The Stolen Bride (30 page)

They were superb legs.

Well, what did she expect? He was doubtless addicted to hunting, which developed the legs wonderfully.

What on earth was she doing even thinking such a thing? Hoping her bonnet also concealed her flaming cheeks, Emily hastily fixed her gaze upon the road ahead.

“In our circumstances,” the man drawled, “are introductions not in order? I promise on my honor not to encroach. You know my name. May I not know yours?”

“Grantwich,” said Emily flatly, trying for chilly dignity, which is very hard to achieve when limping and clinging to a man’s arm. “Miss Grantwich.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Grantwich,” he said with audible insincerity. “And are you a resident of Melton Mowbray?”

“I reside nearby,” Emily replied discouragingly.

“At Grantwich Hall, perhaps?” he queried.

Startled, Emily looked up at him—which involved a sinuous contortion of her neck. How had she never realized before that a deep-brimmed bonnet forced a lady into coquettish movements if she wished to see the face of a tall gentleman with whom she walked?

A slight glint in his cynical eyes showed he was familiar with the fact. “Came across the name somewhere,” he said, “and it seemed likely. You must consider yourself fortunate, Miss Grantwich, to live in the heart of the Shires.”

Emily focused again on the road. “On the contrary, sir, the recent passion for hunting is very disruptive. As I have no taste for the chase, I get no benefit from the hullabaloo and a great deal of bother from the hunt charging across our land.”

“I’ll go odds your father and brothers don’t agree,” he remarked.

Maliciously she said, “As my father is an invalid and my brother has been missing in action for four months, I think their interest in hunting down foxes is limited.” Emily was immediately ashamed of herself. His arrogance was no excuse for her to be positively catty.

She swiveled her head up again and saw a trace of disdain that she knew she deserved. Quickly she said, “I do apologize. There’s nothing civilized you can say to such an announcement, is there? I can only excuse myself as being out of sorts after...” Emily found she could not think of a way to describe the recent contretemps.

His lips twitched with what appeared to be genuine amusement. “After being barreled into,” he offered. “Screeched at by a lady of obviously loose morals, and drowned in revolting
Poudre de Violettes?
A powerful excuse for any incivility, I assure you.”

He stopped walking and without asking permission adjusted her bonnet so it sat farther back on her head and at an angle that she feared had to be jaunty. It did, however, allow her to look at him without danger of a crick in her neck.

It was done without the slightest show of consciousness on his part that he might be being bold.

As they resumed walking, he said in a far more friendly tone, “I offer you my condolences on the misfortunes that have befallen your family, Miss Grantwich. Is there hope that your brother is perhaps a prisoner?”

Flustered and even alarmed, Emily grasped a serious topic with relief. “There is hope, yes. Marcus was a great admirer of Sir John Moore, you see, and when he died, nothing would do but for my brother to join Sir John’s regiment. It has been a cause of anxiety, as he is my only brother, but he has always enjoyed a charmed life. Even as a boy, he would escape injury in the most amazing situations. He once fell off the roof of Grantwich Hall and contrived to land in the shrubbery and merely suffer a broken collarbone.”

She was babbling, which was very unlike her.

Her listener, however, looked genuinely sympathetic. “There certainly do seem to be people favored with good fortune. I knew a man once who was the only survivor of a terrible shipwreck. There seemed no reason for it other than the favor of the gods.”

“And yet such gods are notoriously fickle,” said Emily. “I am beginning to fear that we are irrational to cling to hope. But if Marcus is dead—” She broke off. She really shouldn’t be discussing her family’s business with a stranger.

“I assume the estate is entailed,” he said. Then after a pause he asked, “Felix Grantwich?”

Emily could tell from his tone he knew her disreputable cousin. She nodded.

“You have my commiserations once more,” he said drily.

Emily felt she should object to such rudeness, but his sentiments were completely in accord with her own on this subject. “All will be well,” she said, “if Marcus returns home safe. We hope that he has been taken prisoner, but even so, we hear such horrid tales of the way we treat French prisoners of war, and I cannot believe our enemies are any more gentle. The death rate on the hulks from disease is terrible, I believe.”

