Damon shook his head. “By the elevens, I never have understood how an otherwise sane woman can titter as if she were still a child.”
“She was overmastered by your questions,” Emily said.
“Unlike her master who is charging twice his usual fare for the food he should have had ready upon our arrival.”
Emily smiled and sampled the luxuriant scent of a rose. Looking over her shoulder to where Damon was bending to examine a yew, she said, “I thought you would leave your cynicism in Town. Are you the same man who vowed he found the honesty of the country refreshing?”
He sat on a broad boulder by the wall. Arching one ebony brow, he returned, “I did not realize that you would recall what I say with such clarity. Can I believe you find me unforgettable?”
“Before you lather yourself with pride, recall that an irritating itch is also unforgettable.”
Instead of laughing as she had expected, he reached out to take her hand in his. She found herself looking down into his eyes, a decidedly odd and undeniably pleasurable experience, for the emotions alight in them urged her to step closer.
“Do you find me so irksome?” he asked with the rare gentleness that always set her heart to pulsing rapidly. “I would prefer that you think of me in other ways, Emily.”
“How?” she whispered, wishing he would stop prattling and kiss her. For the moment, she did not care how many eyes witnessed their pleasure.
“As someone you can turn to, someone you can be honest with.” His gaze drilled into her, holding her prisoner as he said quietly, “I know that you have been concerned about your father’s habits and losses to more than Lichton and me, and I know as well, for I have made subtle queries, that your sister does not seem to share your anxiety.”
“You asked questions like that about us?”
“About your father, primarily, and his business interests in England.”
“How dare you!”
He set himself on his feet and grasped her hand before she could storm away. “Blame yourself, Emily, for you must own that it was most unusual that you would request that I not join your father in a game of the king’s books.”
“But that did not offer you carte blanche to ask about my father’s business dealings.”
“You are being generous, Emily.”
“Generous?” She scowled at him. “I can assure you that my thoughts are anything but generous at the moment.”
“I meant about deeming any of your father’s dealings business. All his transactions seem to take place at the board of green cloth.” He gently stroked her fingers.
“Our family has long been involved in enterprises beyond England. During our time in America, Papa—” She pulled her hand out of his. “This is none of your bread-and-butter, Damon.”
“True, but I wanted you to know that I will keep my vow. Your father must find his own entertainment while I show you Wentworth Hall.” His eyes began to twinkle. “If all goes as I hope, you shall enjoy the surprise I have waiting for you.”
Emily knew she should leave him here to stew in his own juices. She should be appalled that he had inquired into Papa’s affairs, but she could not force her feet to take her back into the dining room. Even though he was the most vexing man she had ever met, she did not want to lose a moment she could share with him.
“Why won’t you tell me what this secret is?” she asked, lowering her chin from its defiant pose.
He laughed. “See? I am not the only curious cat here. Your curiosity, my dear Emily, shall add to my enjoyment of this trip. Shall we go in and discover if Dengler has readied our meal before it is time for breakfast?”
When he drew her hand into his arm, Emily was sure she had never been so happy. Unlike Mr. Colley, who had made himself bothersome with his puppyish attentions, Damon always gave her the chance to be herself with him. She was uncertain if she could say the same for him. Then she realized, as she should have from the beginning, that the many facets of his personality were all part of the man.
Within the dining room, the tables were set with scratched pewter. Emily wondered what was delaying Papa and Miriam and the others, but smiled when Damon led her to a small table that would sit no more than six.
“I brought an extra horse in case mine went lame,” Damon said as he drew out a chair for her. “Will you ride with me tomorrow instead of being cramped in that rolling coffin?”
“What a pretty invitation!”
He laughed. “I thought you appreciated my plain words.”
“I have had no choice, for you speak little else.”
As she sat, his hands lingered on her chair, brushing her skin above the back of her gown’s gently scooped neckline. She silenced her gasp when her skin came alive with the powerful sensation she suffered—no, not suffered, for it was a sweetness like nothing else she had experienced—each time he touched her. When he bent forward, she closed her eyes to relish the pleasure as his words grazed her ear.
“Would you have me laud your bewitching blue eyes or the indescribable glory of your ebony hair? I could speak of the enticing lilt of your laugh and the rapier-sharp edge of your wit, but I would as lief treat you with the gentle disrespect I offer all my friends.”
