by Stacy Henrie
Tonight he’d had the good fortune of securing two waltzes with her. However, since this was their second dance of the evening, he would now have to be content with partners who were far less witty, genuine, and interesting.
“Thank you for the dance, Lord Linwood.” Miss Herschel’s smile never held any pretense, only gentleness and honesty.
Emmett smiled in return. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Herschel.” He led her toward the edge of the dance floor, happy for an excuse to keep her elbow in his gloved hand a little longer. “You waltz beautifully.”
“I think that’s a compliment meant as much for you as for me, my lord. Since you are, in fact, the one leading the waltz.”
He feigned a thoughtful expression. “I concede your point. May I say then how beautifully you waltz with me?”
“Only with you?” It was clear she was trying not to laugh.
“Miss Herschel,” he began again, “how beautifully you waltz with every gentleman lucky enough to partner with you. How’s that?”
Her lips twitched with hidden delight. “I’ll allow it. However . . .” A small laugh escaped her mouth before she pretended to be serious once more. “To be truly sincere in the compliment, you would have to observe me waltzing with others before making such an observation.”
“And who is to say I haven’t?” he countered, no longer teasing.
She blushed, but there was also a look of pleasure in her eyes. Could she be as fascinated with him as he was with her? As if in answer to his unspoken question, she asked, “Will you be attending the theater tomorrow night, my lord?”
The hopeful note in her voice nearly had him leading her back onto the floor for another dance, the possible ruin of both their reputations notwithstanding. “I was considering it. Will you be in attendance?”
“Yes.”
Then he would attend too.
Miss Herschel had entered his life less than a month ago, but there were times when Emmett felt as if he’d known her for years. He’d been to visit her and her mother twice at the townhouse where they were staying and had covertly learned which social events they would be attending. He had even begun to entertain the hope of courting Miss Herschel.
Emmett released her arm as propriety dictated, but he didn’t step away. Instead he studied her open, graceful countenance. She didn’t break his earnest gaze either. In that moment, the music, the crowds, the overly warm room ceased to exist, leaving only them. A desire to kiss her tugged him forward a step.
“Miss Herschel.” The marquess’s voice sounded as loud as symbols in Emmett’s ears. He fell back a step as his father placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
She nodded politely. “Lord Hadwell.”
“If you’ll excuse us, I need to speak with my son.”
“Of course.”
Emmett offered her an apologetic smile. “Thank you again for the waltz.”
“You’re welcome, my lord.”
He lost sight of her as his father steered him toward the opposite side of the ballroom. Would Lord Hadwell demand that Emmett stop interacting with her? His heart thudded with consternation at the thought. He didn’t wish to choose between his growing feelings for Miss Herschel and his father’s displeasure, but he couldn’t imagine never seeing her again either.
“Is she the one whom you’ve set your sights on?” his father asked after he stopped them beside a pillar.
Should he speak the truth of what he felt? Emmett glanced around to buy himself another moment before answering. Nearby Lady Melinda, a longtime family friend, was conversing with another young lady. They didn’t seem to be paying Emmett and his father any attention though.
Summoning his courage, Emmett pushed out a deep breath. “I admire her very much,” he said, steeling himself against his father’s reaction.
“Excellent. I believe she’ll do quite nicely for you and—”
Emmett reared back. “Wait. You’re saying . . . you approve of my choice?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” His father actually looked offended.
“Well, for one she’s American.”
The marquess waved his hand dismissively. “A very wealthy American. Have you heard the size of her inheritance?”
“I have,” Emmett answered, somewhat warily. Despite his efforts to conceal his attentions toward Miss Herschel, had his father noticed anyway and gone digging for information about her?
Lord Hadwell smiled as he gazed at the gathered crowd. “You know how much Hadwell House needs someone like her. Her cash will ensure the estate is kept solvent and in good repair for several more generations.”
