by Karen Ranney
“My sister deplores it,” he said. “Ever since she was eight, and required to rework her sampler numerous times, she’s refused to take up the needle.”
“Your sister sounds like someone after my own heart,” she said. “However, I’ve always thought it a failing of mine not to have the patience or the skill.”
“Perhaps your talents lie in other directions,” he said. “Unfortunately, my library is filled with scientific treatises, but perhaps my sister has left behind a novel or two. I’ll see if I can find something for you.”
“You are very solicitous for an abductor,” she said. “For all that you say you’ve had no experience in it.”
“Much less than you’ve had at being a duchess.”
“There isn’t much to being a duchess,” she said, looking away. “One must simply have the capacity to endure.”
She hadn’t meant to say that, either.
He reached out and touched her hand again. She didn’t withdraw it but left it there, fingers straightened and pointing toward him.
She tilted her head slightly and regarded him with some intensity.
He smiled once more, an expression that was evidently commonplace for him. Was it also a routine occurrence for him to attract women? She couldn’t help but wonder.
A very mysterious man, this brigand, and one she’d do well to avoid.
She stood, pushing back her chair rather than waiting for him to assist her. She placed her napkin to the left of her plate, checked to see that she’d left the silverware in the correct position. The training of a lifetime served her now, as it had so often in the past.
Yet she’d never taken nearly an hour to eat her breakfast. Or eaten it in the bright light of the morning sun or with such an enticing stranger.
A great many things can be dangerous if care is not taken. Including wanting something one mustn’t have. Although she may wish it, she could not turn time on itself. She couldn’t become someone other than who she was. It was not four years ago; it was today.
“Thank you for breakfast,” she said. “But until my uncle sends you the mirror, I think it would be better if I ate in my room.”
He’d stood when she did, and now she had to tilt her head back in order to see him. Not an easy thing to do since the sun was behind him. She shielded her eyes, wishing she could see his expression.
“But it’s not my room,” she said. “It’s yours. Where did you sleep last night?”
“There are ten bedrooms in this house,” he said. “I simply took another.”
“Wouldn’t it be better for you to have your own chamber back? I’d be happier in another,” she said.
“I have no objection to sharing what I have with you, Emma,” he said softly. “Whether it’s breakfast or a room.”
“Yes,” she said, an answer to a question he hadn’t asked. She felt foolish and silly and too young. Without another word she left him, nearly running down the path and up the stairs to the room that was less a prison at this moment than sanctuary.
As she did so, in that space of only seconds, Emma allowed herself to feel the pain of regret and something, strangely, like longing.
Chapter 7
A few minutes after Emma left him, Ian made his way back to his library. There was work he needed to do on the paper he’d present to the Royal Society of London tonight. The gathering was to be a small one, hosting a few visiting members of the Académie des Sciences from France. The document was more theoretical than empirical and was the basis for his current study of the bacterial content of the natural springs around his home in Scotland.
The first of three missions he’d had on this trip to London. He hoped the first—his paper—would be well received. He still had not succeeded in the second—obtaining the Tulloch Sgàthán. The third—that of contacting his cousin Bryce—was not going to be pleasant.
His cousin had remarked, on more than one occasion, that he didn’t wish to be saved. If he chose to travel down the road to perdition, it was his damn choice. A decision that Ian would have been more than happy to leave to him, had it not been for his mother. His mother was fond of Bryce, and more than a little concerned for his welfare.
He needed to find Bryce, and find out just how much money he owed this time. He’d also attempt to urge Bryce not to contact his mother for money. Every time he did so, the Countess of Buchane was upset, and determined to do something to aid her adopted son.
He’d planned to be in London less than a week, having come to learn, to be educated, to share his own knowledge. He had not come to London to be flummoxed, to be confused, or even worse—to be concerned about a woman he barely knew.
“Your Lordship,” his majordomo said, “this just came for you.”
Peter reached out his hand and took the missive. His name was written in distinctive script but he didn’t recognize the handwriting. The stationery was a good quality, easily equal to that he’d recently ordered for himself.
“Who did you say brought this?” he asked of his majordomo.
“A young boy, Your Lordship.”
“Is he here now?” Peter asked, having opened the envelope and scanned the contents of the letter.
“No, Your Lordship,” the majordomo said. “He gave the envelope to me and then ran away.”
“Pity,” Peter said, rereading the message.
His niece had been abducted. He knew that. If he did not produce a certain object—a mirror, purportedly at Chavensworth—she might very well be in danger.
Peter sat back against his chair, stretched his feet out on the footstool in front of him, and folded his hands across his stomach, trapping the letter beneath his hands.
He was damned tired of feeling powerless. Something would have to be done. First that idiotic young fool and now this. He needed Emma back now.
The message stated that he would be given one day. One day to produce an object he’d never before seen, and whose location was a mystery to him.
