The Heir and the Spare (6 page)

“Promise me it won’t happen again. Promise to resist if I try,” he said. She pulled back, but he didn’t let her go. Emilia looked into his eyes and looked at the way his gaze was settled on her. She may be an innocent, but her instincts shouted that he did not mean it. He could not possibly mean it and still look at her, at her mouth, in the manner that he did.

Devon was an ass. A cad. A hundred horrible things. In his efforts to escape the ball unnoticed, Devon had seen his brother leaving as well. Devon had returned to the ballroom and seen Emilia dancing with some sorry excuse for a man. The next thing he knew he was interrupting them, scaring off her dance partner and claiming her for the rest of the waltz, and neglecting to introduce himself.

All he knew was that he wanted her, and yet he didn’t
want
to want her. Most of all, he didn’t want his brother to have her. And so he apologized for a kiss that he was not really sorry for. And he made her promise that it would never happen again, even though he could not stop wanting it again. Chances were, she might kiss Phillip instead of him. But if he was an ass, and a cad, and a thousand awful things, he could turn her away from Phillip before Phillip could ruin her.

But he wouldn’t let her go just yet. Not until the conclusion of the waltz. She was certainly not going to speak to him for the remainder of it, because he was an ass, a cad, and a million horrible things. So he smiled at her, as he wanted to do, and pulled her just a little bit closer, as he
really
wanted to do. It was an exquisite sort of torment to have her in his arms for the second half of a waltz. To have her look up at him, eyes dark and unfathomable as the sea. And to know, all the while, that she thought he was someone else.

He cursed those sixty seconds, twenty-five years earlier, when Phillip had shoved his way out of the womb first. He cursed his twin for having everything and treating it all so carelessly. He cursed something inside him that blocked the truth from coming out. And he cursed the damnable layers of silk between his hand and her skin. He imagined that he could feel the soft heat of her bare skin beneath his palm. He wondered if London ballrooms were always this hot. He gazed down at her, wanting to memorize how she looked, because tomorrow he was leaving London. He would not be coming back.

Emilia was trying very hard to hate him. But the way he looked at her made it difficult. So did the wild beating of her heart. His firm and steady grasp on her, which felt almost possessive, distracted her.

She wanted him to take back his apology. She wanted him to waltz her out into the gardens. More, she wanted more. Of his kiss, of his touch. Almost as if he was reading her mind, or he shared the same desire, his hand move tantalizingly lower on her back. She felt a tingling sensation radiate throughout. Her body was a traitor.

One two three . . . one two three . . .
she battled the desire to be closer to him. His words echoed endlessly in her head:
Promise me it won’t happen again. Promise to resist if I try . . .

She was acutely aware of the small distance between their bodies. Now would be the time to stumble, to collapse even, if it meant she could brush against his chest, to touch the source of the heat that was slowly stealing over her. Once again, as if reading her mind, he pulled her even closer, so that falling was unnecessary.

He laughed softly, with his eyes still locked on hers.

“Why are you laughing?” she asked quietly.

“This is just perfect,” he murmured, his lips so close to her ear that she could feel his breath on her skin.

“Yes,” she whispered, lying. Almost. It was almost perfect.

“Hmmph,” Lady Palmerston muttered to no one in particular as she watched Emilia dance with that scoundrel for the second time. The way he looked at her niece was a scandal in itself. She could already picture tomorrow’s gossip sheets, predicting a betrothal announcement within the week. There was clearly something between them . . . something that had not been present earlier this evening. Lady Palmerston frowned, puzzling over the change in Lord Phillip. She could never be accused of standing in the path of true love, but something just did not seem right to her. Good Lord, this chaperoning was work. It seemed as if she would actually have to keep an eye on those two.

Calling
hours had quite nearly concluded when Phillip arrived with another bouquet of red roses. The thoughtful gesture soothed her a little bit after their confusing and slightly hurtful conversation the previous evening. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder why he would ask her to promise not to kiss him, and then bring her flowers.

