A Valentine Wedding

by Jane Feather

  “I see.” Paolo nodded, running an eye over the lease. “It seems I shall be more comfortable than poor Luiz here.”

  “Undoubtedly.” It was an arid agreement. The governor picked up his hat again and looked ready to depart.

  “It would perhaps be helpful if I knew what I was looking for?” Paolo said with a raised eyebrow.

  “We don’t know exactly. Edward Beaumont was an artful courier. He knew how to disguise his wares.” He shrugged. “It is imperative that we lay hands on it if it’s still in existence. The whole outcome of the Peninsula campaign depends upon it. You may be certain the emperor will reward such information … which reminds me.” He dug deep into his pocket and drew out a leather pouch. He tossed it onto the table. It fell with a heavy clink. “Should you need further funds, they will be forthcoming.”

  With that the governor nodded to both men and departed.

  Luiz shivered again. “And you know who’ll get the reward,” he muttered. “Not the likes of you and I, my friend.”

  Paolo had picked up the pouch. He hefted it in the palm of his hand. “It seems this mission is an expensive one,” he said grimly. “I shall certainly get my share, Luiz, have no fear.”

  His black eyes were hard as agate and he passed a hand over his mouth in a gesture that was somehow both sinister and predatory.

  Luiz averted his gaze. He was not in the same league as Paolo, let alone the governor. And he wasn’t certain that he wished to be. Cold, drafty lodgings and the role of go-between suited his talents and inclinations well enough. He was not comfortable with talk of accidents.

  Chapter Three

  “Emma dearest, Lord Alasdair is belowstairs.” Maria entered Emma’s bedchamber the following morning, her voice considerately low, her footstep soft.

  Emma muttered something inaudible and burrowed deeper into her pillows. She was a night owl who viewed the hours before ten in the morning with something less than enthusiasm.

  “Here’s Mathilda with your hot chocolate,” Maria coaxed, going to the window to draw back the curtains. Winter sunlight flooded the room and the sounds of the street below drifted faintly upward.

  “Here you are, Lady Emma.” Mathilda placed the tray on the bedside table and plumped the pillows as Emma sat up, blinking blearily. The maid set the tray on her knees, bobbed a curtsy, and left the room.

  “What was it you said, Maria?” Emma took the silver jug and poured a dark, fragrant stream of chocolate into the shallow, wide-lipped Sevres cup.

  “Alasdair has come to call,” Maria said.

  “At this ungodly hour!” Emma exclaimed. “You may tell him to—”

  “You may tell him yourself.” Alasdair spoke cheerfully from the door. He had opened it so silently neither of the women had heard him. “What should I do?”

  “Go to the devil,” Emma said, setting her cup down on the tray and glaring at her unwelcome visitor. He was looking disgustingly elegant for such an early hour, his cream pantaloons set off by a coat of emerald green superfine that made his eyes positively luminous. His cravat of starched muslin was tied in the elaborate folds of what she recognized as the Waterfall, and his glossy locks were brushed in a fashionably disordered style. Hat, coat, gloves, and cane he must have left belowstairs.

  Maria gave a little shriek of dismay. “Goodness me, Lord Alasdair, you cannot be in here … in Emma’s bedchamber … why, she’s still in bed.”

  “So I’d noticed,” Alasdair remarked coolly, coming into the room. “I should have expected it. You never were an early riser, Emma.”

  “But, Lord Alasdair … no … no … really this will not do.” Maria flew around the room, gesticulating wildly as if she were shooing away a flock of geese.

  “There’s no need for such agitation, Maria,” Alasdair said calmly. “I’ve been in and out of Emma’s bedchamber since she was eight years old.” He glanced across to the bed and there was an ironic glitter in his eyes, a slightly mocking curve to his mouth. “I’ve had all the privileges of a brother, have I not, Emma?”

  And a great many more, Emma thought bitterly. But she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her react to the implicit reminder of all that they’d once shared. She merely shrugged and poured more chocolate into her cup.

