The Rejected Suitor (The Clearbrooks)

by Teresa McCarthy

  Husband. The very word made her throat tighten with pain.

  Turning onto her back, she picked up the book of Wordsworth poems that lay on her nightstand and opened to the first page. "To the woman closest to my heart," she read softly, vividly recalling Mr. Jared Ashton and his deceitful lies.

  A painful twinge stabbed at her heart. He was an earl now, Lord Stonebridge. A title that made no difference to her in India or in England. Though, when she had heard of his wife's death, she had instantly felt a pang of sympathy for the man. Except he did not need her pity, not after the way he had played her the fool.

  Stop it, Emily. Jared never loved you. Never. You were a fool. A fool. A fool.

  The words repeated in her brain like a horrid chant, never ending. With a snap, she closed the book, furious at herself because she was not able to forget the handsome cad or his chaste kisses, even after three long years.

  "Emily, dearest?"

  Emily started at the scratch on the door and quickly pushed the book beneath her pillow. "Come in, Mama."

  The comely dowager scurried into the room. Her red velvet robe swished about her slender ankles while Egypt relaxed in the lady's still youthful arms, purring like a newborn babe. Frowning at her daughter's supine position, the duchess stroked the cat's milky fur and leaned forward. "Are you ill, child? Or is it this wretched storm that bothers you so?"

  "Nothing but a headache, Mama." And a house full of obstinate, opinionated brothers.

  Her mother rested a cool hand on Emily's forehead. "Not crying over what your brothers said to you at dinner tonight? I daresay, they have been rather forceful the past few evenings, but you must realize they are only concerned about your future."

  Forceful? They were tyrants! Emily scooted off her bed, fighting back the rage that consumed her. "I know they are concerned, Mama. But I beg of them to leave well enough alone. I am a grown woman, and they seem to think me a mere child."

  The duchess chuckled. "Oh, they are males, my dear. A bit overprotective, I fear. And I do admit I would like them to find a suitable husband for you, but I will not force you to marry. However, I believe it is the female mind that causes your brothers genuine discomfort." Her eyes twinkled. "You know it is our secrets that scare them silly."

  Secrets? For a moment Emily thought her mother was speaking of her past with Jared. "Mama, I may have some secrets, but I am twenty years old." And no longer a fool.

  "Well, dearest, believe it or not, they have an odd notion that you might elope with Mr. Fennington. The man is a drunk as Roderick said, and that quizzing glass vexes me to no end."

  Dumbfounded, Emily threw a hand to her breast. "Fennington and me?" The notion of the idiotic man posing as a possible husband to give her independence had crossed her mind, but she certainly would not elope with him.

  Emily struggled to hold in her fit of giggles. "Oh, Mama. I am not eloping to Gretna Green with the man."

  "I believe you. But your brothers have their notions, you know. They are thinking of sending you on a little trip. I think it might be good for you, Emily."

  Emily's bubble burst. "Oh, no, Mama. Please. I won't run off."

  And that was a fact. She could never elope. She was not one of those heroine's in a Mrs. Radcliffe novel. She was the daughter of a duke and must act appropriately—in public that was. In private she had her own secrets. Her work with the war effort had been the only thing that had kept her sane the past few years. Only a few people knew about her liaison with Whitehall, and she intended to keep it that way.

  "I know you have no wish to leave, dearest," her mother went on, "but your brothers are adamant. They mentioned something about Miss Agatha Appleby's. I could fight them on this, but I think it might be best for you." The duchess stroked Egypt's back. "I do believe this time of the year Agatha is staying at Hemmingly. You have enjoyed staying with her in the past, have you not?"

  Emily's heart leapt. Of course. Why had she not thought of it sooner? Agatha would help her make sense of her future. The planning was perfect, brilliant in fact. "I adore Agatha."

  Her mother swallowed. "Yes, well, perhaps during your stay, your brothers will find you a suitable husband. You might even come to love the man they choose, you know. But remember, dearest, love is more than a feeling. I should know. Sometimes people do not love you back, but it still can be love."

  Tears came to her mother's eyes, and Emily instantly felt a prickle of guilt. Her father had always been kind to her mama, but as the years progressed, Emily noticed it was not a marriage based on love or even mutual trust, but a marriage of convenience, nothing more, at least from her father's side.

