He took the brunt of the fall, but they both cursed and shuddered at the jarring impact, nevertheless managing to trade a few more punches as Lucy scrambled to break them apart.
“Bastard,” Caleb swore, barreling his fist into his opponent’s solar plexus. “Of all the women in London, it had to be my little sister? She’s only eighteen!”
“It just happened,” said Richard angrily, sucking in a pained breath yet still able to smack an elbow into his nose hard enough to start a steady blood trickle. “You think I wanted to fall in love with Lucy, knowing you’d go goddamned Bedlamite?”
“Love? Love? It’s been a few weeks.”
“Don’t be a hypocrite. You married Emma after a month.”
Fury reigniting at the entirely accurate jibe, he grabbed Richard by the cravat and jerked him into a sitting position while his other fist pulled back, ready to launch a thunderbolt.
“Caleb! What are you doing?”
Emma’s horrified voice doused his temper like a bucket of iced water, and inching his head around, he inwardly groaned.
His wife, his mother, Lady Penfold, Donald bloody Spencer, all standing with frozen expressions in the corner of the room while about twenty others tried desperately to squeeze through the narrow antechamber door at the same time.
Oh shit.
The antechamber was a complete shambles of broken music stands and instruments, upended mannequins and an explosion of embroidery silks. Lucy sat a few feet away with her arms wrapped around her knees and a look of pure resignation on her face, while Caleb and Sir Richard were prone on the floor, clothing torn, noses bloody and the very portrait of angry guilt.
Yet after the initial shock of the entirely unbelievable situation, unlike everybody else in the room, Emma felt an absurd desire to laugh. Not one word had been said, but judging by the players involved and the depth of feeling, Lucy and her fractious horse had been discovered and her overprotective big brother was none too pleased.
Neither were her mother-in-law or hostess for that matter. Lady Hugh looked like she might stab the first person to break the heavy silence, as her arctic gaze alternated between her children and the interlopers. Lady Penfold’s hands seemed incapable of stillness, as they cycled between cupping her cheeks, covering her mouth and gesturing weakly at the damage.
“Good God, Lady P,” said a male voice suddenly from somewhere behind them. “Most entertaining musicale I’ve ever been to. Will go down in the annals of history. Bravo!”
The words from the unseen guest broke the spell. Well, at least for Donald anyway, who frowned darkly at the men on the floor as they slowly put themselves to rights.
“Utterly shameful display, Montclair,” he said in a pompous, peevish tone she had never heard him use before. “How could you do that to your mother or Lady Penfold? And fisticuffs with a poor, helpless cripple? What kind of man does such a thing? It seems the people of London and England have been monstrously misled as to your hero status.”
Emma frowned in anger at the ill-thought, ill-timed speech, but her husband didn’t even acknowledge it. He merely stood and withdrew a crisp linen handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the blood dripping steadily from his nose, then reached down a hand to Sir Richard, gripping his wrist and hauling him to his feet. Only after Lucy scrambled to fetch a crutch and Sir Richard was stabilized, did Caleb finally focus on Donald, his gaze again nearly black as he stalked forward.
Oh dear.
“Well?” barked Donald, his entire face red with anger at being ignored. “What do you have to say for yourself, Major?”
“I have three things,” growled Sir Richard, as he stepped in front of Caleb. “Firstly, sincere apologies to you Lady Penfold and you Lady Hugh for my conduct. Secondly, Mr. Spencer, Major Montclair is a true hero, a man who saved hundreds of lives, a man ten times what you will ever be. And I shall be happy to meet in the early hours of any day, you, or anyone for that matter, who continues to utter such slander about him.”
Cheers and applause broke out, and Emma clasped her hands not to join in. His long absence might have near-broken her, but Caleb hadn’t wasted his years in the army. He was an exemplary soldier with an impeccable record, and apparently everyone knew that but one lone law clerk.
“And the, er, third?” said Donald, his tone rather more moderate.