  “I know you must have many things to do, Maria,” Alasdair said with a disarming smile. “And I need to discuss certain matters with Emma … trustee matters which I’m sure you’ll understand are …” Here he paused significantly, raising an eyebrow.

  Maria understood that such matters must be confidential. If Emma chose to tell her the details, that was one thing. But her trustee could not violate the confidence of his position. However, she made a valiant effort to honor her own position as chaperone. “Could it not wait, Alasdair, until Emma is up and dressed?”

  Alasdair glanced at the little gilt clock on the mantelpiece. It showed half past nine. “Unfortunately I must leave for Lincolnshire immediately,” he said with the same disarming smile. “And I cannot go without ensuring that Emma has sufficient funds in my absence.”

  “Why do you have to go to Lincolnshire so suddenly?” Emma asked, betrayed into curiosity. Alasdair had given no such impression the previous day.

  Alasdair’s expression lost its charm. The ironic gleam returned to his eye. “My esteemed brother has thought fit to summon a meeting of the clan,” he said. “And as you know, when Francis beckons, we must all run to obey.”

  “Since when have you acknowledged your brother’s summons?” Emma demanded in open incredulity. From the moment he had gained his majority, Alasdair, to all intents and purposes, had cut himself off from his family and in particular his overbearing brother, the present earl of Chase.

  “It appears my mama is taken ill,” Alasdair said gently. “I can hardly refuse a request to attend her sickbed.”

  Emma immediately felt as if she’d been put in the wrong, which, of course, had been Alasdair’s intention. He had a tongue that could sting like an adder and few scruples how he used it when he considered someone had been overly inquisitive. However, she was a past master at dealing with Alasdair Chase’s setdowns. She said blandly, “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Maria still looked uncertain but she knew that not so long ago this informality between Emma and Alasdair had been customary. Ned had seen nothing wrong with it and she was not in the habit of pressing her own opinions on Emma, who she felt sure was perfectly capable of banishing an unwelcome visitor herself. So when Alasdair moved to the door and held it open for her, she said merely, “Oh dear,” and went through it, murmuring as she passed Alasdair, “Give my regards to Lady Chase.”

  “With pleasure, ma’am.” Alasdair bowed and closed the door firmly behind her. “Come, Emma, don’t glower at me. I’m determined not to quarrel with you today.” He caught up a straight-backed armless chair from beside the fireplace, swung it around, and straddled the seat, his arms folded along the back. He rested his chin on his arms and regarded Emma quizzically.

  She was looking deliciously rumpled, her stripey hair tumbling down her back, her golden eyes beneath drooping lids still filled with sleep. Her complexion had a pink glow, her lips were moist and soft, her expression open and vulnerable, as if her face had not yet taken on the realities of the new day. Unbidden came the memory of how deeply she slept, how very still she lay all night, once she’d tossed and turned until she was in the right position.

  Unbidden came the memory of her long, sprawling limbs tangled with his. Nothing would wake her. He used to amuse himself in the morning by touching her, stroking the lean length of her back, her belly, tiptoeing over the satiny inner skin of her thighs, trying to see if he could arouse the smallest reaction. But she would sleep on, her breathing deep and regular, but occasionally … just occasionally he would draw from her a faint murmur, a slight stirring of invitation….

  Emma’s skin prickled. She felt her nipples harden under his steady gaze. She could read his thoughts as clearly as if
they’d been written on vellum. Alasdair smiled slowly, a smile that started in his eyes before reaching his mouth. It was a smile that compelled a response—a smile to which she’d fallen victim more times than she cared to count. Deliberately Emma turned her head aside, picking up the tray that still rested on her knees and leaning sideways to place it on the bedside table.

  “So,” Alasdair said as if that charged moment had never taken place. “While I’m away, I imagine you’ll be shopping … generally preparing yourself to burst upon the town in fine fig.” He rose from his chair and strolled into Emma’s dressing room as he talked. “Fashions have changed since your last visit to town. Hairstyles too.”