  "Well then, that's settled. Your abigail will pack your bags, and you will be leaving Elbourne Hall as soon as we can make arrangements." She kissed Emily's cheek and sighed. "Never fear, I have told your brothers to look for an earl and no less, unless he is that elusive Black Wolf, then, of course," she gave a giggle, "I would make an exception."

  When the duchess took her leave, clicking the door closed behind her, Emily fell onto her bed in a fit of laughter. The very idea of Fennington and her off to Gretna Green was absurd.

  And the Black Wolf? Mama must have been reading the latest gossip in the Times. Heavens, most women in England dreamed about eloping with the Wolf. The English revered the man as much as Wellington himself. No one knew the identity of the man that had crossed French lines serving as a secret agent for the British during the war. Rumor had even declared that the Black Wolf had made it into Napoleon's bedchambers to steal a missive and had barely escaped with his life.

  Emily sank back into her pillows and smiled at the thought of her mama and the Black Wolf meeting at a masquerade ball. Goodness, the man would probably be old, fat, and bald. Would not her mama be surprised?

  Emily sat up, her face instantly sobering at the disturbing thought. Old. Fat. Bald. Three more reasons why she would be the one to choose her husband. There was no telling what kind of man her brothers would choose for her.

  Egypt pounced onto her bed, and she jumped in surprise. "Ah, did Mama leave you to guard over me?"

  Emily stroked the cat's snow-white cloak, fingering the scar she had stitched up a year ago when Egypt had fallen onto a fireplace poker. Before the accident, the fluffy feline had hissed whenever Emily came into the room, but now Egypt was her best friend, that was, besides Agatha and Jane Greenwell.

  Jane, only a year younger than Emily's twenty years, had resided at Hemmingly since the girl's parents died about five years ago. Emily smiled when she thought about how her friend would react when told about the plans to find Emily a suitable husband. Needless to say, she would be furious.

  Emily turned suddenly when Egypt began to hiss and arch her spine. "What is it, sweeting?"

  A slight tap on the window drew Emily's attention where a soft breeze sent the curtains rippling against the frame. "Why, 'tis only the wind, Egypt."

  "Lady Emily," a voice called softly. "I say, Lady Emily, are you awake?"

  Egypt hissed again, and Emily slipped her wary gaze back to the window. That low, raspy voice belonged to only one man. "Mr. F-Fennington?" Disbelief hung on the end of his name.

  "I say, Lady Emily, can you hear me?"

  Emily shot from her bed, crossing the floor to peer over her sill. "Good gracious! Whatever are you doing?"

  The large figure of Mr. James Theodore Fennington clung precariously to the trellis outside her window. The dark cloaked body looked more like a swinging pendulum than a man on a mission, especially with that wretched quizzing glass winking in the glow of a lantern he held in his hand. How daft could the man be? Her brothers would shoot him on sight! To think she thought of marriage to this idiotic male was enough to send her into another fit of giggles.

  "Mr. Fennington, do have a care."

  "Help," the man croaked, grasping for leverage on the ledge as he miraculously clipped the lantern onto the vine.

  The light gave Emily a clear picture of the situation
below, and her expression stiffened at the sound of an inebriated belch. Shock quickly turned to annoyance at his stupid feat.

  "Mr. Fennington, you are foxed to the gills! You must leave here at once! The way you came, if you please."

  "I fear, dear lady, I cannot. Indeed, I may die in the next few moments if I am not carried into safety. But I would die for just one touch of your delicate hand."

  "Doing it bit too brown, Mr. Fennington, even for a man in your state." But Emily knew if she did not think of something quick, the idiot would fall to his death. With a murmur of disbelief, she bent over the sill, grabbed the swaying man, and with his help, dragged him into her chambers.

  "Good evening, Lady Emily. Your servant, madam." He bowed, his tall frame swaying before her, mimicking the uneven cadence of the curtains rapping against her window.

  Emily stared in openmouthed wonder. A drunkard was standing in the middle of her bedchambers, acting as if he were meeting her at Prinny's Christmas ball.

  "Mr. Fennington, I daresay, this is the most incredulous thing I have ever been witness to."

