Teresa Medeiros Page 24

  Cecille’s smile waned. “Does he now?”

  Emily swirled the spoon around her mouth, then slowly slid it out, licking away the stray drops of chowder with feline satisfaction. Herbert gaped, the pesky Zulus forgotten. Justin lifted his goblet and began to drink in long, convulsive swallows.

  “Especially after dinner each night.” Emily lowered her voice to a sultry whisper. The little countess bobbed forward so far that her lacy fichu sank into her chowder. “That’s when he makes me sit on his lap for my bedtime story.”

  Justin choked, spewing wine all over Harold. Cecille’s elegant mouth dropped open. Edith and Millicent gasped and Herbert went scarlet. As Justin disappeared behind his napkin, Harvey jumped up and began pounding him on the back.

  “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Emily murmured. She slipped her knife up her sleeve as she rose, thankful for once for the voluminous ruffles.

  When she returned, the second course had been served and they were eating their shrimp in chill silence. The countess’s fichu drooped and Harold’s silk waistcoat was speckled with wine. Justin watched her take her seat, his golden eyes glittering with banked fury.

  Cecille’s laugh sounded more inclined to shatter than tinkle. “I’m not surprised our Emily has ingratiated herself into your affections, Your Grace. She was the darling of every delivery boy and chimney sweep in our neighborhood. She was always so generous with her … person.”

  Justin slammed down his fork. “I’ve had enough.” His voice was low but laced with warning. “My ward’s past is of no concern to anyone but me. I’ll not have her maligned at her own table. Anyone who cares to do so is not welcome in my house.”

  As Emily met his possessive gaze, a strange warmth spread in the pit of her stomach.

  Cecille threw down her napkin. “The other girls were right, Mama. The man is a beast. I won’t marry him! I simply won’t!”

  “That’s a relief, since I never bloody asked you,” Justin shouted.

  Cecille and her mama rose.

  “Now, Comtesse,” the duchess said hastily, “I really must apologize for the behavior of my son. I’m sure he meant no—”

  Before she could finish, Gracie trotted in from the kitchen, twisting her apron in her hands. Her normally ruddy cheeks had gone as pale as a wraith’s. She whispered something to her mistress. The duchess’s eyes widened. She cast a furtive glance at the floor. Emily casually tucked her feet up in her chair.

  Cecille screamed.

  Her shrill howls shook bits of plaster from the ceiling. They all gaped as she leaped onto the brocaded seat of her chair, then onto the table. As she lifted her skirts and shook them wildly, the cause of her distress became evident. Hanging off the thigh of her pantaloons was a live lobster, his jagged claws entangled in her charming white ruffles.

  Emily bit into a succulent shrimp and watched with mild interest as Cecille danced a merry reel among the rattling plates. The husbands groped beneath her skirts, trying to dislodge the stubborn creature. Lily and Millicent jumped into a chair, clutching each other while Edith and the duchess tried to soothe the hysterical countess. A bevy of servants rushed into the dining room, crawling around on hands and knees to capture the rest of the lobsters skittering around on the Brussels carpet.

  It was Justin who finally disentangled the hapless fellow from Cecille’s underwear. He tossed the lobster to Gracie, who thrust it into her apron and raced for the kitchen. As the last of the lobsters were rounded up, Cecille collapsed sniveling into her mother’s arms.

  The countess drew herself up to her full four feet eight inches. Her voice quavered in righteous indignation. “I must say, I’ve never seen such a scandalous display.”

  Emily popped another shrimp into her mouth. “I concur heartily. Those little pink bows on Cecille’s drawers shocked the bloody hell out of me.”

  Every eye turned to her. She stopped chewing. Perhaps now would be a good time to retire, she thought. She rose, slipping a bowl of shrimp under her arm, suddenly ravenous.

  “Emily.” The single word was spoken in a tone of velvet command.

  She paused, then kept walking. Only three more steps to the door. She counted them in her head. One. Two.

  “Emily Claire Scarborough!” Justin thundered.

  The silver rattled. The crystal drops of the chandelier tinkled like tiny bells. No one even dared to breathe.

