20150618 A Midsummer Night's Kiss epub final

by And Then the Moon) (epub)

  What an immense relief to know his stupidity would not have any lasting consequences for Emma. But the doctor inadvertently confirming their lack of a child was definitely his fault, that was a heavy blow. He truly was a sorry excuse for a husband, and a home of their own, no matter how lovely, would never make up for that shortcoming.

  “Buck up, man. Emma is going to be fine. Consider your remarkable effort to ensure a top to toe purge and burn a minor setback in your quest to win her back, nothing more.”

  Stiffening in surprise, Caleb jerked around, wincing as his abused muscles protested.

  “Richard? What the hell are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at home in bed or a chair at least?”

  His best friend shuffled through the door, the heavy thud and drag of crutches and one booted foot loud but unbelievably welcome on the polished wood floor.

  “Sick of the sight of my chamber, and I received notes from no less than four members of this household begging me to attend you, because you’re a damned idiot who refuses to sleep or eat. Besides, my nurse Madame Harridan thought a little exercise would be a good idea.”

  He frowned. “I thought you’d hired a sweet old dear.”

  “I did. She lasted two days, and then the spawn of a harpy and runaway carriage arrived. She’s rearranged my house, fired half the staff, and if I bellow, she bellows back twice as loud and hurls dishes at my head.”

  “Christ. Who is she?”

  Richard snorted. “A grizzled old bastard’s demented spinster sister.”

  “Sounds terrifying,” Caleb said absently as his stomach growled, reminding him of its acute neglect.

  “Indeed. But enough about me. Let’s cease with the pleasantries and cast judgment on the Montclair kitchens. You look like hell.”

  Nodding as his friend hobbled to the table, Caleb went to the sideboard and lifted lids off several dishes. Taking two plates, he piled them high with coddled eggs, bacon, mushrooms, buttered toast and thin slices of rare beef then sat down across from Richard.

  “The plan,” he said heavily, after several minutes of them both practically inhaling the perfectly prepared food, “is not going well. I have an uncanny knack in regularly reminding her of the reasons why she should pack her bags and head for the hills.”

  Richard stabbed a rasher of bacon with his fork. “Come on, the berry thing was an honest mistake.”

  “Everyone else knew about it.”

  “Everyone else has been living with Emma daily for six years.”

  “But I’m her husband. I should know the most, yet I don’t. And I’ve only got another month. The days are going so damned fast.”

  “So try harder then, Major. Think, assess, discard, engage. Hundreds of men survived unscathed in the bloodiest battles of recent English history, because of your planning.”

  One fist clenched. “You didn’t.”

  “I didn’t because while you were slashing your way through blue coats, I failed to adequately check my surroundings. You did not put the damned bullets in my thigh.”

  “I’m well aware—”

  “Nor are you responsible for your parents and their quirks. Look, I will forever hold Lord and Lady Hugh in high regard for taking in an orphaned boy baronet, but you’ve always been more adult than them. Even as a lad, instructing servants, tallying accounts and writing drafts because your father was out making merry. Bloody hell, put the world down and give your shoulders a rest.”

  Caleb sat back in his seat, drumming his fingers furiously on the table. “Are you quite finished?”

  “Perhaps. Has the point made it through that lead skull of yours?”

  “A point was buried under that waffle? By the way, I’m sending a case of castor oil for your health. I’m sure Madame Harridan will know what to do with it.”

  “No doubt,” said Richard, paling slightly. “Now I’d advise getting some sleep before approaching your wife again. Also, combing your hair and taking a bath might just halt a city-wide plague.”

  Hauling himself to his feet as a wave of fatigue hit like a spring tide, Caleb half-stumbled to the door. “You’re a slow-top, Captain.”

  “I learned from the very best. Sir.”

  Chapter Five

  Week Three

  After six long days trapped in the chamber resting, sipping barley water and dutifully picking at the invalid buffet of chicken broth, coddled eggs, vanilla pudding and weak tea, Emma was about ready to loop a sheet around the bedpost and shimmy down the side of the townhouse to freedom.

