out, he handed it to Emily. “Your abigail parted with this reluctantly.”

She smiled. “Kilmartin takes her duties very seriously.”

“Something I suspect she learned from her mistress.” When he saw her smile waver, he hurried to say, “A most admirable trait.”

“You make it sound quite the opposite.”

“How can you say that when you see what obligations I have saddled myself with?”

“This beautiful house?”

“You think it’s beautiful?”

“Oh, yes!”

He could not doubt her sincerity as they walked out a side door and onto the broken stone of what once had been a fine walkway leading into the garden. The storm had washed away the day’s heat and left raindrops glittering on the grass. “It is in need of much work.”

“A work in progress is still a thing of beauty.” She tied her bonnet in place, but tipped it so he could see past the lacy brim to her smile. “In fact, sometimes it is more beautiful, because one can imagine how it will become even more perfect.”

“Like a half-remembered dream?”

Her eyes twinkled with merriment. “Damon, you have the devil’s own way with words.”

“As you do.” He put his hand over hers on his arm as he noted how she tensed. Resisting the temptation to ask the question burning on his tongue, he said, “You have planted the seed of an idea in my mind, and I intend to let it grow into something lovely while I continue my work on Wentworth Hall.”

“You do have a lot of work ahead of you.”

Damon chuckled as he followed her gaze back toward the house which had been old centuries ago. The familiar, comfortable sensation of being just exactly where he should be filled him. The ancestors of Wentworths had held this land even before the Conquest, and some undefinable tether drew him back here again and again to infuse him with life. If not for his businesses in London …

If not for his businesses in London, he would not have had the chance to meet Emily and sample her lips. A craving tore through him like a whetted blade. He wanted to push aside the smothering mantle of respectability and taste those lips again. Right now, right here where anyone might see.

“M’lord?” called a cheerful voice.

Feeling anything but cheerful at the interruption, Damon forced a smile for the lanky man striding around the wall of hedge at the end of the path. No one would ever call Sanders handsome, for the man was ginger-hackled with freckles pocking his face. Not even a straw hat and a turned-up collar could lessen the scarlet left by his long hours in the sun. From the first hour of planting until winter lessened his time in the sun, Sanders looked like a snake peeling off its skin.

“I thought you’d be out to check our progress before this,” Sanders continued in his gusty shout. He paused in mid-step and tipped the brim of his hat. “Sorry, miss. Didn’t see you.”

Damon smiled as his gardener glanced at him with a dozen questions flying out of his eyes like birds being flushed from the bushes. “Emily, this is Wentworth Hall’s gardener, Sanders.” He squeezed her hand before adding, “Sanders, Miss Emily Talcott from London.”

“Lor’!” gasped the man.

Emily said, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sanders.”

“Just Sanders, miss. Don’t go for titles here at Wentworth Hall, do we, m’lord?”

Biting her lip to keep from smiling at the man’s contradictory words, she said, “Just Sanders it shall be.”

“Sanders,” Damon said, “we are ready to see what you have to show us.”

“Aye, m’lord.” He tipped his wide-brimmed hat to her again and walked back along the path. He paused only to throw a grin over his shoulder before disappearing within the shadows of a hedge.

“Come along.” Damon tugged on her arm. “Sanders will be distressed if we delay.”

She laughed. “Can I hope that this finally is the surprise you have teased me about?”

“You shall see it was worth your endearing curiosity.”

When they came around the corner, Emily gasped. She heard Damon’s low chuckle as she walked toward the bushes that had been hidden behind the hedge. She reached out to touch the outlines of a dragon that must be twice the length of a coach and four and nearly as tall. Beyond the reclining dragon, a collection of what might be chess pieces were growing in different shades of green. She could not keep from laughing when she saw what appeared to be Mother Goose’s cow jumping over a boxwood moon.

“Do you like it?” Damon asked.

“It is incredible!” she whispered, afraid if she spoke louder the magic would vanish.

“It will be.”

“It is now!” she insisted. When she saw his grin, she looked at the shrubs again. “Is this your work, Damon?”