Dearest Emma, his niece, the darling daughter of his older brother. His brother should have ensured that his fortune had accompanied the title. After all, what’s the worth of a title when there are no funds to accompany it?
He was too old to marry again. His wife had borne him three children, none of whom had survived childhood, before she finally died a few years ago. An heiress might have solved the Duke of Herridge’s money problems but Peter wasn’t the Duke of Herridge. Nor was he interested in courting some young girl.
If something happened to Emma, he would have more than control of her money. He’d have all that lovely fortune to himself.
He’d had to abandon his plans the minute that young fool showed up. Now he was being forced to pretend to care.
Damn it. He had to get Emma home, and quickly.
When Emma was a child, she had no dreams of being a princess. Perhaps because her father had treated her as if she were one in truth. Anything she wanted, he bestowed on her with generosity and love. He’d purchased a very expensive horse from a next-door neighbor because she’d admired him in the paddock. He’d given her a carriage of her own when she was sixteen, a pretty little thing of midnight blue, with an interior of pale blue velvet upholstery.
“You and your maid can go calling in that,” he said. “A carriage befitting its occupants.”
Perhaps she might have been spoiled had not her mother’s death brought sorrow into her life. Perhaps her father thought to make up, in a small way, for the loss of her mother, a sweet and calm-faced woman with an eternal smile.
Emma remembered being grateful that her father had not remarried. Yet now, as she sat in a strange room in a strange house in the middle of a city she knew well, she couldn’t help but wonder if her father had regretted not marrying again. He’d devoted himself so completely to his interests and to his daughter that
there had been no room for anyone else in his life.
Had he been lonely?
Why had it taken until now for her to wonder? Perhaps she had been spoiled, after all.
She sat on the chair beside the window, wishing it would storm again. The weather was calm, however, the view from the window serene. Her life had been like that, until Ian entered her sitting room window. From that moment onward, everything had turned upside down.
Even a scientist from Scotland had heard the rumors. Of course people talked about her—she was the Duchess of Herridge. She was Anthony’s wife. More than that, she was the Ice Queen.
Could she have escaped? Could she have simply walked away from Chavensworth?
If she’d told her father only a fraction of what had gone on in Anthony’s house, he would have gladly offered her sanctuary. But then, she didn’t doubt that Anthony would have attempted to punish her father for doing so. Anthony answered to no authority but his own.
And now, to the Devil’s.
Could she have refused to attend his entertainments? Doing so would have delighted her husband—hadn’t he said, more than once, how he relished a little spirit and fire? In the end she’d survived, the cost for doing so no doubt taken from her immortal soul. She’d hated in a way few people could, and feared in a way that no woman should.
How could she possibly explain that to anyone?
Perhaps she had been spoiled as a child, and paid for it as a woman.
A knock interrupted her thoughts, and when Emma answered the door, it was to find the same young maid who’d summoned her to breakfast. Now she held a small square basket in her hands and a selection of books under her arm. A selection of novels, Emma was delighted to discover, that she’d not read; all books she could not wait to read.
No one in her entire life had ever given her a book, not even her father. No one had encouraged her to sit and read. Instead, she’d always been told that she must busy herself with those occupations befitting the daughter of an earl. If no one would be disturbed, she should practice the pianoforte. If silence was required, she should work on her needlepoint. She was to be a lady of leisure but her time should be spent in a manner that would bring credit to her family and to her husband.
Wasting the hours in fascination, in being transported to another time and another place, was hedonistic, at best, and at worst encouraged a woman to think beyond her role in life.
The girl disappeared into the bathing chamber, emerging to finish dispensing the contents of the basket. She placed a long handled silver brush and mirror on top of the bureau before bobbing a curtsy and leaving the room in silence.
Emma settled on the bed, arranging the books before her like plates at a feast. Bleak House, Pride and Prejudice, Silas Marner: the Weaver of Raveloe, and Wuthering Heights, all books so exciting that the words must surely singe their pages.
She felt curiously lighthearted. For the first time in years she wasn’t expected to be anywhere, to be doing anything in particular, and most importantly, no one demanded that she act in a certain way. For a day she didn’t have to worry about her upcoming marriage. In the safety of this room, she didn’t have to pretend to mourn her husband.
For the first time in years—in her lifetime, perhaps?—she was entirely and completely free, and she was a prisoner.
Lying back on the bed, she grabbed Silas Marner and began to read. Immediately, she lost herself in another time, another place, and another person’s experience.
Once, she found herself agreeing with poor Silas.
It seemed to him that the Power he had vainly trusted in among the streets and at the prayer-meetings, was very far away from this land . . .
How many times had she felt that God was very far away, especially on those nights when Anthony entertained in Chavensworth’s ballroom? Emma pushed that thought from her mind and concentrated on Silas’s world and not her own.
She put her book down when summoned to the door by a knock.
