Innocent Betrayal

by Mary Campisi

  “He makes me nervous.”

  “Does he now?”

  “He’s always watching me,” Emily complained. “Everywhere I turn, he’s looking at me with those dark eyes. It’s like he sees something I don’t, and it unsettles me.” She paced around the kitchen table. “He unsettles me. When I’m near him I can’t think straight. And I get all fluttery inside.”

  “It makes you a might angry,” Mrs. Florence said knowingly.

  “Furious,” Emily admitted.

  “Well that about sums it up, I guess,” the older woman said, clucking her tongue.

  “It does? How so?” Sometimes Mrs. Florence could be very confusing.

  “You’ve taken a fancy to him and he to you.”

  “Never!”

  Mrs. Florence smiled.

  “I don’t even like him.” How could she think such a thing?

  The cook’s smile turned into a wide grin.

  “He’s a mean, selfish bully.” Even if his touch is as gentle as a summer rain.

  This time, Mrs. Florence actually threw back her head and laughed.

  “And he detests me.” But she had noticed the heat in those brown eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking.

  Pushing her large frame from the table, Mrs. Florence stood and reached for Emily’s hand. Her kind, blue eyes misted with tears as she said, “Oh, child, you’ve so much to learn.” She sighed, a deep sigh that puffed out the apron covering her bosom. “The man may glare at you, bully or ignore you, but one thing is for certain. He wants you like a man wants a woman or my name isn’t Gertrude Florence.”

  Emily swallowed hard.

  “Now don’t go getting all embarrassed on me. I don’t imagine with your mother gone so many years that anyone has ever talked about such things with you. You could do worse than a gent like Noah Sandleton.”

  “Ian would never permit such a match,” Emily said. But would she? Of course not, she’d have to be crazy to consider a match with a man like him. Or any man for that matter.

  “No, I don’t suppose he would. More’s the pity, if you ask me. You’d make a fine match. Fine children too, with your golden hair and his brown eyes.” She sighed again. “Aye, more’s the pity.”

  A vision of a golden-haired little boy floated before Emily. He was no more than four or five with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He was laughing, a musical, joyous sound that filled the air. But it was his eyes that made her breath catch. They were as deep and rich as fine French chocolate.

  Noah’s eyes.

  “Ah, well,” Mrs. Florence continued, “supper needs to be served. Why don’t you plead a headache and go to your room? I’ll explain it all to the earl.”

  “I can’t,” Emily said, smoothing her apron and wiping off a few stray crumbs. “I won’t give him any reason to go back on our wager.” She forced a smile, pretending a confidence she didn’t quite feel. “It’s only one more week. What else could possibly go wrong?”

  Twenty minutes later, Emily carried a tray laden with roast duck and potatoes into the dining room. She kept her eyes trained on the platter in front of her, determined to ignore Noah Sandleton. The low murmur of voices drifted to her as she edged closer, Augusta’s soft tone mixed with Ian’s deep one.

  “We’re going to miss you, Noah,” Augusta said.

  Not everyone, Emily eyed a large space of white tablecloth. Perfect. She leaned over, the large platter balanced in her hands.

  “I’m sorry I won’t be meeting your sister,” Noah said.

  The platter landed on the table with a loud thud. A few small potatoes rolled off the side, followed by several slices of duck and a healthy measure of juice that slopped onto the pristine tablecloth. Emily closed her eyes, dreading Noah Sandleton’s smug expression more than Ian’s reprimand, which would be forthcoming. Dead silence filled the room, so much so, that Emily hazarded a glance in her brother’s direction to make sure he hadn’t keeled over with anger.

  “It’s fine, Emily,” Augusta’s sweet voice sliced through the tense quiet blanketing the room. “I’ll call Mrs. Florence to help clean up this little accident.” She put her napkin aside and rose from her chair, squeezing Ian’s hand. He sat there, staring at Emily, his jaw working back and forth, a small muscle twitching on the left side.

  Oh, dear Lord, he was going to string her by her feet.