His father talked as if an understanding was already in place. Not that Emmett would mind. He wanted to proceed naturally, though, rather than feel rushed by the marquess’s expectations.
“I haven’t even started courting her.”
Turning to face him, the marquess frowned. “Why ever not? You need to hurry, or some duke’s son is liable to come along and snatch her millions right out from under you. That’s what these American heiresses want, after all—a title.”
Miss Herschel had never given any indication that she cared whether Emmett had a title or not. “I’m not interested . . .” He lowered his voice to avoid being heard. “That is to say, I don’t wish to court her for her millions, Father.”
“There’s no shame in it,” his father remarked in a patronizing tone. “However, if it eases that conscience of yours to believe you admire her for her charm and beauty, then go ahead.”
Emmett’s jaw tightened with irritation. “Miss Herschel has far more qualities to recommend her than simply being a beautiful heiress.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” The marquess studied something in the distance, then clapped a hand to Emmett’s shoulder again. “No need to be glum, my boy. Congratulations are certainly in order. You’ve done as I asked in finding a wealthy wife. You should feel proud of yourself.”
The compliment felt hollow. “I’m grateful I met her.”
“As am I. Now, I need to go speak with Lord Huffing.”
As his father walked away, Emmett took a moment to calm his frustration. He ought to be elated that his choice had met with the marquess’s approval. The victory had been robbed of some of its sweetness, though, now that he knew his father believed Emmett’s interest was based on monetary reasons. Still, he was relieved that he no longer had to hide his interest in Miss Herschel. And with that newfound freedom, Emmett knew the first thing he wished to do.
He headed back toward the spot where he’d left Miss Herschel. Only she wasn’t there. He studied the faces of those dancing but didn’t see her. Growing desperate in his search, he asked Winfield if he’d seen Miss Herschel. Emmett’s best friend had always been adept at observation, though lately, Winfield’s gift seemed even more honed. As expected, the man reported having seen Miss Herschel and her mother leaving the ballroom.
Emmett found them as they were collecting their coats. “Miss Herschel? Might I have a word?”
“Of course, Lord Linwood.” She exchanged a curious glance with her mother, though she didn’t look displeased that he’d detained them.
That knowledge had him standing straighter. “I’d be honored if you would allow me to accompany you and your mother to the theater tomorrow night. We would have the use of my box.” He looked at Mrs. Herschel as he added, “If, of course, that is agreeable to the both of you.”
Mrs. Herschel offered him a kind smile. “Thank you for the invitation, Lord Linwood. Clare and I would be happy to accept.”
“Wonderful,” he said, glancing at Miss Herschel again. Would she recognize his intention to have this invitation be the start of courting her? “I shall send a note tomorrow morning with the details.”
Her answering smile struck him straight through the chest. “I look forward to the evening, my lord.”
“As do I,” he murmured.
He bid them goodnight and returned to the ballroom. But he was hardly aware of anyone or anythi
ng after that. In his mind’s eye, Emmett was already at the theater, seated beside Miss Herschel, for the first of what he hoped would prove to be many more outings in her unequaled company.
Chapter 3
Emmett had been dreaming of the night he’d first invited Clare to the theater when a violent shift of the bed woke him. He had only a second or two to recall he was in a hotel in Messina before he was flung to the floor, striking it with a hard smack that reverberated through his entire body. He sat up, dazed and confused, but the vibrations in the floor didn’t stop.
Across the room, large cracks began to spread like spiderwebs across the plaster. A rush of rain-drenched air jerked his attention to the long, rectangular window and its now-gaping hole. Emmett shivered as much from growing horror as from the cold.
He managed to get his feet beneath him, when a terrible sound rose up from somewhere within the hotel, peppered by piercing screams. Never had he heard such an awful racket. It seemed to come from the very depths of some fiery inferno. The entire room swayed around him, and Emmett threw his arms out for balance to keep himself from crashing to the floor again.
