“It was she who brought the matter before the courts in the first place, by petitioning to have the duchy turned over to her. Had it not been for her actions, the courts never would have gotten involved.”
She was shaking her head so frantically now, that Michael wondered that she didn’t make herself dizzy. “Why would she do such a thing? I thought she loved you.”
He smiled bitterly. “If you were to ask her, she would most probably tell you that she did it because of her love for me. And in her own mind, I do not doubt that she would mean it.”
“But you do not believe it?”
“Oh, I do not doubt that she loves me, I never have. However, I also understand how fiercely protective she is of the family titles and know that she would sacrifice anything, even me, to keep them from falling into less than worthy hands.”
“Titles?” Her head actually stilled and her frown mutated into an expression of bewilderment. “Is there more than one, then?”
“Three, to be exact,” he replied with a nod. “I am the duke of Sherrington, the marquess of Dartnell, and the earl of Grayland.”
“Oh.” Her frown returned as she considered his revelation. After a moment, her head sprang back into motion, slowly wagging from side to side. “I still do not understand. She didn’t have to take the matter before the courts, did she? Surely you weren’t so very ill, for so very long?”
He shrugged one shoulder, keeping his voice deliberately cool and his tone clipped as he replied, “If you must know, the infection in my brain was so bad that I wasn’t expected to live. The doctors warned that if, by some miracle, I did manage to survive, my mind would be enormously compromised and that I would most likely spend the balance of my days being fed through a pap boat and diapered like a babe.”
Again her head was shocked into stillness and her dark eyes grew wide, looking almost liquid, as if they were filled with tears. “Oh, Michael! No! How awful. When I think of you so ill—”
He cut her off with a brusque hand motion. The last thing in the world he wanted to discuss were the details of his illness. The episode with his mistress aside, it was his least favorite topic. “At any rate,” he continued, adding an emphasis to the words and a raise of his eyebrows to further dismiss the uncomfortable subject, “my grandmother went to court because she feared that her great-nephew, Owen Pringle, whom she thoroughly abhors and who is, unfortunately, next in line to inherit the titles, would petition for control of the duchy during my illness, thus affording him to begin what she anticipated to be the ruin of the family name and fortune should the worst befall me. Besides, she needed to be able to make decisions on my behalf. When all was said and done, my grandmother ended up with control not only of the duchy, but of my person as well.”
Her hands went up to signal a halt. “Your grandmother gained control over both the duchy and your person?” When he nodded, she frowned and added, “I have never heard of such a thing as a petition to gain control over a grown man’s person.”
“Ah, but as I said, the doctors expected my mind to be that of an infant should I, by chance, survive. She sought control over my person so as to ensure that I would receive proper care and not simply be deposited in some squalid asylum, as the Pringles most certainly would have done.”
“Then what she claims is true,” Emily softly concluded. Her head, which had begun to wag back and forth during his explanation, abruptly shifted into a nod. “She did bring the matter before the courts out of love.”
“At first, perhaps. But later”—it was his turn to shake his head—“later, she used her power to control my life.”
Her head froze at an inquisitive tilt and her brow creased. “In what way?”
“After it became apparent that I would indeed survive and with my wits intact, she continued running my life. Granted, at first it was because no one knew quite what to make of my seizures and it was feared that they might be the sign of a relapse. But later”—another head shake—“when it was determined that I wasn’t going to relapse and that my fits in no way impaired my mind, she used her power first to force me to submit to dozens of supposed cures for my fits, ones, I might add, that make Eadon’s look mild in comparison, after which she turned me over to Eadon himself, giving him free rein to treat me as he saw fit. Her last act was to force me to marry you. Of course”—he smiled gently—“I can no longer be angry at her for that. Of everything she has ever done for me, her greatest kindness was giving me you.”
She smiled briefly in return, then glanced back down at her drawing. After several moments during which she studied it and made three more bold pencil strokes, she murmured, “Can I ask you something, Michael?”
He let the question float in the air, almost afraid to give his consent for fear of what she might ask. Then he heaved an inward sigh and tautly replied, “If you wish.”
“How did your grandmother force you to wed me? I mean”—she looked up, her face troubled and her eyes beseeching—“you hardly strike me as the sort of man to meekly obey such a command. What did she say or do to get you to the altar?”
He returned her gaze for several beats, his mind arrested by her question. Then he glanced back down at his own drawing, making a show of studying it to hide his inner turmoil as he evenly replied, “She threatened to have me committed to Bamforth Hall.”
“Bamforth Hall?” she echoed softly in question.
“It’s—it’s an—asylum—of sorts,” he replied, making a silent amendment. The incident with his mistress wasn’t his least favorite subject, Bamforth was. Hoping that Emily would be satisfied with his response and leave the subject alone, he picked up his pencil, which he’d laid down during the course of their exchange, and feigned deep concentration as he added a bit more arch to his angel’s eyebrows.
But of course she didn’t leave it alone. Less than a moment had elapsed before she prodded, “Judging from your bitterness on our wedding day, the place must have a very terrible reputation indeed that you would enter into a match you despised to escape going there.”