  Emily pivoted slowly on her heel. “Yes, sir?”

  He pointed a finger at her, his face livid. “You little …” He looked at Cecille, then back at her. His hand started to shake. A furious snort escaped him, then another.

  Suddenly he threw back his head and roared with laughter. They all gaped at him. One by one the maids came peeping around the dining room door frame, their white caps bobbing. Gracie stood aside so they could see what they’d never seen before—the brooding master of Grymwilde Mansion howling with laughter. Justin sank into his chair, clutching his stomach, then rolled from the chair to the floor, still guffawing.

  As her only son disappeared beneath the tablecloth, the duchess rose. “Perhaps we should retire to the drawing room for dessert,” she announced as if it were the end of any flawless dinner party and the heir to the Winthrop title and fortune wasn’t a raving lunatic.

  “I’ve lost my appetite,” the countess snapped, dragging Cecille toward the door in the wake of her icy wrath. “Come, darling. We’re going home. And we shan’t come back until we are offered a formal apology.”

  The rest of the family filed out, Harold and Herbert grumbling over being deprived of their after-dinner brandy and cigars. The door to the kitchen swung shut. Emily set the bowl on the sideboard and crept toward the end of the table as if approaching a mad boar. Justin was snuffling rather like one.

  She stood on tiptoe and peeped over the edge of the table. Justin was doubled up against his chair, shuddering with laughter. He wiped tears from his sparkling eyes and sucked in a wheezing breath. “Every time I think … dancing a jig on the table … those ridiculous pantaloons … I just can’t …” Wheezing for breath, he made pinching motions against her ankles with his long fingers. Emily giggled.

  Soon her giggles deepened to chortles. Her knees folded and she dropped to the carpet beside him, hugging her own stomach as the dam of hilarity she’d stemmed all week burst with a vengeance.

  Justin pounded his fist against the floor, struggling for control.

  Emily gasped for breath. “I haven’t seen Cecille move that fast since I waxed the soles of her ballet shoes.”

  He collapsed against her shoulder. “I shudder to think of it. God, you must have been awful.”

  “Incorrigible,” she admitted modestly.

  They relaxed against each other, knowing one would fall without the other. The stilted conversations and awkward silences of the past week melted in the warmth of their nearness. It seemed only natural that Emily would reach up and brush a strand of hair from his eyes. Only natural that he would capture her hand in his own and caress her palm with his eloquent thumb.

  His smile softened. “Whatever am I to do with you?”

  Suddenly their faces were very close. Close enough for her to see the spark that lit his eyes. Danger scented the air, as sharp and acrid as the smell of lightning on a summer day.

  “Come here, you wicked girl,” he whispered. “Sit on my lap and I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

  Emily moaned softly as he drew her into his lap and touched his mouth to hers. It was like touching flame to hot wax. Her lips melted beneath his, deepening his tender kiss to the ravenous flick and thrust of his tongue against her own. A sweet, interminable ache licked through her. She tangled her hands in the hair at his nape, marveling at the silky fineness of the new growth against his starched collar. The heady scent of his bay rum intoxicated her. She wiggled against him in an artless attempt to press herself closer, to somehow absorb all his textures and scents, both new and remembered.

  Justin groaned. “You’re going t
o be the death of me, woman,” he muttered against her lips. Then his tongue filled her mouth again, plunging deep in a blatant act of possession.

  Justin wasn’t sure how she managed it, but Emily was just as enticing in her silly garments as she had been naked on a moonlit beach. Each scrap of lace, pearl button, and hook and eyelet was a provocative challenge to his desire. She was dressed like a ruffled cake and he wanted nothing more than to lick off all her icing. Her untamed response to his touch shattered his inhibitions. He rained a delicate shower of kisses down her throat.

  Not even the starched layers of her petticoats were enough to shield Emily from the rigid evidence of Justin’s desire. He nudged against her, his hard, hungry heat making her shudder.

  With a hoarse oath Justin reached beneath her skirt and shoved aside the crinolines until only the sheer cotton of her pantaloons and the crisp linen of his trousers separated them. She gasped against his lips as he moved against her, coaxing, enticing, until she could feel every inch of him pressed to the damp valley between her legs. A helpless whimper, half fear, half need, caught in her throat.