“This.”
Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Sir Richard’s fist connected with Donald’s stomach, air whooshing out in one sickening gasp as her would-be champion stumbled backward several steps. Then, as though they were descending the steps to a ballroom, Sir Richard held out his free hand to Lucy and they departed the room like a king and his queen. Lady Penfold moaned softly, swaying on her feet, and Lady Hugh leapt forward to ease an arm around her waist and guide her away as well.
Emma, Caleb and Donald didn’t move a muscle until the crowd, clearly disappointed the fracas had ended, swiftly dissipated to no doubt sprint home and inform their neighbors of the most violent musicale in history.
“Well, Emma?” said Donald, rubbing his abused stomach when the three of them were alone in the antechamber. “Is this what you want? To continue your association with this despicable family? My strong advice would be to abandon that ridiculous marriage bargain at once and leave this wretched thug aristocrat to his own kind.”
“A moment,” interrupted Caleb. “You asked me if I had anything to say for myself, Spencer. I do. Two things actually. I must chide you on use of the term cripple. Such an ugly and false word to refer to my oldest friend Sir Richard. Also…”
Thump.
In the blink of an eye Donald lay on the floor, curled into a ball, gasping and writhing like a landed trout from the second, infinitely fiercer blow to the stomach which knocked him right off his feet.
Any trace of humor long gone, Emma dropped to her knees beside him. He had been such a good friend for so long, not even hot-headed words deserved this.
Gently rubbing Donald’s back, she glared up at Caleb who now sat perched on a chair holding a red-splotched handkerchief under his nose.
“Was that truly necessary?”
His shoulders stiffened. “Your angelic constant companion insulted me, my family and my friend. In one word, yes.”
“No! We’re at a musicale, Caleb. The only things flying should be fingers over piano keys. We’re all going to be the talk of the town tomorrow. The scandal sheets are bad enough with rumors, but this will be factual with dozens of witnesses. London’s so-called Polite Society will tear us to pieces and there will be nowhere to hide!”
Her husband shrugged, utterly unrepentant, and she wanted to kick him. He had been away too long, and as a man, had no idea how vicious the gossips could be both face to face and behind your back.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” choked out Donald, one hand reaching up to take hers. “Only a few more weeks and you won’t have to worry about this sort of thing anymore. My friendship, and the pretty little cottage soon to be your home, will be all the protection you need.”
“Thank you, Donald,” she said softly, yet her gaze wasn’t on him, but Caleb. For just a moment her husband’s eyes had closed, his head bowed in weary defeat.
A sob caught in her throat.
Were there even words for this? Two men, opposites in every way, both with virtues and flaws and both vying for her as though she were some sort of prize at a fair. At the present time all she wanted to do was bang their heads together. Then perhaps flee forever to the colonies.
“Emma,” said Caleb finally, his face like stone. “We should go home.”
She nodded slowly and got to her feet.
“All right,” she said miserably, glancing down at Donald. “We’ll speak soon.”
Her difficult situation was now officially…impossible.
Chapter Six
Week Four
“M
onty! Can’t believe you’ve finally made it to Wiltshire. I’m delighted. Just thrilled!”
Ignoring the Eton nickname he’d always disliked, Caleb strode forward, hand outstretched and a genuine grin on his face at the warm welcome from his tall, strapping host. The invitation for a two-day house party escape from London had been like manna from heaven, Emma equally enthusiastic to leave the city behind until the musicale furor died down.
“Thought it was about time, Wellsford. Good to see you, it’s been, what, eight years? May I introduce my wife, Emma. Sorry we’re so late, got held up leaving the city.”
Lord Peter Wellsford smacked his hand away, instead enveloping them both in a bear hug. “Bah, my friends, we’re not formal here. Now, where on earth is my wife…ah, here she is. This is Catherine, but everyone calls her Cathy.”