  Her jailers were suffocatingly vigilant. Caleb, Lord Hugh, Susie her maid, even Caleb’s valet McGregor had brought in a pack of cards and whiled away an hour playing whist. The only people to leave her in peace were Lady Hugh, of course, and far more surprisingly Lucy, who drifted in just twice claiming numerous errands, pianoforte lessons and a fractious new horse requiring a lot of attention.

  Emma’s lips twitched as she scratched behind Frisky’s ears.

  “What do you think, sweetie?” she said under her breath, lest somebody burst in and scold her for not finishing her twenty-seventh glass of barley water. “You imagine Sir Richard would appreciate being referred to as a fractious horse?”

  The kitten yawned widely and flopped onto his back, the rather unsubtle hint for a tummy rub.

  She laughed. “Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  “Put what better?”

  Her gaze flew up to see her husband standing in the doorway of the chamber. “Nothing, I was just making conversation with Frisky. He’s the strong, silent type, not given to idle chatter.”

  “Best kind of confidante then,” Caleb said, ambling in and perching on the side of the bed. He wore a simple white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, beige waistcoat and black trousers, looking so handsome she almost shivered. “I’ve come to ask if you want to go—”

  “Yes.”

  He grinned. “I haven’t said where.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Any location would be preferable to this bedchamber. I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Fenton mentioned you still had some rash patches left.”

  “A few,” she admitted. “My left knee, lower back and a sprinkling over my rib cage. But they aren’t itchy anymore. His salve really is excellent. So, where are we going?”

  “One of Mother’s friends is hosting an afternoon musicale. Richard has been browbeaten into a turn on the piano…what?” he said at her raised eyebrows, “He is actually extremely accomplished. Loves music, teaches himself new pieces all the time.”

  Emma bit her lip to halt a revealing laugh. No wonder the fiercely unmusical Lucy had embraced pianoforte lessons. It seemed her fractious horse was a man of many talents.

  “Sounds perfect. When do we leave?”

  “In an hour, if that is enough time for you to dress?”

  “Absolutely,” she assured him, mentally crossing her fingers. The dressing part was fine, it was taming her hair that usually proved to be the problem although Susie now won the battle more often than not. “Might invite my new bonnet along for the outing.”

  “Only if it promises to behave. No lording it over the other bonnets, even if it is vastly superior.”

  Rolling her eyes, she shooed him from the room and rang for Susie. Precisely eighty-five minutes later, they strolled into Lady Penfold’s spacious and elegantly furnished parlor.

  Their hostess greeted Caleb with gushing warmth, and gave her a steely-eyed, impersonal nod, like she was a chambermaid suspected of filching the silver. Thankfully there was a steady stream of people behind them, so they weren’t forced into small talk.

  The room was a jumble of sounds, with several musicians tuning their instruments in one corner, at least four separate groups gossiping frantically, and footmen dashing back and forth as they replenished a long, cloth-covered table with scrumpt
ious looking currant buns, apple tarts, sandwiches and jugs of lemonade.

  “Would you like something to eat?” said Caleb. “I’m willing to brave the line.”

  “Yes please.”

  “All right, find us some seats.”

  Arranging her cream and emerald striped tea gown, Emma settled herself into a cushioned chair at the very back of the room and gazed around, smiling at acquaintances and attempting to ignore the scornful glares of society ladies. This afternoon musicale was going to be quite the crush.

  “Emma. What a sight for sore eyes.”

  She froze in surprise as a very familiar lean and sedately-dressed gentleman slid into the seat beside her. “Donald! Wh—what are you doing here?”

  Donald Spencer’s gentle brown eyes turned quizzical. “Lady Hugh invited me. I thought…well, I hoped it was on your behalf. I’ve missed you so, my dear friend. It feels like an age since we’ve spent any time together.”

  Dismay and regret twisted her stomach into knots.

  “Actually, I’ve been unwell. A strawberry mishap.”