“Which I prefer,” she answered, surprised to discover that her quick answer was the truth. She did not want Damon serenading her with billets-doux. She had seen enough of that with Miriam’s silliness in the marquis’s company.
When his fingers slid along her face to wander up her cheek, she guided his lips toward her. Let the ton and its strictures rot in perdition! She wanted this kiss. Wanting to touch him far more intimately, her fingers clenched in the thick wool of his coat when his mouth gently brushed hers. He drew back, and she whispered a protest.
He put his finger over her lips and shook his head. When he walked around the table, she watched his cool smile return. She understood why when she heard voices past the rush of her pulse.
Damon greeted Miriam and Papa as they walked into the dining room. He urged them to seat themselves while he let their host know that they were growing ever more eager to partake of his handiwork.
“Where have you been?” Miriam asked, selecting the chair next to Emily’s. “I was here less than five minutes ago, and I saw no sign of you. Mr. Dengler was little help.” She pressed her hand over her heart. “I feared for you in this bleak place.”
Emily’s joy was startled away. The inn, despite its slow service, was clean and sufficient for a night’s lodging.
Her surprise became aggravation when her sister continued, “I should have known he would pick such an out-of-the-way spot. No doubt few inns will accept his gold in exchange for being tarnished by his patronage.”
“Miriam! That is a horrible thing to say.” She smiled coldly. “I think I prefer you not speaking to me than having to listen to such demure hits.”
“I am only being honest.” She stared at the door behind Emily. Her eyes grew wide as her frown softened into a smile.
Emily watched, bafflement ruffling her forehead, as Miriam slowly rose. Shifting in her seat, she turned so she could see what had caught Miriam’s eye. She could not silence her groan. She should have known the moment she saw Miriam’s reaction.
“Mes amis, we are well met,” called Marquis de la Cour as, with a swirl of his gold cape, he entered the dining room. “I could not remain behind and miss all the fun. That would be, as you say, want-witted, no?”
Chapter Fourteen
“André!” Miriam rushed to greet the man who dared to claim the name Marquis de la Cour. “You came!”
The marquis caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Mais oui, ma chérie.”
Emily gripped the edge of the table as she heard him speak the name that had been so precious between her and Papa. Would he leave her nothing?
He hooked his arm through Miriam’s before leading her toward where Emily sat with Papa, who was wide-eyed at his younger daughter’s forward behavior. The inn’s servan
ts stared, openmouthed, as the marquis took off his tall beaver. He whipped off his cloak. With an easy flick, he sent it and his hat in the direction of Mr. Dengler.
André—She found it more comfortable to think of him like that instead of as the marquis—smiled broadly. He bowed toward Papa, then to Emily, but lifted Miriam’s hand again to his lips. Emily tensed as her sister tittered with nervous delight. Looking at Papa, she saw he was watching André, but without emotion.
Emily’s fingers clenched in her lap as André’s natter about his journey was accompanied by eager questions from Miriam. It was the greatest irony that the fiction she had designed to protect Miriam and Papa might now be the very thing to endanger them.
“This is a surprise,” interrupted a deeper voice.
Emily wanted to beg Damon to free her from this addled situation. As lief, she stood. Taking Miriam’s hand, she urged her sister to sit between her and Papa. Emily was not sure if her scowl or André’s laugh silenced her sister.
“Mon Seigneur Wentworth,” gushed the fake poet, “I beg your indulgence, but I could not remain in Town when my dear friends were gone.” His syrupy smile was aimed at Miriam.
She flushed but said, “Do let him join us, Damon.”
Emily swallowed her gasp as Damon’s brows rose at her sister’s suddenly friendly demeanor. “I doubt if it would be good form to exclude anyone in such a public place.”
“I had hoped …”
“Nor will I send him back to London, Miriam. He may join us at Wentworth Hall.”
Emily wondered if she was the only one to note the layer of sarcasm in Damon’s voice. When her gaze was caught by André’s, she knew he had heard it as well. He looked away as he began to ply her sister with compliments. The blasted encroaching mushroom! If he thought to cement his status with the ton by wooing her sister … Emily did not know what she could do to halt him.
