A Proper Companion

by Candice Hern

  He'd bloody well better, or Robert would have his head.

  Chapter 17

  "Well, my dear," the dowager said as she patted Emily's hand, "you've been a terrific help in organizing the ball. Everything certainly seems to be in order." She peered through gold spectacles, nodding as she scanned the list in her hand. She was ensconced among a mountain of satin pillows beneath the tented canopy of her bed. Charlemagne's black eyes peeked out from beneath one tiny lace-edged pillow. "You're sure the florist understands what I want?" she asked, looking up from the list.

  "I am sure he does, my lady," Emily replied, half reclining on the blue silk duchesse en bateau situated next to the bed. The dowager had sent for her after she had already undressed for the evening, and she was wrapped in an old, comfortable, and somewhat shabby dressing gown of dark forest green merino. The white smocked muslin gown beneath, and the white satin slippers, however, were new—another gift from her employer.

  "The box trees are to arrive early tomorrow morning," she said. "They are promised to be trimmed to the shapes you specified."

  "Excellent! And the flowers?"

  "Blue gentium, lobelias, irises, monkshood, hydrangeas, and bluebells, have all been acquired in massive amounts, I am assured. At great expense, I hesitate to mention."

  "Hmph!" The dowager waved away that concern with her long-fingered hand. "I particularly wanted shades of blue to complement the Bradleigh livery. Besides, everyone else decorates their ballrooms in pinks or whites or yellows. Blue presented a delicious challenge that will not go unnoticed."

  "Indeed. The effect will certainly be striking, especially with the occasional golden accent provided by the narcissuses and jonquils. Are you not afraid, my lady, that the footmen in their blue and gold liveries will be invisible against such a background?"

  "That is just the point, my dear."

  Emily laughed. "Brilliant! This will surely be the most talked-about ball of the Season."

  "Due in great part to your efforts, my dear. I trust you haven't been working so hard that you have not had time to enjoy your first London Season?"

  "I have enjoyed it tremendously, my lady, as you well know. Everyone has been very kind."

  "And the gentlemen?" the dowager asked, removing her spectacles.

  "As I have said," Emily replied in a quiet voice, "everyone has been most kind."

  "And what of a specific gentleman? Sedgewick certainly seems forever underfoot. Do you think he will offer for you?"

  "My lady!"

  "Well, do you?" The dowager fixed Emily with sharp brown eyes.

  Emily sighed and tore her eyes from her employer's demanding gaze. She swung her legs down from the duchesse and rose to stand next to the bed. "I have begun to suspect that his intentions are serious, my lady."

  "Emily, my girl, that is wonderful!" The dowager held out her arms, and Emily bent down to be embraced. "I am so pleased for you." She pulled back from Emily, who remained seated on the edge of the bed. The dowager reached down to take both her hands. "You will accept his offer?" she asked.

  Emily dropped her eyes to their joined hands and did not immediately reply. It was the same question that had been tormenting her for days. "Yes, I suppose so," she said finally, without conviction.

  The dowager reached up and gently tilted Emily's chin so that she was forced to look into her eyes. The old woman cocked her head to one side and held her gaze for a moment. "You must do whatever you think is best, my dear."

  "Yes, my lady." Emily kissed her on the cheek and rose from the bed. "Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I will curl up with Miss Edgeworth's new novel for a while before going to sleep. I began it last night and am shamelessly anxious to return to it."

  "The Absentee? Oh, dear," the dowager said when Emily nodded. "I admit that I, too, was taken in by that tale. I asked one of the maids where it had gotten to—I remember we had purchased it a few weeks ago at Hatchard's—and she must have found it in your bedchamber. I'm afraid I pored over it all afternoon and have left it downstairs in the library."

  Emily smiled. "Then I shall have to go down and retrieve it. Did you enjoy it?"