  “Strawberries? How did that happen? Oh, that is terrible. I wish you’d sent word, I would have had my physician attend you. And I’m sure Cook would have prepared something tasty to tempt you—”

  A harsh, deliberate throat clearing interrupted Donald, and her heart sank as she looked up to see her husband’s ominous blank-faced expression.

  After passing her a plate of treats, Caleb unexpectedly held out his hand to Donald.

  “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, sir. Major Caleb Montclair. Are you a friend of my wife’s?”

  Donald smiled at her fondly before hesitantly shaking the proffered hand.

  “Proud to say I am, for many years now. Donald Spencer is my name. Emma was just telling me she’d been ill thanks to some damned fool feeding her berries of all things. Poor precious lady.”

  Caleb’s sapphire eyes nearly turned black. “Indeed. Luckily she is fine now, and recuperating with the help of her new kitten. And I believe I have heard your name bandied about…I say, are you all right? You look a little pale, Spencer.”

  “Perfectly well,” he wheezed, and Emma frowned in confusion until she noticed the unrelenting, bone-crushing grip her husband had on Donald’s much smaller hand.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake.

  “Caleb,” she said sharply. “I am dreadfully parched. Would you mind terribly fetching me a glass of lemonade?”

  “Right now?”

  “Please.”

  “All right,” he said genially, and as Donald gasped in relief at his hand’s release from prison, Caleb cupped her cheek and tucked away a troublesome stray curl escaping her bonnet. “Anything for you, Mrs. Montclair.”

  All at once exasperated and breathless at the blatantly possessive gesture, she watched him stroll back toward the banquet table, then turned to Donald.

  “I’m so sorry about that. Are your fingers intact?”

  He grimaced. “For a man you claimed had fallen out of love with you, he seems rather possessive. What is going on, Emma?”

  “Er,” fidgeting under his stern stare, she eventually looked away. “Caleb offered a bargain. Six weeks to win me back, if not he’d grant a separation, and allow me to retire to the country.”

  “I see. So you must be, what, halfway through?”

  “Yes.”

  Donald laughed, and her gaze flew back in confusion as he lifted her free hand and placed a bold kiss on her gloved knuckles. “Well. That isn’t so bad. I’ve waited years, I guess I can wait a few more weeks for you to be my…cherished neighbor. You’ll be so much happier in the country, Emma, and Major Montclair can keep the feline as a consolation prize. Nasty things.”

  “Please, not here, Donald.”

  “I beg your pardon. Let us talk of nicer things. Will you be attending the Duke and Duchess of Milton’s Midsummer Night’s Ball? His Grace assisted in the sponsorship of my newly acquired robes, and very graciously included me on the guest list so I might widen my circle of acquaintances. I’d dearly love to waltz with you a time or two.”

  “Perhaps, I’m not sure,” she said slowly, wanting to flee the room and scream.

  Three weeks, both a lifetime and a moment to make her choice. Before Caleb returned, it had seemed so easy, so clear cut.

  Now…a different matter entirely.

  Donald bloody Spencer.

  His jaw clenched so hard he could practically feel his teeth grinding to powder, Caleb watched the man across the room speaking quietly to Emma, his head bent toward her, laughing, lifting her hand to kiss it a second time.

  Crushing the puffed-up dandy’s fingers had been far too subtle and unthreatening. Really, he should have knocked him senseless and hurled him through a second-storey window to ram home the point that at no time, in no place, would Emma Montclair ever belong to anyone but her wedded husband.

  It’s your own damned fault, idiot. You left her alone for the vultures to circle.

  His breath hissed between his teeth.

  “I say, Major. Are you well?”

  Blinking at his richly-dressed, prune-faced hostess, Caleb stretched his lips into what he hoped might resemble a smile. The woman had some gall, slithering over here after her blatant rudeness to Emma at the door.

  “Quite well, thank you, Lady Penfold. You must be pleased at the turn out today.”

