The Duke’s Obsession Bundle

by Grace Burrowes

  “Be warned yourself.” Emmie smiled at him, her expression probably more wistful than she’d intended. “I have asked you for that story, St. Just, the one that explains how a much-commended officer ends up beaten insensate and hung over on a packet home. We will discuss that, too.” He didn’t argue with her; he just gave her an answering smile and escorted her as slowly as he could back to the house.

  The next day was spent in preparations for the journey. With luck, they’d reach Morelands within the week and be spared having to travel the next Sunday, or at least part of it. Douglas was dragooned into accompanying St. Just into York, where a sturdy saddle horse by the name of Beau was purchased for the earl.

  The next priority was some provision for Winnie in St. Just’s absence, which was quickly dealt with. When he came out of the solicitor’s office, St. Just made a few other purchases then found Douglas waiting for him with the horses at the nearest green.

  “To Rosecroft.” The earl swung up and nudged Wulf into a trot. It wasn’t quite home, but it was as much home as he had found anywhere since leaving for university sixteen years ago. That truth emerged only as a function of the fact that on the morrow, he’d be leaving Rosecroft.

  And Winnie.

  And Emmie.

  ***

  Somewhere in the house, a clock struck midnight, and the sound brought Emmie’s attention to the drone of rain pattering against the windows. The night had grown almost brisk, and the cooler air had left her restless.

  The cooler air, the earl’s departure on the morrow, the entire mess her life had become since his arrival were all keeping her from sleep. She had to be up by five at the latest to get the day’s baking done, and she’d already tried reading to distract her mind into slumber. Drastic measures were called for, and so she tied her hair back with a ribbon, located her slippers, and headed for the decanter in the library.

  The room was dark other than the feeble light of Emmie’s candle, but it was enough for her to find the decanter and a glass. She wasn’t sure how much was required to sooth frazzled nerves, but she’d managed the amount the earl had served her, so she doubled that and took a cautious sip.

  It still warmed, burning then soothing, as it trickled down her throat. She sighed and took another small sip.

  “Have we reduced you to tippling, Emmie?” St. Just’s voice rose from the sofa, where he’d been reclining in the dark. He loomed up from the shadows, barefoot, shirt open at the neck, and cuffs turned back.

  “We have.” She kept her gaze on the tumbler in her hand, lest she be caught staring at the earl in breathtakingly attractive dishabille. “I have to be up early, and I could not sleep. The brandy helped before.”

  “But what could possibly keep you awake?” the earl mused, taking her glass from her and stealing a sip. “Surely your conscience cannot trouble you?”

  “Nobody’s conscience should ever rest entirely.”

  “Not even in times of war?” he asked softly, glancing at her loose hair and state of undress.

  “In battle, probably,” Emmie allowed, noting his perusal.

  “Probably?”

  She met his gaze. “St. Just, what troubles you?”

  “The night is not long enough even to start on that, Emmie,” he said, eyeing her drink as if he’d like to consume it whole. “Suffice it to say I am plagued by unhappy and unflattering memories.”

  “We all have those.”

  “We do?” He reached out and lifted a skein of her hair, letting it trail over his fingers. “Have you ever wanted to kill someone, Emmie Farnum?”

  “I have,” she said, swallowing as his fingers brushed her arm. “You saw to the matter for me.”

  “Helmsley.” The earl looked intrigued. “When did you want to kill him?” He took her by the hand and led her to the sofa, across the room from the light of Emmie’s candle.

  “When didn’t I?” Emmie sat beside him and stared into the darkness. “It isn’t something I think about, you know? As a very young man, he was merely spoiled, though I couldn’t see it at the time. He became a menace, a thoroughgoing scoundrel who grew more reprehensible with each passing year, but none of that would have mattered, except for Winnie.”

  “He left her more or less alone.” St. Just’s hand trailed her hair over her shoulder, a repeated, rhythmic caress that seemed to be soothing him as it relaxed her.

  “He did, but he would occasionally recall he had a daughter and summon Winnie to parade about for his friends.”

  “I wasn’t aware he had friends.”