  Out of Emma’s sight now, he continued to chat inconsequentially, his voice lightly ironical, but all the while his eyes darted around the dressing room, noting everything. He strode to the secretaire, where her writing case lay. His fingers ran lightly over the fine leather. There were drawers in the secretaire, twelve little ones for monthly bills and accounts, two deeper ones in the body of the piece.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  He turned around, seemingly casual, at Emma’s voice from the doorway. She stood there in her nightgown, her hair tumbling down her back, fixing him with an indignant and questioning stare.

  “Just looking around,” he said easily. “I was interested to see how the rooms are arranged.”

  Emma frowned. “You haven’t seen the house before?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I saw no need. The specifications for the house seemed exactly right, so I simply signed the lease.” He let his hand fall from the writing case and strolled to the armoire. “You’re going to need a completely new wardrobe, I would imagine.”

  He changed the subject with an airy wave as he opened the armoire and began to riffle through the garments hanging there. “As I thought, all the necklines here are too low now for daytime. They’re being worn higher with lace collarettes. Sleeves are longer too. Oh, and you can do without trains in most cases.”

  Emma was torn between annoyance at this insouciant riffling of her wardrobe and interest in his comments. Alasdair was an acknowledged arbiter of fashion, and his taste in dress, both male and female, was impeccable. Annoyance won the day, however. “When you’ve finished rummaging through my armoire, perhaps we could get on with discussing my finances?” she said frigidly.

  Alasdair turned back to her. “Ah, yes.” He raised the eyeglass that hung on a black silk ribbon around his neck and regarded her through it for a minute. “You look cold, my sweet. Perhaps you should put on a wrapper or get back into bed.”

  Emma belatedly realized that her nightgown was of very fine lawn, fine enough to be almost transparent. She glanced down and saw that her nipples made dark splotches against the white material. Alasdair’s gaze swept down her body and she knew he was recalling what was so barely concealed beneath the gown. The careless endearment, the pointed gaze, both infuriated her. She felt as if she were being appraised like a harlot in a whorehouse … as if he had mentally lined her up in the serried ranks of his innumerable liaisons.

  The hurt was still as fresh and piercing as it had ever been.

  Emma marched back to her bedchamber, snatching up a velvet wrapper from the chest at the end of the bed. Secure in its folds, she turned to the attack.

  “I suppose all the ladies who bask in your favors benefit from your advice on matters of dress and fashion,” she said with ringing sarcasm. “Maybe they pay for it too? I shouldn’t wonder if Lady Melrose and her like are more than willing to keep you in funds in exchange for all those little favors you do them.” Anger and pain were inextricable now and she continued in a devastating sweep of insult. “Indeed, I have often wondered how you manage to live so well with no visible means of support. Now, of course, I realize how it must be. Do you have a scale of charges, my dear Alasdair?”

  Alasdair had crossed the room in three strides. She saw with grim satisfaction that she had broken through his shell of debonair insouciance. What price now his peaceful intentions? He was pale with fury, his eyes mere slits of green ice. There was a white shade around his mouth and the pulse in his temple throbbed.

  “By God, Emma! You go too far.” His hands circled her throat and she could feel her own pulse beating against his fingers. She met his furious gaze with a gleam of triumph.

  “Under invincible propulsion,” she declared. “But will you not satisfy my curiosity? I know for a fact that you have an income of five thousand pounds a year from my fortune. But that’s hardly sufficient for a man of such expensive tastes.”

  Alasdair’s thumbs pressed upward into the soft flesh below her chin. He wasn’t hurting her but she could feel the force of will that kept him from doing so. “You really have a vicious tongue,” he said.

  “From a master, that’s compliment indeed,” she returned. Dimly she realized that they’d both now taken the high road of pure anger, and there was something almost heady about it. Almost a relief. It was as if finally she was free to give rein to the dreadful hurt he’d done her. She’d left him three years ago without a word of farewell, and they’d barely spoken to each other since. Now the red-hot surge of rage was like a cleansing fire.

  There was a moment’s silence, then suddenly Alasdair moved. One arm swept around her waist, clamping her tightly against him. His other hand clasped her head. He brought his mouth to hers, ignoring her struggles. There was passion in the kiss, but it was not of the soft and loving variety. It was hard and punishing and vengeful, and when at last he released her, she caught his cheek a ringing slap with her open palm.

