by Karen Ranney
If she were proper enough, decorous enough, she’d be accepted once more into society. People wouldn’t stare at her carriage or turn away when she attended a gathering. When her mourning ended, she’d actually be invited to a gathering or a dinner party. Unless society expected her to be more like the Queen, inconsolable since Prince Albert’s death a few years earlier.
Her hand gripped the curtain as she stared out at the square. The night was a stormy one, the flash of lighting against an ebony sky curiously absorbing. The cobbles were wet, and the wheels of the carriages made a ssshhh sound as they traveled through puddles. The streetlamps were blurred, shielded behind a curtain of rain.
Emma would have liked to go to the country, to leave London behind, but she wasn’t allowed to leave the city, tethered to this place and her role in life as if a rope were wound around her waist and tied to the foundation.
She didn’t close the drapes. She loved the night, loved the softness of it, the gentleness of the darkness. One of the lamps close to the house was suddenly extinguished, then another. Was the wind truly that fierce tonight? No matter, the watchman would come by in an hour or so and light them again.
Emma leaned her forehead against the glass and wished herself one of the people passing through the square in a carriage. Let her be on her way somewhere, anywhere but here. Let her be anyone but who she was.
If she were brave enough, she might walk among the shadows, become anyone she wished. Someone who wasn’t the widowed Duchess of Herridge. Someone who was simply Emma.
A woman who felt as if she were a spot of blood in a pool of water, flowering slowly before disappearing forever.
What would the world say to know that she’d loathed being the Duchess of Herridge? Her predecessor was reputed to have been a lovely, charitable woman whose death Anthony did not mourn at all. They’d married less than six months after Morna’s death. Perhaps Fate had a sense of humor, after all, or an ironic sense of justice. Society would be scandalized, again.
She sat in the chair beside the window. Dear God, she could not do it. She could not marry again. Did the youth of the husband truly matter?
Anthony was forever dining on oysters and other foods he claimed were powerful tonics for his manhood. He smelled of the sea, a beast of the ocean, equipped with a living trident that wasn’t particularly pleasant.
Please, God, save me. The prayer was one she’d uttered before, in just such a tone of resignation. Panic, however, laced the words with more emotion now. Please, God, save me. Please, I beg you.
For most of her life, she’d done what propriety decreed was right. For the whole of her marriage, she’d maintained a rigid control in order to survive what was happening around her. In the last eighteen months she’d become a hermit, a proper and silent ghost dressed in black, not simply to redress the horror of her marriage, but to be overlooked by society.
She knew too much.
For her efforts, she’d been rewarded, not with freedom, laurels, or commendation for her sense of decorum, but with the prospect of another husband, another marriage.
She turned and noticed her reflection in the window. Several tendrils of hair had come loose and were framing her face. Her maid did not have to use an iron on her hair, it curled on its own, and rain only made it worse. She removed the hairpins and her snood.
A gloved hand slammed against the windowpane.
She stared at the window, her heart pounding rapidly from the fright. The hand had abruptly disappeared, and for a moment Emma wondered if she just imagined what she’d seen. No, it had been real.
She stood, quickly walked to the bellpull and was reaching for it when a voice spoke behind her.
“Please do not do that, Duchess.”
She whirled to find a man standing in front of an open window on the other side of the room. He was dressed all in black, not unlike her own garments. But she doubted it was mourning that dictated his attire as much as a wish to escape detection from the watchman.
The intruder was a tall man, too large for her delicate sitting room. Black hair tumbled over his brow and might have softened his features if they hadn’t been so strong. A proud nose, squared chin, and full lips marked his face as one she would not easily forget.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
She pressed her fingers against the mourning cameo at her neck. A solitary adornment in her widowhood, it reminded her of her mother, of her family, and at this moment, her own mortality.
Her heart was beating so quickly that she could hardly breathe. Nor did she think it possible to blink; her eyes were wide open and staring at the intruder.
The rogue had the temerity to smile at her. As if she were impressed by an attractive smile. As if she could ever forgive him this unpardonable intrusion.
“I’ve come for the Tulloch Sgàthán,” he said.
She frowned at him. “The what?’
“The Tulloch mirror.”
She took a step backward, closer to the bellpull. “I don’t care what you’ve come for, leave my house.”
He frowned. “You are the Duchess of Herridge, are you not?”
She nodded.
“Emma Herridge?”
She nodded again.
“Where is it?” he asked, looking around the room.
Dear God, he was a thief.
She had little experience with histrionics. At this moment, however, she was giving some thought to screaming, loud and long, a sound to summon her uncle, if not a footman or two.
The intruder looked as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, because he strode across the room, grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer to him.
“Duchess,” he said softly, “if someone enters this room right now, I might be compelled to do bodily injury to them. Or to you.”
Was this how God answered her prayer?