  Noah’s soft laughter broke the silence. “At least the duck and potatoes landed on the table and not me.” His eyes filled with mirth as he sought Emily’s gaze. “As you must know, Miss Barry, I can ill afford to lose any more shirts.”

  “They were honest accidents, all of them.” How dare he be so indelicate as to bring up her past mistakes? Couldn’t he tell Ian was fuming?

  Noah lifted a dark brow. “I should hope so. I would hate to think that you were intentionally dumping food and drink on me.” He grinned at her, seeming to take pleasure in her obvious discomfort. “Though I must admit, the thought had crossed my mind.”

  Emily shot him a venomous look. She wanted to tell him what he could do with his thoughts, but Ian would never forgive her, and the closest she’d get to America would be in her dreams. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep quiet.

  “I apologize for Miss Barry’s clumsiness,” Ian said, “I think perhaps she might be better suited as a scullery maid. Permanently.” He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine, his gaze trained on her. She stared back, the silent threat dangling between them, permeating the room with heated anger and unspoken accusations.

  He wanted her to apologize to his guest.

  Emily looked away first. Drat and double drat! There was no squirming out of an apology, so she turned toward her nemesis and focused on his cravat. “I apologize for my accident.” She wished the potatoes had landed in his lap. “I did not intend to disrupt your meal.” But she was truly delighted she’d disrupted it.

  “Apology accepted.” His gaze moved over her like a warm summer breeze. Emily tried to concentrate on the perfect folds of his cravat but good heavens, the man was doing it to her again! He was making her forget her anger, making her all hot and cold at the same time. And jittery—like a hundred butterflies fluttering about in her stomach. It was his eyes that did it, dark and rich and full of heat.

  She would not look at those eyes. She would not. Under no circumstances. She strained to find the most minute fold in Noah Sandleton’s pristine cravat.

  Mrs. Florence chose that precise moment to enter the dining room in a flurry of starch and white muslin, cleaning towels draped over one arm and a fresh platter of potatoes and roast duck in her hands.

  “Oh dear me, I do apologize, my lord,” she gushed, bustling forth, her plump cheeks puffed out and rosy. “Lady Augusta told me about the little…er…accident.” She shot a sympathetic glance in Emily’s direction before setting the new platter down and scurrying to clean up the soggy mess that sat congealing in the middle of the table.

  “Accidents do happen,” Augusta inserted, laying a hand on her husband’s shoulder as she brushed past him to take her seat. Ian grunted in response, but his eyes warmed at her touch.

  “There you go, good as new,” Mrs. Florence said, inspecting the white linen she’d placed over the gravy-soaked spot. The errant potatoes and slices of duck had been disposed of and the new platter wafted delectable aromas about the room.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Florence,” Ian said. He stared pointedly at Emily. “I’d like you to have Miss Barry report to Mrs. Bloomfield in the morning. Let’s hope she shows a greater aptitude for polishing than she did for serving.” With that comment, he stabbed a hunk of roast duck, and said, “That will be all for this evening, Miss Barry. You may be dismissed.”

  Dismissed like so much baggage? Humiliation warred with outrage as Emily squared her shoulders and left the room. Oh, how she wanted to tell Ian just exactly what she thought of his highhanded manner. She wanted to turn around and run back to him, screaming and yelling. And kicking. She bit d
own hard on the inside of her cheek and kept moving toward her small room in the servant’s quarters.

  He wanted her to fly at him in a fit of rage. Then the wager would be over and she would be the loser. No more talk of America, or Christopher. Her life would be over. She would not allow it to happen. She could not allow it, not when she was one week away from winning her freedom. If it meant pasting a sweet smile on her face and gritting her teeth for the next seven days, she would do it.

  No one would draw her off course, not even that arrogant American who crept into her dreams at night. As she fell into bed, she vowed to push Noah Sandleton so far from her mind that by morning he’d be no more than a vague memory.

  ****

  Eunice Bloomfield took her duties as head housekeeper very seriously. Emily had never met a person with so many rules and restrictions concerning the proper way to do things. Not even Miss Fielding’s Proper Comportment for a Lady contained as many “thou shall nots.”