  “Not many,” Emmie said, looping her linked hands over her drawn-up knees, “and none of any honor. There was one in particular, Baron Stull. He was a huge, fat monster, and whenever he requested it, Helmsley would summon Winnie to sit on the man’s lap. It was depraved.”

  “Before he departed this life, Helmsley implicated Stull in all manner of schemes, including arson and attempted kidnapping,” St. Just said. “Stull has not the support in the Lords to escape his fate, and every so often, they like to convict one of their own as an example. But likely the thing that galls you most is that you could not intervene.”

  “Oh, but I did,” Emmie said, smiling bitterly. “I taught Winnie to hide and I bribed the servants to warn her when Stull was about and I taught her how to hurt a man should he bother her. She knows how to get into the cottage even when it’s locked up tight, and she knows every way to get out of this house. I told her she wasn’t helpless, but she had to be very careful.”

  “So you gave her options,” St. Just said, his thumb making slow circles on her nape.

  “I did, and in that regard, even the bad memories are worth respecting.”

  “How can a bad memory ever be worth keeping?” St. Just’s hand went still. “I would give a body part, Emmie, to forget some of things I’ve done and seen, the things I’ve heard.”

  “No you would not,” Emmie chided. “Those bad memories, times you were angry or frightened or beyond the call of conscience, they are still memories of times you survived. You let those go, and survival loses some of its meaning, as well. You’re alive, St. Just, but only because you made it through those worst times.”

  All of him went still at her words, and in the silence, the clock chimed the half hour.

  “Say that again,” he ordered softly.

  “You lose the worst memories,” Emmie said slowly, “and you lose memories of survival; forget them, and survival loses some of its meaning.”

  He repeated the words to himself silently while Emmie watched his lips moving. The rain spattered against the window in a wind-driven sheet, and he dropped his forehead to her shoulder.

  “Sleep with me tonight,” he said, “or let me sleep with you.”

  “You know we cannot.”

  “Just sleep, Emmie. I will not bother you.”

  In the dark, she could not read his expression, but she did know he was ripe for another setback. He wasn’t sleeping in his bed, it was after midnight, and his memories were tormenting him.

  “I will scream the house down if you misbehave, and I will not let you seduce me.” It was a terrible idea—almost as terrible as the thought of not seeing him for weeks, not hearing him banter with Lord Amery, not watching as he slowly coaxed Winnie into a semblance of civilized behavior. It was a terrible idea, for she could not think of refusing him.

  “Tonight, Emmie love, I could not seduce my own right hand. I’ve already tried.” She shot him a puzzled look but kept her questions to herself.

  “Take me upstairs, Emmie.” He rose and drew her to her feet. “Please.” She made no reply, just took his hand, picked up her candle, and led him to her bedroom. While she finished braiding her hair, he locked the door then undressed, washed, and climbed under her covers. When her fingers hesitated at the ties of her nightgown, he met her gaze.

  “It’s up to you. Sleep however you are comfortable.”

  She blew out the candle before taking off her clothes and climbing in beside
him.

  “You will sleep?” she asked, her voice hesitant in the darkness.

  “Eventually,” he replied, pushing her gently to her side, “and so will you.” He trailed his fingers over her shoulder blades then down her spine. “Relax, Emmie. I’ve given my word I will behave, and I would not lie to you.”

  She sighed and gave herself up to the pleasure of having her back rubbed and then, only moments later, to the pleasure of slumber.

  “Better,” he murmured, content just to touch her. The smooth, fragrant expanse of her flesh under his hands soothed him, distracted him from the rain and the rain scents coming in the windows. Her breathing evened out, and the tension in her body eased. Slowly, so as not to disturb her, he curved his naked body around hers and slipped a hand around her waist.

  She sighed again and snuggled back against his chest, then laced her fingers through his. He felt himself drifting into sleep, Emmie’s hand in his, her warmth against his heart, her fragrance blotting out the memories that had denied him sleep.

  Peace. Finally, finally, I have experienced that thing referred to as peace.

  ***

  “Emmie.” St. Just stepped closer, ignoring Stevens, Douglas, and Winnie across the yard. “I do not want to leave you.”