Chapter 2
She wasn’t quite ready to die.
“I don’t know anything about a mirror,” Emma said, forcing a calm into her voice that she didn’t feel.
“It doesn’t belong to you, Duchess.”
Was he not listening to her?
“My jewelry is in my vanity,” she said. “You’re welcome to it. Take anything you want. Take all of it.”
She pulled her wrist free, twisted off her wedding ring, and held it out to him. “Take it, I’m certain it’s the equal of any mirror here. Now go away.”
He grabbed her wrist again, walked her over to the window, pushed her into a chair, and sat opposite her.
“I don’t want any of your jewelry. Just the mirror.”
“I don’t care what you want. Leave me,” she said. “Immediately.” She accentuated the command by pointing at the window.
He raised one eyebrow and regarded her almost in amusement, if she read his expression correctly.
“No one told me how beautiful you are,” he said.
She stared at him. Was it entirely proper to accept a compliment from a thief?
“What is this Tulloch mirror?” she asked.
He sat back in the chair, folded his arms and regarded her. It was rather disconcerting to be the object of that direct stare. Now she knew how a pigeon felt when faced with a hawk.
His mouth was full, and easily curved into a smile. His eyebrows were black slashes above eyes so brown they appeared almost black as well. His skin was tan, as if he labored outside when he wasn’t engaged in thievery.
“It rightfully belongs to the Tullochs of Perth.”
“Scotland.”
He nodded.
“My husband’s daughter emigrated to Scotland.”
He smiled at her but she ignored the expression. She was not that easily charmed.
“I hardly think the word emigrated applies to Lady Sarah,” he
said.
“You know her, then?” She’d never met Lady Sarah, either at her wedding or Anthony’s funeral.
“I do,” he said.
“Did she send you here?” she asked.
“Duchess, where is the mirror?” he asked softly.
She turned her head and looked out the window. Now she wondered if he had caused the lamps to be extinguished, the better to climb up onto the roof and not be seen.
“I don’t know anything about the Tulloch mirror,” she said, glancing over at him. “I must insist you leave. If you do so now, I’ll not call the authorities.”
“You’re very brave, Duchess. Aren’t you worried that I could harm you?” He sat impassive, arms still folded, watching her.
She folded her arms in an identical posture and frowned at him.
“If you’re going to harm me, then do so now, because I’ll not help you steal from me.”
“I don’t consider retrieving the Tulloch mirror to be an act of thievery, Duchess. I am merely attempting to return that which was illegally taken.”
She wasn’t the least bit reassured about her safety. She looked around for a weapon but there was nothing nearby. The lamp would have to do. She could break it over his head.
“I’ve never been guilty of violence against a female, Duchess,” he said, as if guessing her intention.
“But you have, against a man? Is that supposed to reassure me?”
“No,” he said. “Nothing I’ve said tonight was meant to reassure you.”
She blinked at him, surprised at his honesty. “You mean to intimidate me.”
“Of course,” he said, smiling at her again.
She had had enough.
She stood, and before he could grab her, marched to the door, and would have opened it had he not seized her from behind. One arm wrapped around her waist, lifting her. His free hand pressed against her mouth as if he guessed, rightly, that she was about to scream.
“You’re the most surprising woman, Duchess,” he said.
She kicked him.
He laughed and she kicked him again.
“Your Grace?”
Her maid was on the other side of the door.
The intruder reached out and locked the door before Juliana could turn the latch.
“Your Grace? Are you all right?”
“Tell her you’re fine,” he whispered into her ear.
Emma shook her head.
He made an exasperated sound.
“Your Grace?” Juliana said. “Do you not need my help readying for bed?”
“Tell her no,” he whispered, “or I shall have to hurt you.” He turned her chin so that she could see him. There was no humor in his gaze, and not one speck of amusement on his face. “Perhaps I haven’t been guilty of harming a female up until now, Duchess, but I’m certainly capable of it.”
Emma reluctantly nodded.
Slowly, he released his hand from her mouth, resting his knuckles against her cheek, almost a reminder that he would not hesitate to use force.
She took a deep breath.
“I don’t require any assistance tonight, Juliana. Go ahead and retire for the night if you wish.”
“Are you certain, Your Grace?”
“I am very certain,” she said, making her voice firm and strong. “Sleep well.”
“Thank you, Your Grace, and you as well.”
Should her maid sound so surprised? She’d bid her good-night on many occasions.
The thief moved back from the door, releasing her.
“Very good, Duchess,” he said.
Emma sent him a look that should have scorched him in place before sitting on the chair beside the window once again.
“Take every mirror in the house. I, personally, will see to it that a wagon is loaded up with every single mirror I possess, if it will banish you from my home.”
“It’s not any mirror, Duchess. It’s a hand mirror made of gold. It’s quite old, with Latin writing on the back. I understand that the most recent addition to it is a ring of diamonds around the glass.”