This had to be an earthquake. They weren’t uncommon in this region, but Emmett had only ever experienced two or three mild ones. Was Clare safe? Would they feel the quaking at the viscount’s villa? Or were the hotel patrons suffering the worst of the vibrations?
The reality of his situation hit Emmett full force, and he knew he had to escape this madness. Then he had to find Clare.
Grabbing his clothes from off the nearby chair, Emmett traded his pajamas for shirt and trousers as quickly as he could before he pushed his feet into his shoes and rushed toward the door. But no matter how hard he tugged on the handle or shoved the wood with his shoulder, the door wouldn’t budge.
“Oh please, God, help me,” he murmured as he frantically searched the room for another means of escape. The window provided the only other way out, but he and Rushford were on the second floor. Rushford! Was his valet all right?
Emmett stepped to the door again and shouted, “Rushford?” He didn’t know if the man could hear him or not, but he had to try. “I’m going out the window.”
White dust from the eroding plaster began filling the room. Emmett coughed as some of it entered his mouth. He hurried toward the open window, his shoes crunching against the broken glass. There was little to see beyond the rain. No light shone along the street below or in the buildings across the way.
A bolt of an idea sent him darting back to the bed. Tugging the mattress free, Emmett dragged it to the window. He maneuvered the mattress over the balcony rail and let it fall. The building rocked again, causing the balcony to tip to one side, as if angered at Emmett’s attempts to flee. He could just make out the white of the mattress below. Keeping his gaze fixed on the object, he climbed over the balcony and jumped.
His stomach seemed to leap into his throat as he fell through the air, but miraculously he landed on the mattress. For one long moment, he didn’t move. Emmett simply lay there, sucking in great gulps of rain. He was alive, for now.
A yell drew his attention upward. On another balcony stood two people. “Help!” one of them screamed. “We can’t get out.”
“You’ll have to jump.” Emmett scrambled to his feet and positioned the mattress beneath the other window. “I have something for you to land on.”
No sooner did he have the mattress in place than one of the pair hurdled themselves over the balcony. The person struck the mattress near the side. Emmett saw it was an older woman, dressed in a long, white nightgown. He helped her up before the second person jumped.
“Oh, thank you,” the woman sobbed, throwing her arms around Emmett. “The stairs are gone, so we couldn’t get out that way.”
Her husband stumbled toward them. “We should find shelter. It’s not safe to linger in the streets.”
As if on cue, one of the buildings across the street tumbled to the ground with a loud crash. Emmett covered his head with his arms and crouched low. A shower of debris fell around him and the older couple, who were hunkered down beside him.
“Look at that!” the man called out, when the falling stones appeared to have stopped. “Half the hotel is already gone.”
Emmett jerked his chin up. Sure enough, the hotel looked as if someone had sliced the building in two with a giant knife. The half he’d been staying in still stood but at a tipped angle. The other half was nothing but a heaping pile of rubble. Which half had Rushford’s room been in? Emmett couldn’t remember.
Terror rendered him immovable as he took in the devastation around him. The crash of masonry mingled with the screams and cries for help that rent the air in every direction. Fires now lit the sky, while people in nightclothes and bare feet scurried down the littered street and up and over the mounds of rubble. The ground continued to quake beneath him. As Emmett gaped in shock at the nightmarish scene, a stone parapet tumbled to the ground, crushing several pedestrians beneath it right before his eyes.
He couldn’t stay here. He needed to move, to act—or he was as good as dead himself.
Emmett ground his teeth together as he pushed against the paralyzing fear and forced his legs to rise. He had to find Rushford. That was all he would think about for now. After that, he would find Clare. One task at a time.
He bolted to the nearest mass of rubble from the hotel. Shouting Rushford’s name, Emmett began pulling away the debris with his hands. Immediately moans rose up from the wreckage. Someone was buried there. Emmett worked faster. Even if the person wasn’t his valet, he couldn’t stop helping now that he knew a fellow human being lay hurting somewhere below.
