His grandmother recoiled slightly, but never lost her air of composure. Not that he’d expected her to. As far as he knew, nothing had ever shattered her aplomb. True to form, she shrugged yet again and coolly replied, “True or not, it hardly matters now. That episode happened over two years ago and much has changed since that time, including you. Given your improvement, I am certain that such a thing will never happen again.”
“You are damned right it won’t, because I refuse to put myself in the position to suffer that kind of shame again. Ever!”
She made a clucking noise behind her teeth. “Such stuff and nonsense. You don’t really expect me to believe that you intend to remain celibate, do you? Why, the very notion is absurd.”
Michael snorted. “Tell that to your quacks. According to their expert opinion, excitement of any kind can provoke spells. Because of the incident with my mistress, I have been specifically instructed to avoid sexual arousal at all costs.”
His grandmother snorted back. “Pshaw. They were simply being cautious. If their theory of excitement provoking spells were indeed true, you would be having one now.”
“Be that as it may, there will be no wedding.” Michael gave his head a firm shake, determined to squelch her outlandish plan once and for all. “When Effie and the chit arrive, you will explain that it was all a mistake and send them on their way. And you will never—I repeat, never!—so much as even consider such a scheme again. Do I make myself clear?” He more roared than uttered that last line.
Oh, he’d made himself perfectly clear. Adeline, however, had no intention of abandoning her plan or her last hope for his happiness. Again reminding herself that the marriage was for his own good, she adopted her most authoritative mien and decreed, “There will be a marriage, and that is that. I command it.”
“Of course you do. You do nothing but command me these days,” he flung back, meeting her gaze with cold, resentful eyes. “However, unlike the cures you have forced upon me in the past, you cannot have me held down and simply inflict this marriage on me. I have to speak the vows willingly, you know.”
“Yes. And you will.” Despite her exasperation with him, she was pleased to see a spot of color rise in his cheeks.
“And if I refuse?”
She let his inquiry dangle in the air for a moment, then brought it crashing to earth with, “Then I shall have you declared mad and you shall be committed to Bamforth Hall.” Bamforth Hall was the genteel asylum where he had been confined during several of his more aggressive cures. It was a place he both despised and feared.
As she had expected, he looked horrified. So horrified, in fact, that she felt her resolution waver. It was just a threat, of course. She would never send Michael back to Bamforth, no matter the circumstances. Unfortunately, it was the only threat she knew powerful enough to sway him to her will.
After several moments, during which what little color he had gained during their argument drained from his face, Michael recovered himself and said, “You know as well as I that you would never do such a thing. Not when it means handing the duchy over to the Pringles.”
“Wouldn’t I?” she softly challenged.
He smiled rather smugly. “No. Never.”
She smiled back. “You are wrong. I would if the Pringles relinquished their infant son into my care, which we both know they would do in a heartbeat if it meant gaining the duchy.”
His jade eyes narrowed, and to Adeline’s relief, she saw a flicker of uncertainty in their depths. “I don’t believe you. Why would you do such a thing? You always said that you would die before you would allow a Pringle to assume the Sherrington title.”
“I will do it because you shall give me no choice, not if you refuse to marry. You know as well as I that if you die without issue, which is exactly what will happen if you do not wed, the title will automatically go to the Pringles. And we both know how disastrous that will be. However, if I were to take their son, Benjamin, now, while he is young, I might be able to raise him into an heir worthy of the Sherrington duchy, thus ensuring the continued eminence of the title.”
He raised his eyebrows, visibly skeptical. “Indeed? Well, then, if you are indeed so very worried about the duchy, why take a chance on my marriage to this … this …” He snapped his fingers. “What is the chit’s name again?”
“Emily,” she supplied. What was it about the name that made it so difficult to remember?
“Ah, yes. Emily.” He shook his head, as if thinking the same thing. “Anyway, as I was saying, if you are so very set on ensuring the Sherrington duchy, why take a chance that my marriage to this Emily chit will bear fruit? As I have explained, there is a good chance that I will be unable to consummate the union. And even if I can, there are no guarantees that my seed will produce an heir.”
