Teresa Medeiros (43 page)

He smoothed back her curls and tenderly kissed her brow before climbing out of the bed. When she moaned a protest, he slid a pillow into the hollow his body had left. She pulled it into her embrace and tucked it under her chin, sighing in content.

Stepping over the carnage from the previous night’s mishap, he dressed quickly, fearful his resolve to go might weaken. He wondered what his ever-so-proper servants would do if he simply jerked the tasseled cord hanging from the ceiling and ordered eggs and kippers in bed for him and his ward. He grinned at the thought.

His smile faded as he opened the door to find his mother leaning with arms crossed against the opposite wall.

Chapter 30
 

O
livia Connor was no less intimidating in dressing gown and slippers than she was armored in a full ball gown and bustle. Justin reached behind him and pulled Emily’s door shut.

He faced his mother squarely, trying to ignore the flush he could feel creeping up over his cheekbones. He forced a wry smile. “Why do I feel like I’m six years old and I’ve been caught dipping into Gracie’s cookie jar?”

Her steely gaze raked him, taking in his unbuttoned shirt, the rumpled folds of his trousers. “It seems you’ve been caught dipping into much more than that.”

Summoning the remnants of his grace, he leaned against the door and crossed his arms, mirroring her posture deliberately. “Guilty as charged. So what are you going to do? Disinherit me again?”

“Have you forgotten? You’re the duke now. I can’t disinherit you. But you may pack me off to a dower house if you desire.”

“Ah, but that would imply there was another duchess waiting in the wings.”

She nodded toward the door. “Isn’t there?”

Justin raked a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling less six than sixty. “I’m afraid not.”

“More’s the pity. The two of you would make pretty children together.” She lifted an eyebrow. “That is, if you haven’t already.”

A muffled oath exploded from his lips. He strode a few paces away and stood with hands on hips, his back to her. A bitterness he’d pushed deep down clawed its way to the surface. “You were never there for me before, Mother. What makes you think I’d confide in you now?”

Her voice was devoid of self-pity. “I don’t think you will. I know what I was. A good wife and a wretched mother.”

Justin swung around, surprised by her blunt confession.

“Did you ever ask yourself why your father resented you so much?” she asked.

He stared at the carpet. “Every day. And I always came up with the same answer. There was something wrong with me.”

She shook her head. “There was something
right
with you. Something so shining and bright that it blinded him with jealousy.” He stared at her disbelievingly. “Frank Connor wasn’t always the man you knew. He didn’t want the business or the title any more than you did. It was like a lead anchor around his neck, dragging him down. He longed to sail one of those graceful clippers right over the horizon and explore the world. But he didn’t have your guts. He didn’t have the courage to simply walk away.”

Justin stood awash in conflicting emotions as she moved toward him.

“Denying himself his dreams made your father a bitter, mean-spirited old man.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, filling his nostrils with the long-forgotten
comfort of lilac and camphor. “Don’t make the same mistake, son.”

Justin stood alone, staring at nothing, after his mother had gone. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it was time to bury the old ghosts and let David rest in peace at last. Perhaps the time had come for him and Emily to seize not only the day, but the morrow as well.

Emily handed the waiting footman her cloak as she and Lily entered the foyer of the Comtesse Guermond’s sumptuous apartments. The drawing room beyond had been decorated in the Greek Revival style favored over a century ago. Graceful Doric columns mushroomed from polished bases. A lethargic quartet was playing in the corner. Emily’s scalloped train swept the marble floor as they were ushered into the chattering fray.

The chandeliers sparkled beneath the kiss of winter sunlight streaming through the casement windows. After being smothered in the Gothic gloom of Grymwilde for so long, Emily found the effect dazzling.

As Lily wandered off with a friend, Emily stole a glance behind her, hoping to catch a glimpse of Justin entering. He had ridden alongside their carriage on a handsome bay—a striking sight in his top hat and greatcoat. He had seemed strangely excited all day, his golden eyes warmed by more than their usual glow. The afternoon would be sweet torment indeed. They didn’t dare even dance together for fear of revealing themselves. But later, Emily thought, in the still, sweet hours of the night, while the rest of the world slept, their patience would be rewarded. Her cheeks warmed at the thought. Who would have ever dreamed she would make such a pudding of herself over a man? Especially that man.

“Emily, oh, Emily darling, is that you?” She cringed at the sound of Cecille’s voice. Her old nemesis caught her in a girlish embrace. “I promised Henry you’d be here. He’s simply drooling for a dance.”

Emily tried to wiggle free. “I don’t chink so. I’m afraid my card is full.”

“How can it be full? You just got here. Don’t move an inch and I’ll go fetch him.”

As soon as Cecille trotted out of sight, Emily ducked into a safe corner and began to madly scribble fictional names on her dance card.

“I say, gel, haven’t we met?”

She jerked her head around to find a bloodshot eye studying her through a cracked quizzing glass. A silent sigh of dread escaped her.

“I fear you are mistaken, sir.” She edged away from the portly fellow.

“I’d stake my life on it,” he boomed out. “You look frightfully familiar.” His lascivious gaze lowered to the ruched silk of her bodice. “Perhaps we met at the earl’s card party last week?”