Lady Wellsford paused in the doorway of the large, torch-lit, red brick manor house, and he blinked in surprise as the truly stunning blonde then hurried down the steps, threw her arms about his neck and kissed him firmly on the mouth.
And then did the same to Emma.
His wife shot him a wide-eyed glance, but he shrugged and mouthed ‘friendly’.
“Oh, you’re both just splendid,” said Cathy, with a beaming smile. “I adore beautiful married couples, it confirms all is right with the world. Now come in and have some supper, then you’ll have time to freshen up for tonight’s activities. Cards, dancing, charades, games, whatever you feel like, really. We dislike restrictions, it’s all about enjoyment.”
“Sounds delightful,” Caleb replied, tucking Emma’s arm in his as they followed their hosts into a lavish dining room.
At least thirty people sat around a rectangular oak table that appeared to stretch for a mile, the sound of chatter and laughter almost deafening from the guests availing themselves of a dizzying array of savory and sweet dishes, whisky, brandy and champagne.
Peter cleared his throat.
“Everyone. I say, hush now. I’m delighted to introduce our newest arrivals, Caleb and Emma! Please make them feel right at home.”
Two hours later, Caleb sat back in his chair, feeling entirely in charity with the world. The food and drink was sublime, the conversation spirited, and the company an interesting mix of acquaintances and strangers: town and country military, aristocrat and merchant trade couples, a range of ages but all with the distinct air of wealth about them.
Not to mention the congeniality of the room being a delightful and welcome contrast to London, which had felt like the smallest, chilliest town in England after the musicale. That combined with the unbearable atmosphere at Montclair House, Lucy’s absence, his mother’s frozen silence, his father’s perplexed frowns, and the countryside had never seemed so attractive.
He leaned sideways to where Emma sat. “All right?”
“Excellent,” she whispered slightly tipsily, emerald eyes glowing with a champagne light. “Everyone is so lovely. I think this might be the nicest party I’ve ever attended.”
Suddenly a bell rang, and the guests fell silent as Cathy stood.
“Good evening, my darlings, this is your one hour warning that activities will begin at ten o’clock sharp. Tonight’s theme is Grecian, and costumes have been laid out in your chambers. Run along now and refresh yourselves, and we’ll see you back downstairs soon.”
In record time the dining room emptied, and he and Emma followed Cathy to their allotted chamber on the second floor. It was exquisite if a little too feminine, decorated in several shades of blue and boasting a large four poster bed sprinkled with red rose petals, two baroque dressing tables, and lit with an elaborate corner display of perfumed tallow candles. Their clothing had been unpacked and brushed, and now hung in an oversized armoire.
“Do you like it?” said Cathy, surprisingly anxiously.
“It’s very romantic,” said Emma, in a voice he couldn’t quite fathom.
“Oh, I’m so glad. I hope you have a wonderful time here away from the silliness of town, really embrace the true variety of pleasures life has to offer. Don’t forget to be in costume and downstairs by ten, and if you need anything, just ask.”
“We will,” he assured their hostess, and the lady blew them a kiss and bustled away.
“So,” he said clearing his throat awkwardly when the silence stretched. “Grecian costume party. This should be interesting.”
Emma lifted an armful of white, silky-looking fabric. “Easy to dress for, no wonder maids and valets have the night off. Will be nice though, everyone wearing the same thing. No measuring, assessing or being talked about behind your back.”
Caleb tensed. “Emma…”
She held up a hand. “Can we not? Could we just have one night without thinking about the bargain or your family or berries or Donald or musicales or anything else and just have a little fun? Nothing sounds more appealing to me right now than dressing up, drinking a lot more of that delicious champagne and playing a few parlor games.”
“Very well,” he said cautiously, a weight partially lifting from his shoulders. “Do you want me to unlace you?”
Shortly afterward she picked up her costume and disappeared behind a painted screen in the east corner of the chamber to change and brush out her hair. Swiftly undressing, he dragged a damp cloth across his skin, and pulled the soft yet thickly lined silk tunic over his head. It dropped to knee length, cinching in at the waist with a chain-link belt. Completing the costume was a gold leaf crown, simple braided leather sandals and a thick gold cuff for each wrist.