  He simply smiled back . . . swaying.

  Emily reacted with an icy stare that would even set Roderick faltering back a few feet. Thunder and Zeus, the man was mad. "Mr. Fennington, if you think for one minute that I would take kindly to your visit, you had better think twice."

  To her surprise, the man took hold of her hand and squeezed. "Knew you were a shy one, my dear. Precisely why I climbed through the window without a word to you beforehand. Time is of the essence here, and I beg you to allow me to handle all the details while we slip away into the night sight unseen."

  "Oh, for the love of the king," Emily uttered, stomping her foot and trying to pull her hand away from his grip, amazed at the impertinence of the man. "If you do not believe me, I daresay, my brothers will not take kindly to your visit either."

  "The devil with your domineering brothers." With one quick move, the man jerked her into his arms and pressed his wet lips to her neck. "Dearest, lady. I love you. Love you."

  "Mr. Fennington, I beg you!"

  "Ah, my little cabbage, we will be together soon and you will never have to beg me for anything."

  Little cabbage? Beg him? Why the insufferable pig! Emily flattened her hands against his broad chest and pushed, but she was no deterrent to the insistent man and his roving mouth. "Have a care, sir. My brothers will boil you in oil if they discover you here. You must take your leave, I implore you!"

  "Oil? Ha!" His strong hands gripped her waist in a tightening embrace, and at that moment, she wished she had let him fall to the ground.

  "Unhand me, sir . . . before I do something rash!"

  "Come away with me, ma petite."

  "Are you mad?" She grabbed his waistcoat for balance, accidentally grabbing hold of that stupid quizzing glass. She gave him a swift kick in the shin and was instantly released.

  Curled on the bed, Egypt hissed loudly. Fennington fell back, stunned, but before he could say a word, his eyes widened in what Emily could only perceive as sheer black terror.

  Her heart all but stopped as she slowly turned around.

  "Roderick," she said, quickly drawing away from her intruder. "Th-this is not what it seems."

  Roderick stalked across the threshold of her bedchambers, his eyes darkening with fury. Like a general, he stood feet apart, his voice as hard and cold as the pistol pointed toward Fennington's belly. "Do believe we can do better than oil, do you not think so, gentlemen?" he replied, glancing over his shoulder.

  Fennington stood like a prisoner awaiting his execution as three more sets of feet thudded across the floor. Clayton and Marcus, still wearing their shiny Hessians, and Stephen barefoot, looking as if he had been interrupted from his bath, clad only in a pair of fawn-colored breeches, crossed their arms over well-muscled torsos, daring Fennington to make a move.

  "Oil might be too good for the man," Clayton replied, circling the now pale-faced intruder. Marcus's broad shoulders blocked the doorway.

  Emily took in the overwhelming sight and swallowed hard.

  Fennington staggered back. "G-gentlemen, I am unarmed."

  "That," Roderick ground out, "is the only thing that saves me from pulling the trigger, you conniving dolt."

  Emily watched in horror as Roderick drew the pistol higher. "Roderick, please!"

  Roderick's steely gaze turned on her. "Stay out of this."

  She stiffened. She had no wish to further Mr. Fennington's design on her, but her amorous intruder had turned a ghastly white and his knees were knocking like billiard balls. This was dreadful. She opened her mouth, intending to save the fool when to her surprise, the strapping man fainted dead at her feet.

  Roderick shot her a disgusting look. "What have you to say for yourself, Emily Anne?"

  Emily's head shot up from Fennington's limp form only to meet four pairs of hard, glaring eyes, but for some insane reason, she almost let out a hysterical giggle. What could she say? It was as if she were at Drury Lane watching a comedy of manners. The entire evening was absurd.

  However, Roderick's next words sent her into a pure panic. "You think this amusing? Perhaps we should send you to the wilds up north to live with Great Uncle Cathaven."

  Emily's eyes rounded in shock. "You would not dare?"

  Uncle Cathaven was an old, eccentric man who lived like a hermit in a worn-down castle in the most desolate part of Scotland. He refused to talk to anyone but his housekeeper and butler and only when he deemed it absolutely necessary—like once a year when it was time for his bath. She shivered at the thought. Not even Stephen could abide the man. But she must proceed to Hemmingly. It was her only chance of freedom.