  Mrs. Bloomfield had a very particular method for accomplishing every task, down to the minutest detail and seemed intent on making certain Emily followed in her footsteps.

  “Now, this very useful apparatus is called a feather duster.” She held up a wooden handled contraption with thousands of black feathers protruding from it. “It is a wonderful tool for reaching high places, brushing off ornately carved objects, and ridding a room of a fine film of dust.”

  Emily watched in amazement as Mrs. Bloomfield glided about the room, flitting from candlestick to mantel to windowsill, whirling the feather duster before her. She reminded Emily of a ballet dancer, albeit a gray-haired one, bending and swaying her tall frame like a young sapling. “The key to proper feather dusting is movement,” she said, flicking the duster over a crystal vase in several short, quick motions.

  Rumor had it she’d worked in the queen’s court years ago as head housekeeper. Emily didn’t doubt it. She’d never met a servant with a vocabulary or diction like Mrs. Bloomfield.

  “And then one must twist and bend,” Mrs. Bloomfield continued, aiming the duster at the clawed legs of a green velvet sofa. “Now flick, twirl, flick, twirl, like this.”

  Emily hid a smile. She liked Mrs. Bloomfield, despite her bending, twisting, and twirling idiosyncrasies, of which there were many.

  “Now, dear,” Mrs. Bloomfield said, handing over the feather duster. “Let’s see you work your way toward the sidetable, beginning at this chair. And don’t forget to twist.”

  ****

  Noah stifled another laugh. He’d been watching Emily whirl about the green salon, bending and twisting as she swatted the oak furniture with her huge feather duster. First a dip and a swipe at a chair leg, then a turn and a bow toward a sidetable. On and on it went, the dips and curtsies, twists and turns, until Noah grew dizzy from watching her.

  And to top it all off, she was singing. Singing! The melody couldn’t reach him from his vantage point on the other side of the wide French doors, but he could see her lips moving in rapid animation.

  The woman was mad. Absolutely mad. She looked ridiculous dancing around the room, slicing the feather duster through the air as though it were a mighty sword and she, a great warrior heading to battle.

  He watched her for several more minutes, concluding that Ian had been right. Emily was no spy. How he’d entertained such an idea, even for a scant moment, was absurd, especially now as she scooped up the duster and batted it over her head, flicking a brass sconce so hard it almost fell off the wall.

  Emily Barry was too clumsy, pure and simple. A man as precise as Peter Crowlton wouldn’t risk involvement with someone as unpredictable and uncoordinated as Emily Barry, even if she was utterly beautiful. He breathed a small sigh of relief. She wasn’t a spy. Thank God.

  He frowned. If she weren’t a spy, then that left only one other option—thief. Noah frowned again, not pleased with that possibility.

  Peering through the small, white pane, he watched Emily turn abruptly and run toward him. He thought for a brief moment that he’d been discovered, but she stopped several feet from the glass doors and dug her heels into the Aubusson carpet. Bending down, she untied the laces of her heavy, black shoes and kicked them off, one at a time, giggling as they sailed in opposite directions.

  What was the woman up to now? He soon found out as she lifted the feather duster high above her head then brought it down in a grand arc and sweep, hurling it back and forth between her hands, faster and faster until in one final motion, she flung the duster in the air and caught it behind her back.

  Noah shook his head. He must have been mad to think this woman might be a spy. Now a candidate for Bedlam, that was something he could visualize for one Miss Emily Barry. His thoughts were cemented to certainty when he saw her leap in the air, land squarely on both feet and then begin spinning, head thrust back, arms outstretched, duster in hand. Round and round she went, faster and faster until at last she collapsed on the wheat colored rug.

  Quietly, Noah slipped through the French doors and edged his way toward her. She lay flat on her back, arms and legs outstretched, chest heaving from her latest acrobatics. And the damn duster was still in her hand!

  “Would you care to dance?” He stood over her, trying his damnedest not to smile.

  Emily’s eyes popped open. “You! Where did you come from?” She tried to straighten into a sitting position, but her last ten spins must have been too much for her, and she fell back against the rug.

  “I’m dizzy.” She lifted a hand to massage her forehead.