“I fear so. But the war is surely drawing to its close, Miss Grantwich. Napoleon has never recovered from his disastrous foray into Russia, and now for the first time all Europe is allied against him. Wellington has mopped up the Peninsula and is already on French soil. Surrender will soon be inevitable. Then you can expect your brother home.”

If he lives, Emily added silently. She was surprised, however, to be offered rational hope by this chance-met stranger, but not too surprised to be grateful. She wondered if she could convey this feeling of optimism to her bitter father and to Marcus’s affianced bride, Margaret Marshalswick.

They had arrived at the George. She turned and offered her hand, able to say with sincerity, “Thank you, Mr. Verderan.”

There was a courteous curve to his fine lips as he touched his fingers to hers, but the overall impression of his features was world-weary cynicism. She remembered that when she had first seen his face, while he was still amused by his inamorata’s antics, he had seemed somehow younger. It was a shame that he now looked so jaded.

Emily could not imagine why her whirling mind was throwing up such intimate notions about a stranger.

“Are you sure you can manage from here?” he asked as she hesitated. “I am willing to carry you over the threshold if it is necessary.”

Emily could feel herself color. “No,” she said quickly. “I mean, yes, I can manage. I...” She took a grip on herself. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Verderan,” she said, and turned to limp into the inn.

She heard him say, “The worst of it is I gave her this dratted powder. There’s a lesson to be learned in it somewhere.” His tone was full of wry humor.

Emily glanced back at him, able at last to see him clearly head to toe.

Sleek, elegant, beautiful as a proud thoroughbred, he was also dusted silvery mauve from his curly beaver to his gleaming black boots and stunk of the cloying perfume. Following his lead, she’d walked through the streets of Melton in the same state without a thought for the spectacle they must have presented.

Suddenly his lips curved in a devastating, conspiratorial smile, and he winked.

Emily found herself mirroring it and on the verge of a giggle. She bit her lip to suppress such wanton weakness and hurried into the inn.

 

Piers Verderan looked down at himself and shook his head. He supposed all his clothes would have to be thrown out. Served him right for giving in to Violet Vane’s persistent pursuit, but she could be beguiling, and Melton was damned dull with the hunting season not yet properly under way.

As he turned toward Burton Road, he reflected that a more cautious man would probably have delayed telling her a night of passion did not elevate her to the position of
maitress en
titre, but caution had never been in his nature, and she’d begun to bore him with her importunities. When she’d thrown a tantrum merely because he’d had a kind word for that little protégée she had brought with her, he’d lost patience with it all. It had almost been worth it just for the show.

On the whole, he admired an uninhibited woman, and one thing about Violet Vane, she was not inhibited, particularly in her rages.

Not like little Miss Grantwich. It was hard to imagine her even raising her voice. What was she at Grantwich Hall, the poor relation?

As he strolled through the increasingly busy town, he was bemused to find thoughts of Miss Grantwich dancing through his mind. Plain, he’d thought at first, but hers was a face that grew on one. It was an unremarkable oval with a determined chin and fine-textured skin. Her eyes were brown with pleasantly dark lashes, but they were not large or “speaking.” Her hair was an ordinary brown, wavy rather than curly, and she wore it in a very prosaic knot at the back.

It was her expressiveness that marked her out. When flustered she became quite fetching—it could tempt a man to fluster her often. When annoyed, the very firmness of her lips and chin had its own appeal. But when she smiled, ah, when she smiled, it lit up her whole face. Hers was a wide, generous smile that shone through her skin and sparkled in her eyes....

Verderan realized he had reached Burton Street and had spent the journey in contemplation of a plain country miss.

As he entered the most prized address in Melton Mowbray—the Melton Club, commonly called the Old Club—he muttered,
“Poudre de Violettes
must addle the brain.”

Jo Beverley
is widely regarded as one of the most talented romance writers today. She is a
New York Times
bestselling author, a five-time winner of Romance Writers of America’s cherished RITA Award, and one of only a handful of members of the RWA Hall of Fame. She has also twice received the
Romantic Times
Career Achievement Award. She has two grown sons and lives with her husband in England. You can visit her Web site at
www.jobev.com
.