“Bloody ridiculous,” he muttered, feeling utterly underdressed yet strangely aroused by the cool kiss of the silk.
“You look good,” said Emma, and he jerked his head up.
Christ.
A flame-haired goddess stood before him. Her costume was fastened on one creamy shoulder with a large jeweled clip, leaving the other completely bare. Even more scandalously, the heavy silk skimmed her lush unfettered breasts, gathering in at the waist with a tasseled gold cord and falling to her sandaled feet, while a wide gold cuff circled her upper arm.
“No chemise,” Caleb choked out, almost positive he could see the faint outline of her dusky nipples, trying desperately to drag his gaze away and equally desperate to confirm.
“Didn’t fit,” she replied airily as she slowly smoothed the fabric, a tiny smile playing about her lips. “Come along, then.”
Pulse pounding at the unexpected return of mischievous Emma, his every sense alert with anticipation, he took her arm and led her to the ground floor. They passed several locked doors, finally reaching a long, portrait-lined gallery with several large antechambers. A simple parchment sign stated the activities in each room.
“What do you want to do? Cards? Charades?”
She gave him a pleading look. “Dancing? We’ve never done that.”
Even more so than usual, the word made him sweat and nausea churned his belly. For just a moment a confession sat on the tip of his tongue, the truth of the worst time in his life, and he had to cough to contain it. Emma would hate him, just like Adam did. And he couldn’t risk that, not for all the gold in the kingdom.
“Perhaps later. How about games?” he said hoarsely, stepping forward to push the door open and equally ready to dismember anyone who stared too long at his wife.
Then his jaw hit the floor.
Her husband made a better door than window.
“Caleb,” she said lightly to his back, when he froze mid-entrance to the games room. “You need to keep walking. The games and drinks are in the room.”
But he didn’t move or respond, and irritation bubbled.
What on earth was wrong with the blasted man?
After three glasses of champagne and donning the outrageously sensual costume, she felt…carefree. Like just for a night she could be anyone, do anything. And now Caleb was literally getting in
the way.
“Caleb,” she repeated, impatiently this time, pushing at his rock hard shoulder. “Move!”
Suddenly he spun around and took two steps forward, herding her away from the door.
“Not in there,” he said harshly, his cheekbones highlighted with a dull red flush. “We’ll try something else. Cards maybe.”
Emma frowned. “I’d like to play games.”
“No. You wouldn’t. Let’s go find another room.”
Her temper flared, goaded into recklessness by the champagne. Shrugging as though she acquiesced, she instead ducked under his outstretched arm and dashed through the games room door.
Oh. Sweet. Heaven.
Choking on a gasp, she clumsily grabbed for the back of a nearby chair, unable to believe the sight in front of her.
Countless couples in the throes of passion, but it was lovemaking like she’d never imagined. One older gentleman was being whipped with a riding crop. Cathy and another lady stretched out on a chaise, kissing and grinding against each other while Peter watched, his fingers idly stroking between his legs. Half-naked men and women bound to large, velvet-covered posts, their wrists above their heads and eyes blindfolded as others teased them with peacock feathers, cubes of ice and smooth, cylindrical pieces of carved jade and ivory.
Her senses on overload, Emma struggled to process the scene. The cloying scents of perfumed oil, sweat and intercourse were overwhelming enough, but the sounds echoed relentlessly in her head. Whimpered cries. Guttural groans. Barked instructions and desperate pleas for ‘faster’ and ‘harder’ and ‘more, please more’.
Too much, too much.
Dizzy, unable to breathe, she felt her legs begin to buckle until an arm curled around her waist. A heartbeat later she was scooped up against a blessedly familiar muscled chest and hurried from the room.
Back in the cool silence of the gallery, she wriggled until Caleb put her down.
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