  “You bastard!” she declared, her voice choking with outrage.

  “I thought you were asking for it,” he responded with acid mockery, lightly touching his cheek where the marks of her fingers stood out. “It seemed clear that you were provoking me to some action. In my experience, when a woman picks a quarrel, she’s usually seeking another, quite contradictory response.” His smile was pure insult. “Have you been so long without passion, my sweet, that you must satisfy your need in such a perverse fashion? You have only to ask, and I shall be more than happy to oblige, you know.”

  This time Emma kept her hands at her side, her fists clenched against the folds of her wrapper. He would let her hit him again without physical retaliation, such crudity was not his way, but to lose control herself would be a kind of defeat. Alasdair was a past master at verbal fencing, and when he was as angry as he was now, he would put no check on his tongue. He might regret what he said later, but for now he would be as savage as he pleased. And so could she.

  “I would not touch you if you were the last man on earth,” she said softly. “You disgust me. You’re a rake with all the instincts of a rutting stallion.”

  Alasdair’s breath hissed through his teeth, but his voice was cold and deadly as snake’s venom. “You must forgive the assumption then. There must be some reason why a passionate young woman would choose to spend three chaste years. I can’t believe you’ve had no offers since our own ill-fated little venture. Could I be blamed for thinking that just maybe you might be finding it difficult … or even distasteful … to find an alternative mate?”

  “You arrogant, conceited, overbearing, odious …” Emma could find no words strong enough. “Get out of here. I never wish to see you again!”

  “Ah, now there we have a problem.” Alasdair perched on the corner of the dresser, crossing his long legs at the ankle. “For as long as I control your fortune, my dear Emma, you will have to put up with seeing me on a frequent and regular basis.” A grim smile flickered across his tightly compressed lips.

  “Oh, you may rest assured that your control will be very short-lived!” Emma cried. “Rather than endure it a minute longer than I must, I will take the first offer made to me, Alasdair Chase. And I will be betrothed by … by the middle of February.” She flung her arms wide in an all-encompassing gesture.

  Alasdair’s laugh was scornful. “Don’t be ab
surd, Emma. You’re going to be besieged by fortune hunters—”

  “Not for the first time,” she interrupted. “And it wouldn’t be the first time I succumbed to one, would it?” Even though she knew that her fortune had never been Alasdair’s motive for proposing to her, she couldn’t help flinging the accusation at him, and again she saw with satisfaction that she’d caught him on the raw.

  “Believe me,” he said grimly, “any man prepared to ignore your shrew’s tongue for the sake of your fortune has to be in the most desperate straits. You’d better learn to sweeten your temper, Emma, if you intend to get a husband in your bed.”

  “By the middle of February,” Emma reiterated, “I shall have a fiancé … and …” She paused, her eyes narrowing. It was high time someone taught Alasdair Chase not to make conceited and arrogant assumptions. She stated coolly, “A fiancé and, sir, a lover in my bed. By the fourteenth of February, the feast of Saint Valentine,” she stated with a flash of inspiration. Saint Valentine, the patron saint of star-crossed lovers! She gave an angry little laugh. How very appropriate.

  “One and the same? Or are you intending to cuckold this mythical and unfortunate fiancé before the wedding?” He raised a sardonic eyebrow.

  Emma stared him down. “I fail to see what business that is of yours.”

  The taut silence stretched between them. The fire in the grate popped and hissed. Then Alasdair shrugged as if the subject was of no further interest. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a bank draft. “This should tide you over as pin money until I return.” He held it out to her. “You may have your bills sent directly to me for settlement. Your household accounts also.”

  Emma took the bank draft in nerveless fingers. “I would prefer to settle my bills myself,” she declared. “A quarterly payment into my own account will take care of that.”

  “I think I can best manage your fortune in this fashion.” He uncrossed his ankles and pushed himself away from the dresser. His voice was now coldly matter-of-fact. “I need to be able to move your investments around to ensure the best growth, and it doesn’t make sense that a large sum should be tied up every quarter.”