“Hold on,” he called down to the victim. “I’m going to get you out.”
God willing, he silently added.
He had no way of knowing how long he dug before he saw a face staring up at him through the hole he’d made. It wasn’t Rushford’s face, but the cry of relief from the stranger made all the effort worth it. Emmett reached down and grasped the other man’s hand. Then carefully, so as not to bury him again, he pulled the chap from the mound of rubble that had almost been his tomb.
The stranger looked to be younger than Emmett, though the blood covering a good portion of the man’s face made it difficult to know for certain. “God bless you,” he murmured over and over again in Italian.
Emmett decided to use part of his shirt as a bandage for the stranger’s injury. The garment was so frayed by now that the fabric broke away easily when he ripped it. He wrapped the makeshift bandage around the young man’s head. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything else.” He hated leaving the stranger here, alone and injured, but there was nothing more he could do for him. He had no water, food, or medical supplies to offer.
“Lord . . . Linwood.” The words were spoken in a hoarse voice, but Emmett recognized it at once. He whirled around and saw his valet moving slowly toward him. Rushford cradled his left arm to his chest, but otherwise, the man appeared to be unharmed.
“Rushford!” Emmett closed the distance between them and grasped his valet’s uninjured shoulder in a rush of relief and joy. “Are you all right? I thought you might have been caught in the rubble. What happened?”
His valet bent forward, his breaths coming hard and fast. “I was sleeping . . . and suddenly the ceiling crashed in, and the floor sank.” Rushford sucked in another long breath. “I fell into a rubble pile and nearly gave myself up for dead. After a bit, I found a hole in the wreckage and worked my way out. Afraid I broke my arm, though.”
“We can make a temporary sling until we can find a doctor to set it for you.”
Emmett searched among the debris for something to use and found a black shawl. Shutting his mind to what might have befallen the garment’s owner, he placed the material around Rushford’s back and chest and tied it at the man’s shoulder.
“Thank you, my lord.”
The valet visibly winced as he placed his injured arm into the sling. But it would have
to do for now.
“We need to see how Clare and the others have fared.”
As the two of them started down the street, Emmett glanced back to where he’d left the wounded young man. The stranger had already disappeared. He sent a quick prayer heavenward for the young man, along with a plea for protection for Clare and Miriam, for himself and Rushford, and for those at the viscount’s home.
Emmett hoped to reach them soon, but his and Rushford’s progress was constantly slowed by the chaos around them. In nearly every street and square, mounds of rubble blocked their path. Emmett lost count of how many piles they scaled. Or how many times he stumbled and fell from the vibrating earth and broken cobblestones. The rain hadn’t let up either, and both he and his valet shivered from the cold. They weren’t the only ones fleeing the toppling buildings either. The streets were as clogged with fleeing people as they were wreckage.
Far worse, though, than the damp or the constant threat of being crushed to death by falling objects were the terrified wails of those trapped beneath the rubble. Should he stop and try to help them? Emmett asked himself that question again and again. It tore at his heart to walk away from anyone in such desperate need, but he couldn’t assist everyone, and he needed to get to Clare. The urgency he felt to find his wife screamed at him to move faster, but he hated not being able to rescue others.
A sort of numbness began to seep into his mind and threatened to overwhelm him. Emmett fought it back by picking a point ahead of him. He could make it that far. When he reached that point, he would select another, then another.
Hours seemed to pass as he and Rushford trudged forward. Eventually Emmett could tell daylight was creeping over the world, lighting the horrors around them in ever-increasing detail. In the growing light, he thought he recognized the square ahead of them. If he was right, they were nearly to the viscount’s villa.
They picked their way across the square, veering far to the right at one point to skirt the rubble of another fallen building. The one beside it hadn’t collapsed yet, but like the hotel, it leaned at a precarious angle. Any minute now it would join the fate of those around it.