“Did you enjoy the Maclesfield Ball?” Phillip asked, sitting beside her on the settee and leaving a seemingly vast amount of space between them. Perhaps, Emilia thought, if he were closer to her, then she would get that feeling again—the wild pulse and the dizziness that made life that much more thrilling.

“Oh yes, it was perfect,” she replied, recollecting that second waltz. “Did you enjoy it?” she asked, not necessarily meaning the entire evening, but that moment they had shared. Because it had been something, even if it had been tinged with the promise he had requested. Emilia raised her eyes to meet his, hoping to find a glimmer of passion, of recollection, even mere acknowledgment. He was examining his fingernails.

Emilia looked at her aunt, but she was immersed in her newspapers. No help there.

“I had an agreeable time as well,” he stated mechanically. Apparently his fingernails had passed inspection. “Are you enjoying your season so far? I imagine it is grander than anything similar in America.”

“London is quite a bit different from Philadelphia, where I am from. I wouldn’t say it was better,” Emilia said. “But I am having a lovely experience thus far even though I find myself a bit exhausted by it all. I often wish for an afternoon to curl up with a good book.”

“Ah, a bluestocking are you?” he asked, eyeing her, perhaps a touch suspiciously.

“I have been called that, I must admit. I can’t quite see anything wrong with it though,” she said defensively.

“Of course not,” he said dryly.

Not wishing to continue on that subject, Emilia could think of nothing to do but offer him tea, which he accepted. She managed to pour without incident, but as she turned to hand him the cup she saw that he was once again deeply fascinated by the state of his fingernails, which, as far she could tell, were in immaculate condition.

“Your tea,” she said.

“Right,” he said, reaching for it. Her fingers slipped, as they often did, except this time she couldn’t say it was entirely an accident. Steaming hot liquid splashed onto his pale breeches and obviously expensive boots.

“Bloody hell.” He jumped up, glaring at Emilia.

“Language, young man!” Lady Palmerston reprimanded, revealing that she was indeed paying attention.

“Oh, I am so sorry, Phillip. I never meant to—”

“Pardon me,” he said, recovering himself. “Accidents happen. It is no matter. However, if you will excuse me.” He bowed, and, turning back at the door, he said in a kinder tone, with something like a smile, “I shall call on you another time, Miss Highhart.”

Emilia slumped back onto the settee, giving no thought to her posture, and crossing her arms over her chest.
Hmmph.
His strange mixture of behavior, acting cold and hot and cold again, was simply infuriating.

He had seemed to not remember their kiss. But then he had said,
“It is not something a man forgets
.
”
And then this afternoon—the glimmer in his eyes was gone, and he made no attempt to close the space between them. Not like last night, when he pulled her closer and closer. He was maddening.

But how to explain her reaction to him? To be fair, it was just as confusing. Sometimes, like the second waltz last night, it was just so physical, so strong that she felt hot and bothered and raging with desire. And then at other times, like this afternoon, she just felt bothered.

“Precisely as I had suspected,” her aunt declared. “Had I wagered on this, I would have won.”

“What is it?” Emilia asked her aunt, who was still hidden behind a newspaper.

“ ‘London’s most notorious scoundrel has been lavishing his attention on a certain redheaded American debutant. During their second waltz at last evening’s Maclesfield Ball, the couple looked utterly in love. Odds are two-to-one in the betting books that a betrothal will be announced within the week,’ ” her aunt read.

“People are wagering on my marital status? When there are orphans in need of homes, and people starving in the streets! Do they not have anything better to do?”

“Apparently not,” Lady Palmerston said, turning back to her newspaper to keep reading. At that moment, if Emilia were to wager on her marital status, she would not bet in favor of a pending betrothal.

Phillip proceeded directly from Lady Palmerston’s drawing room to his residence to change out of his ruined breeches.

“Perhaps, my lord,” his valet Jeffries said, “you might court a female with more regard to your wardrobe.”