  “But you will,” she said simply, “and this journey will be good for you. Your family is anxious about you, too, and if you don’t go now, traveling will not get any easier until spring.”

  “I know.” He slapped riding gloves against his thigh. “I know all that, but I also know I will miss you and Winnie and… oh, hell.”

  He spun her by her shoulder and fastened his mouth to hers. It was not a chaste, parting kiss but a hot, carnal, daring, reminding kiss. He’d taken her off guard, and she was slow to respond, but when she did, it was to frame his jaw with her hand and circle her arm around his waist. She allowed him his moment, neither resisting nor encouraging, but when he broke the kiss, she stayed in his arms, resting her forehead on his chest.

  “Naughty man.”

  “Something to remember me by,” he murmured, pleased with himself. “Take care of Winnie, write, and I will see you in a few weeks.”

  “Take care of yourself, Devlin St. Just.” She held his gaze solemnly. “Let your family love you.”

  Her comment puzzled him, sounding like something Douglas might say, but there was no time to parse her meaning. He signaled to Stevens, who brought over the sturdy gelding purchased days earlier in York.

  “Miss Emmie?” Lord Amery brought Winnie to her and passed Winnie’s hand into Emmie’s. “Good-bye, my dear. Winnie has assured me she will look out for your welfare, but you must know, have you need of me or my resources, at any time, you have only to call upon me.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and for the space of a slow breath, brought her against his lean frame. “I’ll look after him, Emmie, but you might consider letting him look after you, too.”

  She was so startled by that whispered suggestion it barely registered when Douglas pressed a soft kiss to her cheek then stepped back. Both men mounted up, and with a final wave, cantered down the drive. The only sounds left when their hoofbeats had faded were the splashing of the fountain and Winnie’s foot scuffing in the dirt.

  “I hate that they left,” Winnie announced, “and he didn’t even get me a pony.” Emmie caught Stevens’s eye at that remark and returned his smile.

  “The earl will be back, Winnie, and Lord Amery will probably visit again, too. Besides, we have too much to do to be missing them for very long.”

  “Beg pardon, Miss?” Stevens interrupted when she would have taken Winnie by the hand and returned with her to the kitchens.

  “Stevens?”

  “His lordship left summat for Miss Winnie in the stables,” Stevens said, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief, “but not a pony.”

  “Oh, Miss Emmie.” Winnie swung Emmie’s hand. “Can we go see? Please?”

  “Let’s do.” Emmie nodded at Stevens, and Winnie was off like a shot.

  “So, where is it?” Winnie asked, peering down the barn aisle moments later. “What can it be doing in the stable if it isn’t a pony?”

  “Up there.” Stevens pointed to the hayloft. “I’ll fetch it down.” Stevens came down the ladder moments later, moving carefully with something tucked under one arm.

  “Said his name’s Scout.” Stevens put a wiggling black ball of puppy fur on the ground and passed a twine rope into Winnie’s hands. “Bought him in York. He said Lord Amery weren’t keen on leaving a pony behind and nobody to teach Miss Winnie how to ride it yet.”

  “A puppy!” Winnie squealed. “Oh, a puppy! Is he mine? Can I keep him?”

  “He’s yours,” Stevens replied, smiling broadly, “and from the way he’s taking on, I doubt you could get rid of him.”

  “A dog,” Emmie said, nonplussed. And now, now, she felt tears welling. That blasted, sweet, barbaric, impossible man… A dog was such a messy creature, drooling and shedding and worse and so lovable… And Winnie needed some companionship.

  As Winnie scratched her puppy’s tummy and scuffled with him in the dirt, Stevens offered Emmie an apologetic smile. Winnie was in transports, giggling at her puppy, when just a few minutes before, she’d been near tears. “It’s very thoughtful of his lordship, but that thing is going to be enormous.”

  The puppy was quite young, but its paws were proof of Emmie’s words.

  “There’s something else, too, Miss Emmie.” Stevens had gone bashful now, and Emmie was intrigued. “Here.” Stevens beckoned her to follow him out the back of the stables, to where a separate entrance led to a roomy foaling stall. “He said you needed summat other’n t’mule, and you’re to limber her up, as Miss Winnie will be getting a pony soon.”