  Avoiding the hardened glares sent her way, she dropped her gaze, catching sight of Mr. Fennington's blue eyes squinting up at her. Why, the bamboozler was acting! Well, if he could do it, so could she.

  "Did you hear me, Emily Anne?" Roderick growled.

  Emily looked up. Oh, she heard every single word. Her brothers were going to marry her to some suitable fop by year's end. Over her dead body! She gave Roderick one last look and threw her hand to her head, swaying like the girls she had seen in a squeeze at one of Lady Cherwood's balls. She added a groan for emphasis. Men hated that. Especially the males standing before her, their eyes turning wide with fear. What a ninny she had been. She should have tried this days ago.

  "Em?" Frowning, Roderick moved toward her, stuffing his pistol into Clayton's hands. "Em? I meant only . . . Em?"

  Inwardly smiling, Emily gave a light gasp, sending the males encircling her like four mothers to a cub. With another angelic groan, she snapped her eyes closed, and for the first time in her life, faked a swoon, dropping both her body and Fennington's monstrous quizzing glass into Roderick's open hands.

  Chapter Three

  An early morning walk on the grounds of Hemmingly Hall was exactly what Emily needed to calm her mind from her brothers' bothersome plans. It took a bit of begging and three long days, but she was finally here. She spied Agatha Appleby’s familiar redbrick mansion with its neatly trimmed evergreens lining the graveled drive and smiled.

  Taking in the cool, crisp air, she raised her face to the puffs of clouds overhead, allowing herself a much-needed sigh. It was good to be back with Agatha. Here she could think clearly without her overbearing siblings vexing her at every turn.

  She felt as if a great weight had been taken off her shoulders when she had arrived at Hemmingly the previous evening. Exhausted, she had retired to her bedchambers and no sooner had slipped into bed than Agatha had entered with a tray of hot chocolate and biscuits. Eventually Emily poured out her problems to the older woman.

  Smiling as she made her way into the hall, Emily recalled Agatha's vehemence on her behalf and felt a growing confidence in her bosom. Agatha would let her stay as long as she wished.

  Feeling better than she had in weeks, Emily headed toward Hemmingly's library to search for a new novel from the Mine
rva Press that Jane mentioned had been added to Agatha's extensive book collection.

  Emily, an unconscious grin still tipping the corners of her lips, opened her Wordsworth book that she had taken on her morning stroll and was so engrossed in one of the poems that when she turned the corner, she failed to notice the man withdrawing from the library.

  She slammed into the tall figure with the elegance of an intoxicated dandy. With a horrified gasp, she bounced backward and fell onto the marble floor with a thud. Behind her a salmon-colored porcelain vase crashed to the floor, shattering into infinite pieces. Heat engulfed her.

  She blinked and caught sight of a pair of shiny Hessian boots a foot away. How utterly humiliating. With a groan, she pushed her raised skirts back over her ankles and lifted her gaze slowly, knowing instantly that this was no ordinary guest. It was strange that Agatha had not mentioned any other person staying at Hemmingly. Unless—

  Her eyes immediately clung to a pair of athletic-looking legs encased in buckskin breeches. She vaguely heard a male voice, but her ears were roaring with the inevitable. Shock thickened her tongue as she raised her gaze higher only to meet with a waistcoat of burgundy followed by a neat white cravat and a pair of wide shoulders wrapped up in a perfectly fitted brown coat. Dark brown hair tilted toward her, but it was when a pair of familiar amber eyes stared back at her that her blood froze.

  "Do beg your pardon, Lady Emily. Are you hurt?"

  The sound of her name on Mr. Jared Ashton's lips cut into her heart like a guillotine. No, he was Lord Stonebridge now. She stared numbly at the tanned hand reaching out to her and stiffened.

  His voice was deeper than she recalled, more controlled, and much to her dismay, it sounded as if the man were truly concerned about her welfare. He appeared larger than she remembered. This man was no longer the long-legged boy that had stolen her heart. No indeed.

  Before she could rise, a steely grip took hold of her elbows, whisking her to a standing position, as if she were a mere feather.