  “Sweet Christ, this is madness!” he exploded, dumping her out of his lap.

  He rose and strode to the sideboard, raking a hand through his hair. As he sloshed wine into a glass, filling it to the rim, Emily could see his hand was shaking violently.

  She climbed to her feet, smoothing her skirts with her own trembling hands. “Why?” she said softly. “Why must it be madness?”

  He cocked the glass up and drained it. “Aside from the fact that we were writhing around on the dining room floor with a kitchen of gossiping servants only a careless moan away?”

  She nodded, refusing to make this easy for him. “Aside from that.”

  Justin slammed down the glass. He knew it wasn’t enough to put physical distance between them. She could bridge that with just one yearning look. He had to put emotional distance between them as well. He had to build walls so high she could never tear them down. Even if they imprisoned his heart forever.

  “You’re too young for me,” he said.

  Emily flinched at Justin’s emotionless tone. “What of Cecille? Is she too young for you as well? Isn’t she just the sort of wife your mother would choose for you?”

  He swung around to face her. “Cecille is neither my ward nor my responsibility. You are. If I had an ounce of brains, I’d have declared for her tonight.”

  She tapped her pursed lips thoughtfully. “Now, would that make her my auntie or my stepmother?”

  He caught her shoulders in a frantic grip, pulling her hard against him. “This isn’t a game. Do you think this is why David entrusted you to my care? So I could compromise you like some aging lech without a thought for your reputation or future? Is that what your father would have wanted?”

  She met his gaze squarely. “My father is dead. You should know that better than anyone.”

  His hands went limp. He laughed shakily. “Yes, I should, shouldn’t I?”

  “Justin!” she called after him, frightened by the glimpse of hopeless despair she’d seen in his eyes.

  He walked out on her, his gait oddly uneven, like that of a wounded man. Emily sank down among the ruins of the dinner party and buried her head in her arms.

  Emily Claire Scarborough was a very bad girl. She had heard it whispered for years, and in some small corner of her heart she had come to believe it. So when Justin again shut himself away from her behind a wall of cool reserve, she set out to do the one thing she did best. Misbehave.

  She swaggered around in an old pair of Justin’s trousers and a discarded jacket from one of Edith’s riding habits, her curls an uncombed tangle.

  But Justin’s calm was imperturbable. When she began to sprinkle her speech with careless profanities, he blithely retaliated by hiring a tutor, an art teacher, and a dancing master, all of whom resigned in hysterics within the week. When she shortened the legs of all of his trousers, he summoned a tailor and ordered new ones. When she stuffed the chimney in the study with her discarded petticoats, layering the room in coal dust and soot, he moved his work to the library until the room could be aired.

  To both servants and family Justin was no longer caustic, but only distant. Music stopped flowing through the darkened rooms at night. The grand piano in the drawing room gathered a thin layer of dust. The servants attributed his brief burst of good cheer and subsequent mood change to a brain fever he had suffered during his exotic travels. No one knew what to attribute Miss Emily’s behavior to, although Jimmie the stablemaster, a devout Roman Catholic, was the first to whisper of demon possession. He swore he had glanced up at her lighted window at night and seen objects flying about, spurred on by curses so uproarious, they made even his worldly ears burn.

  The formal apology the duchess sent Cecille and her mama after the disastrous dinner party bought their stilted forgiveness but not their silence. Gossip spread through London that the Duke of Winthrop had a madwoman on his hands, a wild creature he’d do well to shuffle off to Bedlam before she harmed someone. People scrambled for invitations to the ball the duchess was throwing to introduce Emily to society, hoping to catch even a glimpse of the duke’s eccentric ward.

  It was a bitterly cold January morning when the door of the study burst open and Emily marched in on him and Penfeld, trailed by a shouting contingent of servants.

  Justin barely glanced up from his ledger. “Good morning, Emily.” His deep voice carried over the cacophony.

  “Good morning, sir,” she replied evenly.