  "I did indeed. Why, I was quite overcome when Grace Nugent—"

  "Stop!" Emily interrupted, laughing. "Please, don't tell me how it ends. Well, of course I know how it ends. All romantic novels end the same way, but it's the process of getting there that provides all the enjoyment. I shall have to find out for myself what becomes of Grace and Lord Colambre."

  Emily said goodnight to her employer and went across the hall to her own room. She grabbed a candlestick, lit the candle from the one next to her bed, and headed down the hall toward the stairs. She paused for a moment on the landing, wondering if it was quite proper to wander downstairs in her dressing gown. But it was very late, after all—just an hour short of midnight—and no servants would be about. She knew Lord Bradleigh to be out at some card party or other and would likely not return for several hours. It would surely be safe to dash quickly into the library, find the novel, and head back up to her bedchamber. No one was likely to see her. She looked down at her shabby dressing gown. There was certainly nothing provocative about the comfortable garment. It was eminently suitable to a lady's companion or governess and had served her well for years. Even if all the world were to see her, she would suffer no more than a moment of embarrassment.

  She hurried down the stairs.

  She opened the library door and entered the dark, shadowed room. There was a small blaze in the fireplace, no doubt built by Claypool in anticipation of Lord Bradleigh's late arrival. Emily stood in the middle of the room for a moment and considered that she had no idea where the dowager would have left the book. She walked over to a long table placed beneath rows of books and held the candle high while she searched the clutter of books and papers strewn about its entire length. She did not find the slim blue volume she sought. She was about to turn and search the few smaller tables when a sudden, unexplained chill crept up her spine.

  "Are you searching for another classical work, my dear?"

  Emily spun around to find Robert sprawled in one of the large wing chairs near the garden window. He was almost completely in the shadows, looking positively ghostly in the dim glow of the fire and her single candle. His eyes gleamed in the firelight like a cat's. She could see that he was in his shirtsleeves—his coat, waistcoat, and cravat had been carelessly tossed in an untidy heap on the adjacent chair. Emily could not stop her eyes from straying to the open neck of his shirt and the soft mat of dark hair it revealed. She had never before been so aware of any man's masculinity as she was at that moment. He looked large and muscular and dark ... and dangerous.

  She realized she was breathing rather too heavily as her hand crept up to the high frilled neck of her muslin nightgown. With some difficulty she lifted her eyes from their slow survey of his body and met his own. They were smoldering black and held her with an unreadable expression. He looked as though he had been running his hands through his hair. That normally wayward lock of dark hair nearly covered one eye. She saw that he had a glass of wine in one hand. His exaggerated drawl and heavy-lidded eyes caused Emily to wonder how much wine he had already drunk.

  "My lord," she whispered when she at last found her voice, "you should have made yourself known."

  * * *

  Robert had intended to spend the evening at White's, having for once a reprieve from escorting Augusta and her mother. But his mood was strangely melancholy, and his heart was not in the gaming tonight. He left early, not wanting to lose his blunt uselessly through his own distraction. He had no idea how long he had been sitting in the dark, drinking a good deal of claret. He had lost track of time as he got slowly and deliberately foxed.

  He had heard the library door open and knew at once it was Emily. Somehow he had come to recognize her very footsteps, not to mention the faint scent of lavender that always accompanied her. He wasn't sure what perverse notion had caused him to remain quiet,
knowing she was unaware of his presence. Perhaps too much wine had made him languorous.

  When she came into view, candle held aloft as she rummaged through the books on the library table, he had to stifle a gasp which would surely have betrayed his presence sooner than he desired. She was in her dressing gown—a horrid, dark, unflattering thing—and her hair was down around her shoulders. Although she had always worn her hair pulled back in a chignon or piled up on her head, he had often imagined what it would look like unpinned and loose. But he had had no idea it was so long. Unbound, it hung down to the middle of her back in soft, golden waves. My God, it was beautiful. How he longed to run his fingers through it.

  Perhaps he did unconsciously catch his breath, for she suddenly stiffened. He decided it was time to speak.