“Your dinner, miss,” the girl said, entering the room nearly bent over from the weight of the tray.
“Is it that time already?”
Although she hadn’t done anything but read all day, Emma found herself remarkably hungry. The tray was laden with a slice of beef, vegetables, pudding, a small serving of fish, potatoes, and an individual pear tart. The meal looked delicious, and the serenity of not having to face her uncle across the table was even more wondrous.
This day of imprisonment had been pure bliss.
She’d been interrupted only once, when a young man had knocked.
“Begging your pardon, miss, but I need to get some clothes from the wardrobe.”
She opened the door wide, and he’d gone to the armoire, selecting several garments. He’d left with an armful of clothing and a smile.
“It’s a little early, miss,” the young girl said now, placing the tray on the table near the bed. “But Cook is having hysterics on account of the dinner tonight, and the master just now returning to the house. My mother always said that what cannot be helped must be put up with.” She shook her head, smiling.
“A dinner?” Emma asked.
“Oh yes, miss, the master is having a grand to do. Twenty people in all, and all the staff to wear their best bib and tucker. It’s a very particular occasion.”
Emma moved to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Is there anything else I can get for you, miss? With all the to do downstairs, it might be a bit of a wait if you ring for me.”
“Who are the guests?” Emma asked, tamping down her sudden, insane panic.
“I’m not sure, miss. Mostly gentlemen, I think. Friends of the master.”
She bobbed another curtsy and left. Emma stared at the closed door, then forced her attention to the meal.
Although she was certain the meal was wonderful, and more than a prisoner had a right to expect, she found that her appetite had abruptly vanished.
She might as well have been eating sawdust for what she tasted. When she’d eaten enough to satisfy her hunger, she slid from the bed and walked to the window. While she’d been reading, day had surrendered to night. This view was of a brightly lit square, not unlike her own neighborhood. But unlike her more sedate square, a line of carriages sat waiting for their passengers.
Her brigand evidently had guests.
Ian was not Anthony. This was not one of Anthony’s entertainments. Her stomach, however, still clenched, and her hands trembled at her sides.
Ian would not take advantage of a lone woman. Had he not been concerned for her comfort from the first?
Still, she might be wrong. She would know in a matter of time, wouldn’t she? Someone would come for her. Someone would tell her lies to reassure her. Someone would hold her down while another person—or two—would strip her clothes away, before leading her to a place where she would be displayed, naked, for everyone to see.
That’s how it had happened the first time.
Every other occasion, she’d simply been told that an entertainment was planned, and she’d performed in silence and utter calm, determined not to cry or plead or allow anyone to see her revulsion.
At first she’d been terrified of Anthony. Then, when she simply could not summon enough energy to care about what he would do to her, he told her that he’d disclose everything to her father, a man who was already ailing. When her father died, slipping beyond Anthony’s grasp, her husband had threatened to tell the world what she’d done.
In the end it was simply easier to become someone she wasn’t, the Ice Queen, no so much unaffected by what she saw as uncaring. In the last few years, she’d suspected Anthony had drugged her wine, but even that would have been unnecessary. She was an instrument of his will, his plaything, and his toy.
And she didn’t think she could ever forgive
herself for it.
This time she was not going to wait for them. Nor was she going to cower in this room. Instead, she would investigate, and if Ian’s entertainment was anything like Anthony’s, then she would flee this house, alone and in the darkness, if necessary.
Turning, she grabbed the latch and opened the door.
Shadows filled the corridor, and from far away came the sound of masculine laughter. This laughter was neither boisterous nor did it have a tinge of drunkenness to it. Instead, it sounded almost polite, as might a gathering before the Queen.
Slowly, she left the room, the flagstones abrasive on her bare feet. How shocking she was being. Her dress was badly wrinkled from lying on the bed most of the afternoon. She’d unbound her hair and it now fell in a mass past her shoulders. She’d removed her hoops and her corset was loose.
A lady never appeared in public without being perfectly dressed, even down to her gloves.
How idiotic that society decreed a great many rules for a woman’s behavior and comportment, and almost none to a man’s.
Yet she’d tried to obey those dictates when she could. She was to wear an endless assortment of petticoats if she did not wear her hoops. If she wore her hoops, she was not to complain about the itchiness of the tape fastenings. Her corset was to be laced at exactly the tightness required to both give her a womanly shape yet conceal that womanly shape from prying eyes. Even in the midst of summer she was to wear stockings, a most regrettable rule since even the delicate ones made at a convent in the south of France were unbearably warm—and itchy.
She was not to walk but to glide. Her breath was to come in soft, feminine pants, so as not to give the appearance of being too hearty or strong. Without a corset, a woman could breathe as well as a man, but every morning she laced her corset as prescribed. Only in the past months had she instructed Juliana to begin lacing at the third set of the eyelets and cease before the top two. In this manner, she allowed herself some freedom of movement, of breath, and relief from pain.