Though Michael wanted nothing more than to put an end to the disturbing conversation, he knew better than to try. As he was quickly learning, Emily was an exceedingly tenacious chit, especially in matters pertaining to his well-being. Why, if she even suspected how deeply affected he was by the mere mention of Bamforth—
Not wanting to endure the probing that such a suspicion was bound to provoke, well-meaning and gentle though the probing would be, he evenly returned, “On the contrary. The place has the very best of reputations. It is quite genteel as far as asylums go, and takes patients only from the very best families.”
“And yet, you fear it so much that you would sacrifice yourself on the altar of marriage rather than go there?”
Michael couldn’t help smiling at her melodramatic turn of phrase. “Yes, although ‘dread’ would be a better word than ‘fear’ for what I feel toward the place.”
“Oh.” With that, she fell silent. For a short while thereafter, neither of them spoke as they returned their attention to their kites, each lost in their own thoughts. Michael had just began to relax, certain that the subject of Bamforth had been dropped, when Emily abruptly asked, “What did you hear about it?”
He glanced up slowly, praying that she wasn’t asking what he thought she was asking, but dismally certain that she was. “Hear about what?”
She was gazing at him curiously, now and again gnawing on the end of her pencil, which by the looks of it had seen a great deal of such activity. “Bamforth Hall, of course.”
Of course. Damnation! Struggling hard to keep his feelings about the place from his voice, he shrugged one shoulder and smoothly replied, “Nothing, really.”
“Well then?” she persisted, her gaze latching on to his.
He stared back, trying to think of a response to put her off. After a moment or two during which her gaze never wavered from his and her
expressive face took on a look of implacable determination, he gave up. He knew that expression all too well—it was the same one she’d worn the first few times she’d invaded his sickroom. And as he had learned from those exasperating experiences, she would not be put off when she wore that look.
Emitting a noise that perfectly expressed his displeasure at her prying, he abandoned all pretense of nonchalance and bit out, “If you must know, it isn’t anything I heard that makes me dread it so, it was my experience there.”
“Oh.” Another silence. In fact, this one went on so long that Michael again allowed himself to relax, thinking that she was going to let the subject drop at last.
He should have known better. “Would you like to tell me about Bamforth Hall?” she abruptly inquired.
“Good God, no,” he ejected, not daring to look up for what she might see in his eyes.
Again silence, then, “It might help, you know.”
He glanced up to shoot her what he hoped was a quelling look.
She graced him with a tender smile and a nod. “My father always said that it helps a person to talk about their troubles, that it unburdens their soul. In fact, he made doing so a rule of sorts in our household. We were to talk about anything that plagued us … if not to him or each other, then to someone in whom we felt comfortable confiding.”
“And it helped?” he softly quizzed, not missing the wistful note that always shaded her words when she spoke of her home and family.
She nodded again. “Yes. Of course, simply talking couldn’t always solve our problems or completely heal our hurts, but we all agreed that we felt better for having shared our woes. Have you ever discussed your experience at Bamforth with anyone?”
Michael shook his head. He’d complained about it to Eadon, his grandmother, and Euphemia, but he’d never actually spoken about the experience itself, not really.
“Then you should,” she counseled with yet another nod, this one sage. “I understand that you might not want to discuss it with me … after all, there are some things a man isn’t comfortable confiding to a woman. However, you should confide in someone. It is apparent that whatever happened to you there is gnawing at your soul. Promise me that you will think about doing so?”
He continued to gaze at her beautiful face a moment longer, now the picture of tenderness, then nodded.
“Good.” Smiling in a way that would have prompted him to dub his kite “the angel of compassion” were he to draw her expression, she stretched across the table to give his arm a squeeze. As she did so, she caught sight of his drawing. Standing up for a better view, she exclaimed, “Goodness, Michael. I had no idea that you were such an accomplished artist.”
“Only when I am inspired by faultless beauty,” he replied sincerely, studying her delicate profile. It was no lie. He had yet to discover an angle from which she didn’t look exquisite.
To his pleasure, she blushed at his compliment. “I could say the same for you, you know, that you are flawlessly beautiful, but I fear that doing so would only anger you.”
“It isn’t that your compliments anger me, Emily. If you must know the truth, they frighten me. I fear that I shall lose you if I allow you to admire me overly much,” he admitted, his confession compelled by the intimacy of the moment.
She glanced up quickly, a faint crease marring her ivory brow. “What a queer line of reasoning. Pray do explain what you mean.”
“If I allow you to view me in too idealized a light, the shock of seeing my fits might prove too great for you to withstand, and then I will lose you.” He went on to elaborate on his theory, during which Emily listened with a thoughtful expression, nodding on occasion, but never once interrupting.
When he had at last finished and had been silent for several moments, she murmured, “May I say something now?”
He nodded. “Please do.”
“The light in which I view you is far from idealized, Michael. Indeed, I have seen most of your warts, as my father used to jokingly call our imperfections, so I know how truly human you are. But don’t you see?” Her gaze met his again, entreating him to understand and believe in what she said. “That is what I adore most about you. Having seen your flaws makes me feel as if I truly know you, which makes me wonderfully at ease in your company. You have allowed me to be a part of your life, rather than just a spectator, by letting me see you at your best, your worst, and everything in between.”