  At his words she had spun around, and her hair had flown out to one side to fall over her shoulder like a cape. She had looked at him—looked at him with a hunger he had often seen in the eyes of women who openly desired him. He had seldom failed to take advantage of such a look. But he knew somehow that Emily was unfamiliar with her own desire, was no doubt unaware that it was so clearly communicated in her eyes. She would probably have been outraged at such a thought. And he had no business entertaining such thoughts himself.

  "Indeed, I should have made myself known." He rose slowly and walked toward her. "I apologize for teasing you. Too much wine, I suspect. By the way, we are not in public just now, so there's no need to 'my lord' me."

  Emily was pulling at the lapels of her dressing gown, obviously uncomfortable to be caught en déshabillé. "If you will excuse me, Robert," she said, backing toward the door, "I will leave you to enjoy your wine in peace." She turned to leave.

  "Don't go, Emily," Robert said without thinking. "Stay and keep me company for a while."

  She turned back to look at him with questioning eyes. She chewed on her lower lip, and her hands still clutched at the dressing gown.

  "Don't worry, my dear." Robert chuckled and gestured toward her maidenly wrap. "You are safe with me in that ugly thing."

  He watched her face as she seemed to struggle with the dilemma. He could almost read her thoughts: they were alone together in a dark room, neither of them was properly dressed, and she really ought to leave. At last she appeared to discard her apprehension and walked resolutely back into the room.

  "All right," she said. "But just for a short while."

  "Then let us sit here where it is warm." He directed her to the leather sofa facing the fire. She sat down, not quite into its farthest corner, while he stoked the flames. When he joined her he was careful to leave several feet between them. He looked at her, with her beautiful hair catching the glow of the firelight, and began to think he should have let her go after all. He wasn't sure if he could refrain from touching her. He decided to begin a discussion sure to cool his incipient ardor.

  "Tell me how it goes with Sedgewick."

  She looked at him with a scowl and something like exasperation. "I enjoy his company," she said through tight lips.

  He smiled. "Don't eat me, Emily. I didn't mean to pry. But you are both good friends, and I am interested in your welfare. I must say, I had the distinct impression that Sedge was quite serious. Has he offered for you?"

  She looked at him with narrowed eyes. "No."

  "But you think he will, don't you?"

  She looked hard at him for a moment and then sighed. She relaxed into the comfort of the soft leather and gazed into the fire. "Yes," she said quietly. "Mind you, he has made no declarations or any such thing. But he has hinted rather broadly. Yes, I believe he will offer for me."

  "And will you accept?"

  "It would be the only logical thing to do, would it not?"

  "Logical? What on earth does logic have to do with it?"

  "I am a penniless spinster," she replied, "quite on the shelf. I have no dowry and no prospects. I have never before had and probably never will again have an opportunity for a home of my own and children. It is a future I have never dared dream of. It would be foolish to decline such an offer."

  Robert was sorely tempted to blurt out what he suspected about her financial situation. She needn't make such a decision because she thought she was penniless. But he had best wait until he knew something for certain.

  "Do you love him?" he asked.

  She sighed again. "I am very fond of him. How could I not be? He is charming and witty and kind. It is enough, Robert."

  "Wouldn't you rather wait until you find someone you can love before you decide to marry him?"

  "Ah, and are you so in love with Miss Windhurst, then?"

  Robert grinned at her but did not reply. He stretched his legs out toward the fire and settled himself more comfortably on the sofa. Finally he said, "We will be publicly celebrating our betrothal tomorrow evening."

  "Yes, and it's going to be a splendid affair." She proceeded to tell him some of the details of the dowager's plans. They laughed together over some of the scenes that had taken place with the florist, the musicians, and the linen draper who was to hang the ballroom walls with swags of blue satin brocade.

  "Wait till you see what Anatole and Mrs. Dawson have planned," Emily said with excitement. "They are both so determined to excel in each other's eyes that there was no need to engage a caterer. Your own chefs will be handling all the food—with extra hired kitchen help, of course."

  "Good lord, this whole thing must be costing a small fortune."