  Penfeld busied himself with straightening a perfectly aligned stack of papers. Emily stood stiffly, danger smoldering in her dark eyes as her domestic captors mobbed the desk.

  “Sir, I must insist on a moment of your time—”

  “—cannot be tolerated, Your Grace, not for another day—”

  “Ye must take action, my lord, afor she burns the ’ouse down ’round our bloomin’ heads!”

  Justin lifted a hand in a plea for silence. “One at a time, please.”

  It was Gracie who stepped forward. The other servants subsided to murmurs in deference to her age and years of loyal service to the Connors. “I’m not one to be stickin’ me nose into family affairs, Yer Grace. I know the child has a good heart an’ all, but …”

  “Get on with it, Gracie. I’m listening.”

  The cook honked into her apron. “I left the pie on the windowsill only for a minute, sir, and now we’ve no rhubarb for lunch a’tall.”

  A horse-faced maid poked her long nose over Gracie’s shoulder. “There won’t be no need for the rhubarb, sir, for ’twas the curate who was to partake of it and the girl sent him packin’ by tellin’ him he could take his prayer book and put it—”

  At a titter from one of the younger groomsmen, she cupped her hands around Justin’s ear and whispered something that made his eyes widen with interest.

  “Mmm. I didn’t know that was possible.”

  Emily rolled her eyes and tapped her toe in obvious boredom.

  The valet shared by Harold, Herbert, and Harvey shoved past her. “That’s nothing, Your Grace, look what she did to the hat my master bought for the ball next week.”

  He thrust the top hat into Justin’s hand. An odd squeaking and mewling rose from its silk confines. When Justin lifted his head, he was smiling. “She had a litter of kittens in it?”

  The valet sputtered. “Of course she didn’t have a litter of kittens. She hid it in the stable, where the mama cat would be sure to find it. Why, Master Harold will be livid!”

  Justin’s smile spread. “Master Harold, you say?” He handed the hat back. “Return it to the stable for now. Perhaps when Master Harold finds a suitable position, he can buy a new one. As for now, you’re all dismissed.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Your Grace, there’s no time. With the ball next Friday!”

  “My lord—”

  “Good day,” Justin said with utter finality.

 
; Emily stood in sullen silence as her disappointed accusers filed out. Penfeld slipped out behind them, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

  The door whispered shut, leaving them alone. Justin drew off his spectacles, leaned back in his chair, and surveyed his young charge from boots to crown. If she was trying to look boyish, she had failed dismally. The trousers only emphasized her slender waist and hugged the ample curve of her rump. Edith’s jacket had not been tailored for a bosom as generous as Emily’s. Unhindered by corset or chemise, her breasts strained against the worn fabric.

  Only a hint of color in her cheeks betrayed her response to his casual perusal. Her spine was stiff with that terrible pride that made her seem so fragile yet so unreachable.

  He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and blew a stray curl out of her eyes. “Damnable liars, every one of them.”

  “You didn’t swear at the curate?”

  “Hell, no.”

  His lips twitched. “You didn’t eat the entire rhubarb pie?”

  “Of course not. I gave it to Pudding. Bulldogs love rhubarb.”

  “And you didn’t allow the stable cat to birth in Harold’s new hat?”

  “Cats are notoriously stubborn. They birth where they please.”

  Sighing, he slipped on his spectacles and went back to scrawling in the ledger. “Very well. You may go.”

  Emily slammed her palms on the desk. “Aren’t you even going to punish me?”

  “Punish you?” He nibbled on the end of his pen. “If it pleases you, you may take supper in your room.”

  She spoke through gritted teeth. “I take all my meals in my room.”

  “Then you may take supper in the dining room.” He flipped a page of the ledger.

  “Damn you,” she whispered, her voice husky with thwarted emotion. He didn’t even look up.

  She spun around and marched for the door.

  “Emily?”

  She turned, her hand on the doorknob.

  The pen kept up its even scratch. “Nothing you do, no matter how horrendous, is going to change the way I feel about you.” His hand stilled. He slanted her a look over the rim of his spectacles. “Nor the fact that I am not free to act on those feelings.”