He stood leaning against the wall, his arms folded in place, his ankles crossed. He looked as if he were perfectly comfortable standing there for as long as he wished, and she had the sudden and disconcerting thought that he probably could and would.
She lay her head back against the chair, closed her eyes, and simply ignored him.
He studied the Duchess of Herridge and knew that this errand had been foolish. What he should do was leave the same way he’d come and vanish from her sight.
However, he wasn’t about to leave without the Tulloch mirror, sensibility be damned.
The chance of her recognizing him was relatively low. He and the Duchess of Herridge did not move in the same circles. He was given more to science, and she was a recluse due to her mourning.
“How old were you when you married the duke?”
She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Is that any of your concern?”
“Put it down to curiosity,” he said. “Add to that the fact that you don’t look more than seventeen now.”
She only frowned at him.
“How old?” he asked, wondering why he insisted.
One hand peeked out from the material of her skirts. She clenched it into a fist as if the question were a painful one.
“I have no intention of discussing personal matters with you. Leave my house.”
“He was in his fifties.”
“You needn’t tell me my husband’s age,” she said.
“When did you meet? At the altar?”
“Again, I see no reason to discuss personal details with you.”
“Emma!”
They both turned toward the door.
“Juliana says that you are acting oddly. Are you ill?”
“Who’s that?” he whispered.
“My uncle,” she said, her gaze fixed on the door.
The sound of the key in the door had him looking for a place to hide. Well, now, he had truly gone and done it. He could just imagine the headlines in the newspapers. Earl of Buchane Found in Lady’s Boudoir.
Evidently, the Duchess of Herridge was as loath to be found with a man in her chamber as he was to be discovered there, because she pointed to a wardrobe in the bedchamber. He made it into the wardrobe just as he heard the door open.
He pushed aside a few of the dresses in order to make room. What was the perfume she wore? Something that reminded him of spring nights. And what was this silky garment in his face? He brushed it aside, his fingers straying across the lace.
Had he gone insane? He was Ian Hamilton McNair, Earl of Buchane, Laird of Trelawny, and he was hiding in the Duchess of Herridge’s wardrobe.
“What is this about you not requiring your maid, Emma?” a masculine voice asked. “Are you feeling ill? Or are you simply being rebellious?”
“I’m not ready to retire, Uncle,” she said. “I merely wished to spare Juliana the hours of waiting for me.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “The servants are here for your convenience, not the reverse.”
“Nonetheless,” Emma said, “I am not fatigued as yet, Uncle. Or are you now dictating when I rise and when I go to bed?”
“That attitude does not become you, niece. Everything I’ve done since I’ve arrived in London has been for your greater benefit.”
“Does that include gambling away my fortune, Uncle?”
Ian heard the slap and for a moment debated leaving the wardrobe. To do so, however, would be to make the situation even worse than it was.
The second slap, however, rendered the point moot. He was hurtling out of the wardrobe and toward the tall figure standing in front of the duchess, even now rais
ing his hand to strike her again.
The look of shock on the older man’s face was almost worth the disaster of this night. Ian gave himself a second to contemplate it before letting loose with a right hook. The man stumbled, gripping his jaw, but came back at him faster than Ian would have believed possible. Evidently, Emma’s uncle had some boxing experience.
Ian had more.
Two quick left jabs, another right hook, and the man was sprawled on the floor, arms flung out, his hands still curled into fists.
Emma remained silent, simply looking at him over her uncle’s supine body. The man moaned and blinked a few times. In a moment he’d be back on his feet.
“Well, hell, Duchess,” Ian said, the enormity of what he’d done just now striking him.
He grabbed her wrist, pulled her out of the room and down the stairs to the front door before she could say a word.
Chapter 3
All in all, Ian’s escape from the Duchess of Herridge’s house was easier than his entrance, and a damn sight safer than scaling the roof.
He led her to his carriage parked across the square. When she looked at it, then at him, he knew she was probably wondering if he’d stolen the ebony vehicle with its brass lamps.
Ian stepped aside and allowed her to precede him inside, but before he followed, he needed to give instructions to his driver. The rain-soaked wind was chilling. Ignoring his own discomfort, he stood at the head of the carriage, trying to decide where to take the Duchess of Herridge.
His own town house? He needed time to figure out how to get out of this situation without doing any further damage to the duchess’s reputation. Taking her to his home wouldn’t be the wisest decision. However, a hotel was out of the question, and he didn’t know of any lodging houses. His only other alternative was to call upon one of his friends. What kind of man would engage an innocent bystander in an act that was, at its heart, illegal? The same kind of man who would abduct a woman. No, he couldn’t involve anyone else in this ill-conceived, idiotic situation.
He called up to his driver. “Home, Thomas.” He would just have to find a way to ensure that no one knew who she was.