Adeline shrugged, hiding her grin as she sensed victory close at hand. “There are no guarantees that the Pringle boy can be made worthy of the Sherrington duchy, either. However, given the choice, I’d wager on a Vane against a Pringle any day of the week. Unfortunately, you refuse to give me that choice, so I must cast my lot with the Pringles.”
“But why now and why this Emily chit?” he inquired softly.
“Because I am old, and I wish to have things settled.” She sighed, suddenly feeling every one of her eighty-two years. “I—”
“Good heavens! You aren’t ill, are you?” he interjected, his gaze frantically searching her face. If he had looked horrified by the threat of Bamforth, he looked doubly so now.
“No, no. Of course not. I’m in as fine a feather as I was at twenty,” she replied, touched by his concern. Despite his current resentment of her, she never doubted for a moment that he loved her. Patting his wan cheek in a way that conveyed her own love for him, she added, “To answer your question, I have selected Emily because Effie’s recently deceased son left her charged with the duty of finding the gel a husband. If you could push aside your stubbornness for a moment, you would see that she is a perfect match. She is, after all, a Merriman, which means that she comes from noble blood, and you know what a dear our Effie is. By all accounts, Emily is every bit as lovely and kind as her grandmother.”
“That and the fact that there isn’t a gently born girl in all of England who will have me,” he added, wearily. Rubbing his temples as if they throbbed, he sighed and lay back down again.
“Yes, that too,” Adeline agreed quietly. “Emily Merriman is my last hope for you.” As she uttered the words, she began lightly stroking his temples.
He made a soft sound and closed his eyes. She had continued the soothing action for several moments when he murmured, “Will you really have me committed to Bamforth if I refuse to wed the girl?”
Though it pained her to utter the words, she replied, “Yes. I am sorry, but I shall have no choice. The only way the Pringles will hand over their son is in trade for the duchy. And in order for me to give it to them, I must declare you mad and prove the point by sending you to Bamforth.”
“And here I thought you loved me,” he muttered.
“I do,” she exclaimed fiercely. “Do not ever doubt that I love you. Unfortunately, I know where my first loyalty must lie, and that is with the duchy. Were your priorities in order, yours would lie there as well, and I wouldn’t be forced to make such a heartbreaking choice. But make it I must.”
He heaved a heavy sigh and slowly opened his eyes. Looking as if he were going to a particularly excruciating death, he murmured, “I suppose you must, which leaves me with no choice but to wed this Emily chit.”
“No choice at all, unless, of course, you prefer life at Bamforth,” she briskly replied.
He grimaced. “I think you know my preference.”
Indeed Adeline did, and she smiled.
Chapter 3
“Married!” The girl couldn’t have looked more flabbergasted. Indeed, by her expression you would have th
ought that she’d just been informed that her house had burned down with her entire family inside, not that she was about to be wed.
Euphemia smiled and nodded, certain that her next revelation would soften her granddaughter’s shock. “Yes, married, and to a duke, no less. Your groom-to-be is Michael Vane, duke of Sherrington, and he is quite a catch, I assure you. Not only is he young and handsome, he is exceedingly wealthy. In short, he is everything a girl could wish for in a husband.” She nodded again, noting with a prick of irritation that the girl appeared unappeased. If anything, she looked even more dismayed.
Oh, botheration! The chit was going to be difficult about this marriage business, and she had so hoped to avoid an unpleasant scene. In fact, she’d been confident of doing so, convinced that the lure of a title and wealth would crush whatever objections her granddaughter might have to wedding a stranger. The ploy most assuredly would have succeeded with any of the girls in the ton, had the chosen girl, of course, been ignorant of Michael’s spells, which Emily was.
Euphemia surveyed her granddaughter with displeasure, wondering what in Hades ailed her. Then it struck her: Emily wasn’t a member of the ton. She wasn’t even English; she was an American. Could it be that she simply didn’t understand the significance of what she was being told?