“I do not employ you for your opinions,” Phillip snapped, even though he silently agreed. He thought that the ruined breeches and the manner in which they were destroyed were symbolic of the very thing that was wrong with his life at the moment. His father was dying, and his wits were deteriorating at a faster pace than his body. This, combined with his father’s obsessive control over the estate, meant that things were not being taken care of as they ought to be. Which meant that their finances were dwindling at an alarming rate, which meant that Phillip had to
care
about the loss of an article of clothing. The indignity of it burned worse than the hot tea. It also meant that he had to marry, or more to the point, marry an heiress. Enter Miss Highhart.

He was certain that there were other heiresses who were far less clumsy. But with his reputation what it was, most young women were kept far away from him. Miss Highhart, in contrast, practically threw herself at him. Or, if the stories were true, fell into his arms. He really could not remember that night, but the accounts did seem plausible, so he believed it.

In a fresh ensemble, Phillip then proceeded to Whites. He was in desperate need of male company, a drink, and perhaps a round of cards. He did not want to think of courtship or tailor’s bills, of a marriage he needed that he did not want, or of the eventual death of his father, which would leave him his title and an ever dwindling fortune.

Arriving at his club, Phillip glanced around impatiently and saw Parkhurst slumped in a corner table with a drink in his chubby hand. On his way over, Phillip ordered a brandy from a passing waiter.

“How’s the courtship progressing?” Parkhurst asked. They had become friends at Eton, bonding over pranks and sports. At Oxford, they chased women, Phillip with more success, as he had better looks and a title. Phillip liked Parkhurst’s loyalty to him; Parkhurst liked Phillip’s shadow. But over time, something like a true friendship evolved.

“Well enough. I do believe the chit thinks herself in love with me. But damn, Lady Palmerston is a nuisance.”

“Isn’t she always. I bet she’s telling Miss Highhart all about your reputation. ‘Blacker than night.’ ” Phillip mimicked Lady Palmerston’s demanding voice and they both had a laugh over it.

“She is. Just the other night at the ball, when we were dancing, Miss Highhart brought up Italy, of all things. She might just as well have come out and asked me if my reputation is based on truth.”

“She knows about it, of course.”

“Clearly. But she doesn’t seem to care. And let us not forget that she is an heiress with a father on another continent.”

“She is a good-looking one, too,” Parkhurst added with a faraway look in his eyes.

“You think?” Phillip asked, grimacing as he took a large sip of the drink the waiter had just placed before him. “She’s not bad looking, but certainly not to my tastes. You know I prefer the tall, slender, fair ones. But it works out, you see, because if I am not attracted to her, then I am not tempted to do something to jeopardize the courtship.”

“You’ll have to bed her once she is your wife,” Parkhurst said, stating the obvious.

“Just until I get my heir and a spare,” Phillip said. Both men took long sips of their drinks, neither of them daring to bring up Phillip’s brother, who they had christened “the spare” in school. Devon had conveniently removed himself from Phillip’s life years ago, and they never spoke of him. It was easier to pretend he had never existed that way.

“So are you going to propose?” Parkhurst asked, uncomfortable with the silence. “Or am I going to have to find you in a compromising position and alert the ton?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“You could propose, and if your suit is rejected, then you compromise her.”

“That would be a good backup plan. And it would be a nice finale to my bachelor days.”

“Who are you kidding? Your bachelor days will continue whether you’re married or not.”

“I intend to be a faithful husband,” Phillip deadpanned.

They both burst out laughing at that one. Parkhurst choked on his drink, and Phillip smacked him between the shoulder blades, prompting him to spew brandy across the table. They laughed harder, ignoring the glares from the other gentlemen. They laughed until they were interrupted by Lord Fosbough slapping a sheet of paper down on their table.

Phillip glanced at it and raised one eyebrow in question.

“Any day now, Huntley,” Lord Fosbough uttered before stalking off.

Phillip picked it up, and after a quick scan saw that it was an IOU for 100 pounds.

“That’s odd. I don’t remember an occasion where I lost one hundred pounds to that fop.”

“Probably that night of the Carrington Ball,” Parkhurst supplied with a shrug.