  "And then some. But it is what your grandmother wanted."

  Now it was Robert's turn to sigh. What a lot of fuss for an engagement he now regretted. Regretted? Perhaps that was too harsh. He realized now that he had not acted wisely, but he was nevertheless determined to go through with it. He looked over at the woman sitting next to him, curled up comfortably in her ugly green robe. Yes, he did regret it. He regretted it very much. He leaned his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes, trying to imagine how on earth he would survive the ball. The betrothal. The marriage.

  He suddenly felt Emily's fingers brush away the hair that had fallen across his eyes. Without thinking, he grabbed her hand and kissed her palm, teasing it with his tongue. He heard her suck in her breath. He turned his head, still leaning on the back of the sofa, and looked at her. His eyes rested on the golden waves that tumbled over her shoulders. He released her hand, and, as if possessed of a will of their own, his fingers reached up to wind a soft curl about them.

  "Once we are both married," he said as he twirled her hair, "we will not be able to enjoy such cozy evenings. I suspect that neither Augusta nor Sedge would think kindly of my being forever at your side. I shall miss your conversation. I shall miss our friendship, Emily."

  "So will I," she whispered.

  My God, she was irresistible. Before he could control the impulse, Robert reached over and pulled her into his arms, trapping her hands flat against his chest. He gazed down into her eyes for a moment, giving her the chance to push him away. She did not. He lowered his lips to hers.

  Her lips were soft and yielding as he gently moved his against them. One hand held her head, buried in the silky softness of her hair. He felt her hands creep up his shoulders and slide around his neck, pulling him closer. He shivered at the touch of her fingers in his hair, and he deepened the kiss. She gave a soft moan as he parted her lips with his tongue. His passion flared, and his arms wrapped around her more tightly. Through the thin fabric of his shirt and her dressing gown he felt the softness of her breasts pressed against his chest, and the last vestiges of his control slipped away. He moved one hand to caress her shoulder and inched it down her side until he was cupping her breast.

  Emily pulled back with a gasp, pushing him away. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she disentangled herself from Robert's arms before abruptly standing up.

  Damnation, what the devil had got into him?

  If she hadn't stopped him, he would have made love to her right there on the library sofa. He must be o
ut of his mind. "Please, Emily," he said, reaching out for her, "forgive me. I don't know what came over me. It's the wine, I guess. But that's no excuse, of course. I had no right to do that." What was wrong with him? He felt suddenly stupid, not knowing what to say. She stared down at him with wide eyes, her hand still covering her mouth. "I'm so sorry, Emily. I swear it won't happen again."

  She turned without a word and ran from the room. She left the library door open, and Robert heard her soft footsteps as she hurried up the stairs.

  "Bloody hell!" he muttered aloud. What had he done?

  What he had done was to fall in love with Emily.

  And his engagement to Augusta was to be celebrated tomorrow.

  Chapter 18

  "So, you see, my lord, your suspicions were correct." James Huntspill, a middle-aged man of short stature, receding brown hair, and bright blue eyes, sat facing Lord Bradleigh's desk and handed him some papers from a leather satchel.

  "This is an actual copy of the old earl's will?" Robert asked as he perused the document.

  "Yes, my lord." Huntspill sat on the edge of a straight-backed chair, leaning forward. "Chalmers had routinely made copies of many of the old earl's important documents. Very thorough man. He was willing enough to part with it when he realized that his employer's wishes were not being carried out."

  "Did he know why the old fellow decided to acknowledge his granddaughter after all?"

  "Apparently after his wife died, the earl fell into a decline and became rather melancholy. He began to regret the estrangement from his only daughter, and that he had only the one son left to remember him. His daughter, Miss Townsend's mother, was of course dead by then, as was her husband. So he determined to acknowledge his only granddaughter in his will, to ease his conscience, you might say."

  "And so he settled thirty thousand pounds on her." Robert shook his head in disbelief.

  "There is the stipulation, of course," Huntspill said.