She paused to smile wryly. “Come, come now, Michael. Can you honestly believe that I see you as more than human after all the times I’ve held your head over the chamberpot in the wake of Mr. Eadon’s emetics? If you ask me, I see you in a perfectly clear light, a far truer one than you see yourself.”
What she said made sense, he supposed, though holding his head while he vomited was a far cry from what she would see when she finally witnessed one of his fits, which she would eventually do. Nonetheless, as she’d pointed out, she’d seen him if not at his worst, then damn close to it … and she still admired him.
That realization fostered his first real spark of hope for their relationship. Thrilled, he smiled and murmured, “Listening to your description of me makes me almost like myself. Too bad I cannot see myself as you do.”
She seemed to consider his words for a beat, then nodded. “Perhaps you can.” With that, she pushed her sketch across the table. Nodding again, this time to indicate the sketch, she added, “This is far and away better than my first attempt to portray you. At the risk of bragging, I must admit that I captured you rather well.”
Loath to tear his gaze from her face, the warmth of which kindled his heart, Michael glanced down at the drawing before him. She was right, she had captured his face perfectly, but the rest of him … he frowned. Rather than drawing him clad in the voluminous robe she’d drawn him in on her first kite, his body was gracefully draped in a length of cloth, revealing more than it hid. And what it revealed … well, that most certainly wasn’t his body. His body no longer looked like that, so strong and well formed.
His frown deepening, he slowly looked back up at her. “I thought you said that you do not idealize me.”
“I don’t,” she replied with a shrug.
“You must to have drawn my head on this body. As I pointed out at the tors, my body is all scraggy and withered, but this—”
“Is an utterly faithful rendering,” she interjected firmly. When he opened his mouth to differ, she cut him off with, “Oh, no. Do not even try to argue. This is a perfect example of what I was talking about earlier. You dislike yourself so much that you cannot see yourself as you really are.” There went her head again, wagging. “No, Michael. This time you are wrong. You are every bit as handsome as I have drawn you. Indeed, were we to drape you in cloth exactly as I have sketched you and then ask a hundred people to compare you to my picture, I would bet my favorite jade bracelet that their only comment would be that I have failed to do you full justice.” The head shake transformed into a nod. “As I told you at the tors, you have a lovely body. Magnificent, I should have said, though I refrained from doing so for fear of making you conceited.”
Michael stared at her face in wonder, searching for signs of insincerity, certain that she lied in an attempt to bolster his admittedly sagging confidence. When he saw only truth, guileless and pure, he glanced back at her drawing. Studying it with new interest, he lightly traced the sculpted planes of the angel’s chest with his fingertip, marveling, “This is really how you see me, then?”
She expelled an exasperated sigh. “Good heavens, Michael! I am beginning to think that you must be the most slow-witted man in all of England. This isn’t how I see you, this is how you look. You are perfectly lovely, and not just on the outside. You are warm, witty, and utterly wonderful on the inside as well. In short, you are a glorious man. How many times must I tell you so before you believe it?”
He critically contemplated
the sketch a beat longer, then looked back up, his lips curving into a smile. “If you see me like this, then I suppose that I cannot help but like myself.” And suddenly, he did. Oh, he doubted that he was the Greek god she’d depicted him as being, but he also realized that he was no longer the frail, pitifully shrunken shadow of a man he saw every time he looked in the mirror. How could he be when Emily saw him like this? For the first time since his illness, Michael felt a swell of pride in himself. The resulting buoyancy of his spirits was the most exhilarating sensation he’d ever felt, a miracle …
As was watching the joy burst into Emily’s beautiful eyes. It was like seeing fireworks light up a midnight sky. “Truly?” she inquired breathlessly, her smile matching the radiance of her eyes. “Oh, Michael. I am so glad.”
“So am I,” he whispered hoarsely, possessed by a strong, impetuous urge to kiss her. So powerful was the impulse that had there not been a table between them, she would have already been in his arms, his needful lips consuming any protest she might raise. The thought of holding her, of caressing her luscious curves and feeling them mold against him as she sighed her sensual pleasure, made his body respond with shattering urgency.
Now struggling to maintain what little was left of his rapidly slipping composure, Michael tore his gaze from Emily’s tempting mouth and forced himself to stare back down at her sketch of him. Desperate for something to distract him, anything to get his mind off the erotic vision of Emily with her red lips swollen from his kisses and her bewitching eyes inviting him to steal more, he said the first thing to come to mind. “What other kinds of kites do you make? Surely they are not all shaped like angels?”
“Oh, no. I have experimented with all sorts of shapes—diamonds, rectangles, boxes, circles, even the Chinese lantern—but I always decorate them with angels,” she replied, sitting down again.
“Ah. Then you are fond of angels?” Angels? Yes. Perfect. He was hardly in danger of experiencing further arousal while engaged in a theological discussion.
Bewitched Page 24