Deciding that that must indeed be the case, Euphemia pointedly clarified, “Just think, Emily, you shall be a duchess. A duchess! An enviable title by anyone’s account. Imagine your American friends’ envy when you write them of your grand new station in life.”
The chit was either the most contrary creature on earth or the most witless, though Euphemia preferred to believe the former, given the fact that Emily was family, for she stubbornly shook her head and replied, “I can’t marry him. Surely you know that?”
“Bosh! I know no such thing. You can marry him, and you will. It is all arranged. You shall be wed tomorrow morning, and that is that.” Euphemia fixed Emily, who sat in the opposite coach seat, with her most uncompromising stare, one she was certain would squelch her mutiny.
Again she misjudged the girl. Unlike the misses at Almack’s, who could be cowed into quivering silence with that look, Emily remained undaunted. If anything, she looked all the more determined. Her naturally rosy cheeks flaming to the crimson of strong madder dye, she shook her head again and argued, “I can’t. It’s impossible—”
“You mean you won’t, that you intend to be contrary,” Euphemia interjected harshly. At her age she had little enough patience, and none whatsoever for disobedient misses.
“No! I—”
“Silence!” The command was accompanied by an imperious hand motion. To Euphemia’s supreme satisfaction, the provoking chit actually did as she was told and bridled her wayward tongue. Good. She was beginning to learn her place. Resolved to reinforce the lesson, she again pinned her granddaughter with her glare, this time leaning forward in her seat as she did so to heighten the impact. In a clipped voice that brooked no argument, she said, “You might as well save yourself the trouble of being difficult, girl, for I can assure you that it will do no good. I said that you will wed the duke of Sherrington, and wed him you shall. You have no choice in the matter.”
Emily’s cheeks flamed a shade brighter, an advent that astounded Euphemia, who was unaware that such a vivid red existed in nature. “I’m not being difficult, Grandmother, truly I am not,” she countered, her voice soft and laced with appeal. “I am simply trying to explain why I cannot marry. If you will just listen, I am certain that you’ll agree that I can’t wed your duke, or anyone else for that matter.”
Euphemia, however, was far too appalled by her granddaughter’s outlandish color at that moment to listen to anything she had to say. Pointing accusingly at the offending blush, she ejected, “Ecod, child! Your cheeks are a most singular shade of red. If I hadn’t seen them flush that color with my own two eyes, I would suspect you of painting.”
“My cheeks?” Frowning, Emily raised her yellow-gloved hands to her face, cupping her cheeks in her palms as if to shield their shameful ruddiness from sight. “Oh, the hateful, awful things! They turn this color every time I get the least bit angry or upset … they are my cross to bear. I know I look dreadful, but nothing I do seems to repress their color.”
Dreadful? Euphemia eyed her granddaughter critically. “Dreadful” most certainly wasn’t the word she would have used to describe how Emily looked at that moment. No, seeing her like this, flushed and rather breathless, with her full red lips in a pout and her exotically slanted eyes shadowed by her lowered lashes, brought a far different, and in Euphemia’s mind, far worse word to mind. That word was “provocative.” In truth, she looked positively wanton, rather like a woman who had just arisen from a tumble with a particularly lusty lover. Not at all a seemly way for an innocent miss to look, or any decent woman, for that matter.
Rather than be distressed by her observation, which she most assuredly would have been had she been faced with guarding Emily’s virtue for a Season, Euphemia was pleased. How could Michael resist her? As a man of the world, he was certain to appreciate her seductive beauty.
And Emily was undeniably beautiful. Lovelier even than she had been in her youth, and she’d once been proclaimed the beauty of the eighteenth century. Secretly relieved that the girl hadn’t been born eighty years earlier, Euphemia leaned back in her seat and viewed her granddaughter with discriminating eyes.