  “I’m not surprised,” Noah said. “I was just trying to figure out if you belong in the ballet—or the circus.”

  “You’re despicable,” she muttered.

  “And you are”—he tapped his forefinger to his chin—“outrageous and crazy. Put the two together and there you have it. Outrageously crazy.” He frowned and then smiled. “Or is it crazily outrageous?”

  Emily giggled. “Which one is it, Mr. Sandleton? Am I crazy or just outrageous?”

  She’d moved into a semi-sitting position, with her elbows supporting her upper body. Her gray dress bunched around her legs, revealing their firm shape. He glimpsed a good deal of ankle clad in a heavy stocking material. Wisps of golden hair swirled about her neck and trailed down her back. Her pink lips were slightly open.

  Emily was too beautiful to be wrapped in such common trappings, tucked away in servant’s garb with nothing better to look forward to than marrying some commoner and having a brood of whiny brats.

  She belonged in silks and satins, not broadcloth and muslin. Her horizon should span the Orient and West Indies, Egypt and Africa, not just a city and country home in England. She should be waited on, attended to, and looked after.

  Emily Barry should be his mistress.

  He gasped for breath, blinking his eyes to refocus on anything but the vision of Emily, golden and beautiful, lying beneath him.

  “Noah?”

  Her voice reached him, moving over him intimately without lifting a finger. His cock grew hard. He stood mesmerized as Emily’s small tongue darted out to run over her full pink lips. He could explode just thinking of the numerous possibilities for that delectable mouth.

  “Noah? Are you all right?” She scrambled to stand beside him, but not before he glimpsed an ample amount of leg and thigh. What was wrong with him, practically peeping under a woman’s skirt? And getting very hard in the process?

  She reached out to touch his arm, but Noah flung it away.

  “Have you no sense of decency, sprawling before me like a dog in heat?” he spat out. “If you’ve got an itch that needs satisfied, then just say so and dispense with the coquetry.”

  Her hand moved too fast. Actually, he hadn’t thought she’d have the nerve to slap him. But she did, hard and square on the cheek. “Stay away from me.”

  “As you wish.” Noah bowed, low and deep, his voice as hard as steel.

  Emily backed away, her face pale, her lower lip trembling. But he didn
’t see fear in those gray eyes that never left his face. Determination, wariness, perhaps even a bit of well-placed rage. But fear? Definitely not.

  Men twice her size feared him. Always had. But that was during wartime when his reputation as The Chameleon spanned the continent. It was a lifetime ago yet he found it ironic that this slip of a girl should meet him face to face and not be afraid. He hid a smile as he watched her slowly edge toward the great oak doors. The woman was no fool. She knew when to cut her losses and make her exit. He waited until her hand touched the door knob. She was inches from escaping. Noah couldn’t resist.

  “Emily,” he called. “Just remember, if you’re…feeling,…ah,…restless,…you know where to find me.”

  “Beast,” she hissed, throwing open the door and running into the hall.

  Good, let her think him a swine. That way she’d stay out of his way. If he didn’t see her, maybe he’d stop wanting her.

  Or maybe it was already too late.

  Emily Barry was working her way under his carefully constructed façade, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. He found himself actually caring that he might have hurt her feelings. No one got that close to him. Ever.

  Noah looked down at the Aubusson carpet and remembered Emily lying there, a vision of innocence and seduction. Innocent? Emily? Now that was a real laugh, though suddenly, he found nothing remotely amusing about the situation.

  ****

  “I never thought you’d pull it off.” Ian’s lips curved into a half-smile as he gazed down at Emily. They stood in the green salon, surrounded by afternoon sunlight and heavy brocades.

  She’d won! Unable to contain her excitement, she twirled around in her simple muslin gown and heavy, black shoes, laughter tinkling from her. “I can’t believe it,” she gasped, twirling around again and ending in a plié. “I’m actually going to America. Oh, Ian, isn’t this just grand?”

  Whatever melancholy had possessed her spirits the last several evenings was gone now. She felt alive and excited with new possibilities, and now Ian was about to help make her dream a reality.