“I think not.” To her relief, Emily saw Justin approaching through the crowd. An impish smile transformed her face as she threw her arms around the gentleman’s neck. “Why, Uncle George!” She beckoned to Justin and called out in a voice that carried through the entire room, “Look, Your Grace, it’s one of my father’s oldest friends—my dear old uncle George! You remember him, don’t you? He used to so love to dandle me on his knee.”

Justin may not have remembered, but Uncle George was beginning to. He went pale in her choke hold as the Duke of Winthrop parted the crowd with deadly grace. Several people were beginning to stare.

“No, no, gel,” he stammered. “I’m sorry. You’ve got it all wrong. I don’t know anyone named George. My name is Harry. I mean Alfred.”

“Surely you jest!” Emily cried as Justin stopped in front of them. “Why, the resemblance is uncanny.” She grasped his fat cheeks, turning his face for Justin’s perusal. “He’s the very image of George, isn’t he, Your Grace?”

Only too aware of her adventures in the bordello, Justin stroked his chin. “Positively eerie. Are you sure you don’t have a twin somewhere, my good man?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Perhaps I do. My mum was never too clear on the matter. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must be going.” Uncle George-Harry-Alfred awkwardly extracted himself from Emily’s embrace and fled toward the foyer, racing past the puzzled footman holding out his greatcoat and cane.

Laughter bubbled from Emily’s throat. The heat of Justin’s gaze warmed her like a touch. Her heart did a clumsy somersault.

“You look lovely,” he said.

She inclined her head, suddenly shy. It was hard to equate this staid, elegant gentleman with the playful satyr who loved her until dawn each night. “So do you.”

“Will you dance with me?” he asked, his eyes somber.

“What will they think?” For the first time in her life Emily feared the opinions of others. She had Justin’s reputation to consider now.

“They’ll think the rich, mad duke has finally found a woman daft enough to marry him.”

Emily turned away from him, choking on emotion. Justin wanted her. Not just for a few hours of stolen pleasure in the night. For always. “But the scandal,” she whispered. “You’re my guardian. I’ve been living beneath your roof for over a month. They’ll never accept us.”

“Then they can all go to hell and I can take my bride to New Zealand for a Maori wedding.” He waited for a long beat of silence. “What do you say? Will Cecille forgive us if we announce our engagement at her fête?”

Emily swung around, smiling through a blur of tears. “She forgave me for stuffing the dead mouse in her boot, didn’t she?”

Justin folded her into his arms, ignoring the curious stares. “Stop that, now. Penfeld would never forgive you for soaking all the starch out of my lapels.” He held his
handkerchief to her nose. “There now. Blow. That’s a good girl. Feel better?” At her nod, he said, “Come on, then. You’ve faced down cannibals and dragons. Surely a few matrons and snobbish swells don’t scare you.” Emily nodded again, this time more violently. “Well, if you must know, they scare me too, but there’s no help for it. If they get mean, I’ll send for my mother to defend us.”

As he led her toward the open floor where people were dancing, Emily shyly clutched his sleeve. No one appeared to notice them. All eyes had turned to a new arrival from the foyer. A curious murmur rippled through the drawing room.

As the crowd parted to reveal the object of their fascination, Emily groaned aloud. “Not again. Do the countess and Mrs. Rose always travel in the same social circles?”

Justin’s arm went rigid beneath her hand. She looked up. His face had gone stark white, drained of the last vestiges of tan.

She squeezed his arm, alarmed. “What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

He shook her hand away and stood in utter stillness, his face drawn into a wary mask over his bones. Emily searched the room for a clue, but all she saw was the debonair stranger she had met in the park and the bordello charming his way through the guests. Impeccably attired as always, he drifted from group to group, tossing off a smile here, a witty remark there. A fluted champagne glass dangled from his elegant fingers as if he’d been born with it. Admiring glances followed his path.

“Why, he’s as handsome as everyone says, isn’t he?” Emily jumped as Cecille popped up behind them. Her stage whisper would have startled a deaf person. “All the girls are in a swoon over him. He’s Italian, and you know what they say about Italian men.” She giggled slyly. “And a millionaire at that. They say he made his fortune in gold.”

As he paused near them to kiss a simpering beauty’s
hand, Cecille saw her chance. She darted out, grabbed his arm, and dragged him over. Justin and the stranger stood eye to eye.

Cecille began, “Your Grace and Emily, I should love to introduce you to—”

“Hello, Justin,” the stranger interrupted. His voice was as smooth as cognac and lightly accented, as Emily had remembered. Smiling, he lifted his glass and took a lazy swallow of champagne.

“Hello, Nicky,” Justin replied. Then he drew back his fist and smashed it into the stranger’s smug face, sending him reeling into the column behind him.

Spattered by champagne, Cecille finished in a daze. “—Mama’s new and dear friend, Mr. Nicholas Saleri.”

Chapter 31
 

E
mily swayed. Cecille caught her before she could fall. The crowd stood in silent shock.

Nicholas sat up, bracing his back against the column. Blood spattered his immaculate shirtfront and trickled from a corner of his mouth. A lank strand of ebony hair dangled over his eyes. He smoothed it back, regaining his composure quickly.

Waving away the footmen who rushed to assist him, he struggled to his feet. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, too, Justin.”

Weaving slightly, he bowed and brought Emily’s limp hand to his lips. “Always a delight, Miss Scarborough. You have the look of your father about your eyes.”

Emily stared at her hand, dazed. His blood smeared her knuckles. She tried vainly to wipe it away on her skirt, leaving an ugly stain.