The ensemble she wore was perfection, which Euphemia had known it would be when she’d selected it for her. Made of geranium red Gros de Indes silk through which was worked narrow pistachio stripes, the carriage gown was sumptuously embellished with trellis trim over which was embroidered climbing pink and yellow roses. At the modest neckline was a dainty lace collerette, pinned with a gold and citrine brooch; matching earrings dangled from her ears.
Euphemia paused a beat to consider the triple-puffed a la Marie sleeves, noting with a faint nod of approval how their fullness accentuated the willowy curves of Emily’s torso. Michael would definitely find no fault with that fine bosom and tiny waist, or with the rounded hips and long, slender legs she had glimpsed when the dressmaker had measured the girl for her new wardrobe. As for Emily’s face …
Her gaze swept upward to her granddaughter’s face, which was charmingly framed by a beribboned and flower-bedecked leghorn hat. Peeking from beneath that millinery masterpiece were several glossy curls, their ebony darkness a stunning contrast to her flawless ivory skin. Then there were those tip-tilted dark eyes and those lush red lips. One glance at that exquisite face and Michael was certain to be eager to bed her, thus solving the problem of an heir. Of course, in order for him to bed her, the chit would first have to cooperate with the plan.
That thought pulled her mind back to Emily’s refusal to wed, and her own duty to force her. Determined to do exactly that, and with as little fuss as possible, Euphemia waved dismissively and said, “Never mind about your color. A dusting of rice powder should remedy it right enough. The issue at hand is your obstinate refusal to marry the duke of Sherrington.”
Emily dropped her hands from her cheeks with a sigh. “Yes, and I am trying to explain why I cannot wed him.”
Euphemia echoed her granddaughter’s sigh with a heavy one of her own. Vexing, tiresome creature! It was clear that she wasn’t going to be silenced until she’d had her say. Feeling the beginnings of a megrim at the prospect of the unpleasantness that was sure to follow that say, she sighed again and crossly relented. “Fine, then. Go ahead and explain if you must. But be warned: your reason shall in no way alter the outcome of this matter. Make no mistake about it—you will marry the duke, exactly as planned. Need I remind you of your father’s final request?”
“No, and were I not cursed, I would gladly honor it. Of course, I would insist on selecting my own husband.”
Euphemia promptly dismissed the latter part of the statement, focusing instead on t
he irregularity of the former. “Cursed?” she echoed, caught completely off-guard. She most certainly had to give the girl credit for originality. Of all the objections she had thought her granddaughter might voice, this one had never even entered her mind. Her astonishment momentarily banishing the throb of her impending megrim, she ejected, “Egads, Emily! What the devil sort of nonsense is this?”
“I’m cursed. You know … by a witch? Surely Father wrote you about it?” By the girl’s expression, it was clear that she expected Euphemia to know exactly what she was blathering about.
Euphemia snorted. “Of course not. He knew better than to write such gibberish.”
“But it isn’t gibberish. The curse is real.” She was shaking her head now, over and over again in a frantic manner that made Euphemia quite dizzy to watch. “Oh, dear. I was sure Father had written you about it. It’s the reason I wasn’t wed in Boston.”
Another snort from Euphemia. “Is that so?” And here she’d been thinking that it was because the chit was a queer card.
The head shake jerked into a nod.
“Indeed? And what, pray tell, sort of curse is it that it would bar you from marriage?” Heaven help her, she had to ask. There was no help for it if she wanted to settle the matter.
“The witch said that I shall be a plague to any man I love. And I am! The most awful things happen every time I fall in love. Why, my three fiancés were lucky to escape with their lives. When the other gentlemen realized that the curse is indeed real, they avoided me like the plague I am.”
“Fools, the lot of them,” Euphemia declared with a sniff. “No doubt your father recognized that fact, which explains why he wished you sent here. Being an Englishman himself, he knew that our gentlemen are far too sensible to be frightened off by superstitious twaddle.”
The chit was shaking her head in that giddy manner again. “He sent me here because he read somewhere that a curse can’t follow a person over water, and he hoped that I might be safely wed here.”
Bewitched Page 4