  A sturdy dapple-gray mare stood regarding Emmie from over a pile of hay. She turned a soft eye on Emmie and came over to the half door to greet her visitors.

  “Oh, Stevens.” Emmie’s eyes teared up again. “She is so pretty… so pretty.”

  “He left ye a message.” Stevens disappeared back into the barn and came out with a sealed envelope. “I can tack her up if ye like.”

  Emmie tore open the envelope with shaking fingers. How dare he be so thoughtful and generous and kind? Oh, how dare he… She couldn’t keep the horse, of course; it would not be in the least proper, but dear Lord, the animal was lovely…

  My dear Miss Farnum,

  Her name is Petunia, and she is yours. I have taken myself to points distant, so by the time I return, you will have fallen in love with her, and I will be spared your arguments and remonstrations. She is as trustworthy and reliable a lady as I have met outside your kitchen, and at five years of age, has plenty of service yet to give. Bothwell has been alerted you will be joining him on his rides, should it please you to do so. And if you are still determined not to keep the horse, dear lady, then consider her my attempt at consolation to you for inflicting Scout on the household in my absence.

  St. Just

  He’d drawn a sketch in the corner of Scout, huge paws splayed, tongue hanging, his expression bewildered, and broken crockery scattered in every direction. The little cartoon made Emmie smile through her tears even as Winnie tugged Scout out behind the stables to track Emmie down.

  “Are you crying, Miss Emmie?” Winnie picked up Emmie’s hand. “You mustn’t be sad, as we have Scout now to protect us and keep us company.”

  “It isn’t Scout, Winnie.” Emmie waved a hand toward the stall where Petunia was still hanging her head over the door, placidly watching the passing scene.

  “Oh.” Winnie’s eyes went round. “There’s a new horse, Scout.” She picked up her puppy and brought him over to the horse. The mare sniffed at the dog delicately, then at the child, then picked up another mouthful of hay.

  “Her name’s Petunia,” Emmie said, finding her handkerchief. “The earl brought her from York so I can ride out with the vicar.”

  “She’s very pretty,” Winnie said, strok
ing the velvety gray nose. “And not too big.” The mare was fairly good size, at least sixteen and a half hands, and much too big for Winnie.

  “Maybe once I get used to her, I can take you up with me, Winnie. Would you like that?”

  “Would I?” Winnie squealed, setting the dog down. “Did you hear that, Scout? Miss Emmie says we can go for a ride. Oh… We must write to the earl and thank him, Miss Emmie, and I must tell Rose I have a puppy, too. I can knight Scout, can’t I?”

  “Of course you may,” Emmie said, reaching for Winnie’s hand. “Though you must know knights would never deign to be seen in the castle kitchens, except perhaps in the dead of winter, when it’s too cold to go charging about the kingdom.”

  “Did knights sleep in beds?”

  “Scout can stay with Stevens above the carriage house when you have repaired to your princess tower for your beauty sleep.”

  “I’ll ask Scout.”

  It turned out Scout was a loquacious fellow, and on topics puppies did not normally expound upon. He decided sums were to follow penmanship, that Rose would like his portrait posthaste, that raspberry cobbler would do for dessert.

  “Apple tarts will make me miss Rosecroft,” Winnie explained to her dog, who was learning to play fetch on the terrace behind the kitchens. Emmie smiled at the puppy’s antics and sipped her cold, sugared meadow tea. She admitted to herself she missed St. Just already, missed his stride on the polished wood floors of the manor, missed his scent when he leaned in to steal a kiss, missed the sight of him on his horses…

  And knew, in her bones, in her heart, that were he not gone from the manor, she’d be hard put to deny him her bed again. She’d never spent the night in the same bed with a man before, hadn’t slept with another person since she was a very, very small child, in fact. Just as with kissing, he had the knack of it. She could still feel his hand, gentle, soothing, and slow on her back. There’d been nothing sexual in the caress at all, but he had been tender with her, reverent almost.