  The older lady tittered. “Indeed my musicales are popular, but I’m partly in your debt, dear boy. Jemima and I both made it known that our darling, heroic Caleb would be making his first ton appearance this afternoon, and, well, as you can see, everyone is here to say they were present at the momentous occasion.”

  Barely refraining from snorting in derision, he bowed. “I must compliment you on your afternoon tea, the simple, old favorites are such a treat.”

  Lady Penfold’s eyes widened. “Er, yes. Traditional is precisely the, ah, theme I hoped to achieve.”

  “Quite. By the by, you haven’t seen Sir Richard, have you? I wanted a quick word before his performance, and this line is moving rather slowly.”

  “Last I saw, the captain was making his way to the antechamber over there. Might be rewriting chords or some such thing. But tell him to hurry, won’t you. We must begin at three o’clock sharp.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he replied, bowing again as he moved past her and hurried toward the antechamber.

  Unfortunately, Richard wasn’t alone, but standing between the parted knees of a softly moaning woman balanced on a side table, their arms locked around each other as they kissed each other senseless.

  He almost started applauding, delighted beyond measure his friend had found someone he clearly felt a great deal of passion for and who felt the same.

  Until they shifted slightly and he saw the woman’s face.

  “Lucinda Jane Montclair,” he snarled, marching forward, shoving a music stand aside so harshly it crashed into the wall. “What the bloody hell is this?”

  Lucy’s eyes widened, and in one swift movement she untangled herself, slid off the table and darted in front of her partner in crime.

  “Caleb…”

  Ignoring her horrified mutter, his gut roiling at the sight of his baby sister’s kiss-swollen lips, tousled hair and lowered gown sleeves, he focused a death glare on Richard.

  “You know, I am really rather surprised,” Caleb bit out frigidly. “When you spoke of Madame Harridan being, now what was it, a grizzled old bastard’s demented spinster sister, I must say I pictured someone older. And not related to me.”

  Richard cleared his throat. “Calm down, Cal. It’s not—”

  “If you dare say the words ‘It’s not what it looks like,’ I will forget our years of friendship and your injuries. I will also forget we are in the middle of a musicale and promptly rearrange your goddamne
d face.”

  “You will do no such thing,” snapped Lucy, eyes blazing, her equilibrium obviously regained. “Touch him and I will shove this flute here right up your nose!”

  “Sweetheart,” said Richard mildly, leaning over to grab a crutch and tuck it under his arm, “much as I appreciate the sentiment, you’re not helping.”

  Caleb inhaled sharply. The way he currently felt, blood surging, head pounding, every muscle clenched, it seemed a person exploding from rage could actually happen. Any minute now, tiny pieces of him would be decorating the antechamber in a mess Lady Penfold’s staff would never be able to clean up.

  “How long,” he growled.

  Richard met his gaze unflinchingly. “Since we came home. I didn’t know…never dreamed that Lucy still might feel this strongly about me. But I can’t fight it. And I don’t want to.”

  “How far?”

  “None of your b-blasted business, Caleb Montclair,” said Lucy.

  Ignoring her completely, he pinned his former best friend with a look that promised the darkest possible hell, depending on his answer. “Is my sister a virgin still, or is she not?”

  A long, heavy silence followed.

  Caleb’s gaze flicked between them both, her defiant scowl, Richard’s practically audible shoulder slump.

  His fists clenched.

  “No! We’re going to be married,” said Lucy almost simultaneously to Richard’s “I have an appointment with Lord Hugh on Friday morning.”

  But he had already stalked forward, a fierce right hook connecting sweetly, yet painfully, with Richard’s rock-hard jaw, sending him sprawling against the table and several china figurines plus an unstrung violin crashing to the floor.

  All hell broke loose.

  Shrieking like a banshee, Lucy began beating him with the threatened flute. She landed several blows to his shoulders and a stinging one to his left ear, distracting him to the point that he didn’t see Richard’s stumbling shoulder charge until he was forced off his feet and sent flying into a collection of music stands, dressmaking mannequins and a basket of embroidery threads.