Fingers covered her tight fists. Meeting Damon’s stern gaze, she tried to smile. He patted her hand as he took the chair beside her. That left André the choice of sitting next to Damon or next to Papa. Wisely, he chose the latter.
“Allow me,” Damon said as he poured the wine. “Dengler assures me ’tis the best in his cellars.”
André sniffed the glass and winced, as if its simple bouquet were too primitive for his palate. “Can there be no decent burgundy on this island?”
Damon smiled, but his eyes remained cold. “I had thought, de la Cour, you would have a traveler’s charity toward his host and be anxious to sample things beyond what you are accustomed to.”
“On other things, but this.” He sighed with a martyr’s grace and took another sip. “Ah, it seems there are many things we French excel at.” Flashing a smile at Miriam, he tilted his goblet in her direction.
Miriam flushed and lowered her eyes. Emily promised herself she would talk with her sister about her want-witted admiration as soon as they retired.
Into the silence, Damon said, “After seeing examples of fine art from France, I accede that is one arena where the French outshine the English.”
“You possess a great deal of knowledge of the French,” returned André. “Have you visited my homeland?”
“On several occasions.” His smile became secretive. “On errands whose discussion you might, being a loyal paysan, find discomfiting.”
Miriam gasped, “You were there during the war!”
“On several occasions,” he repeated. “I have had no opportunity to return since peace was declared after Napoleon’s final banishment. It would be interesting to see Paris as something other than a city readying for a siege.”
Softly, Emily said, “Let us speak of the present. There’s little interesting in what has come and gone.”
“True,” seconded Papa. “We can do nothing to change what has been.” Hearing regret in his voice, Emily reached across the table. He drew his fingers away, and she recoiled as if he had struck her.
André chuckled, proving he was unaware of anything but himself. “Mademoiselle Talcott, if our two nations had sent you lovely ladies to deal with political matters, I believe there would have been no guerre.”
“But then I would never have had the chance,” Damon said smoothly, “to enjoy that small café in the village near Château Rivedoux on the Loire. You must know of it, de la Cour, as you have told me you grew up in the château’s shadow. The owner was a burly chap named Marlon, and his daughter who worked there …” He let his voice trail off with a laugh that bespoke pleasant memories.
“Of course I know of it,” André answered quickly. “I spent many a delightful hour there.”
“Did you escape unscathed from that mad rooster who considered the whole yard his private domain?”
He rubbed his arm. “No one escapes unscathed, mon seigneur.”
Emily watched as they continued to reminisce. Something was not right. Damon sat back and rocked his goblet of wine, and she almost gasped when her gaze met his. Instead of the bonhomie of the light conversation, deep satisfaction glinted in the gray depths of his eyes. He was pleased with something, and, as his gaze returned to André, she was certain he shared her suspicions about the impostor.
Her fingers tightened on her glass. If Damon had guessed André was a fraud, he was certain to be anxious to unmask him to discover the “real” marquis. She wondered how she could have hoped this journey would be an escape from her troubles.
Ignoring the dust that coated her navy-blue riding jacket with a fine fuzz, Emily reined in her horse as Damon slowed his along the country road. She glanced over her shoulder, but the carriages and wagons were nowhere in sight. A smile tugged at her lips.
How glad she was that Damon had invited her to enjoy this glorious day! Inside the carriage, she could not have savored the song of the lark coming from the hedgerow or seen the scurrying of a rabbit back beneath it. And inside the carriage she would have had to bear André’s boasting as she watched Miriam become enthralled with his bangers. She feared she would not be able to hold her tongue much longer.
“There!” Damon pointed across the rolling hills that were growing a darker green with the end of the day. Laughing as he flung out his hand, he said, “Behold the ancestral hall of the Wentworths.”
Emily stared, as awestruck as her friends had been when they had met the marquis, for it was not a house. It was a castle. Crenellations topped the wall that hid the house beyond it. Easily she could imagine archers fighting off some foe. The tame green fields, the glorious blossoms in the orchards surrounding the estate, and the quiet village separated from it by a quaint stone bridge over a meandering river could not gentle its massive strength.
“You live here?” she managed to choke out.
“Not within the chambers inside the wall, thank goodness.” He motioned with his head for her to follow. “The Wentworths no longer need to be prepared to withstand an attack. We have grown more civilized through the centuries.”
“Or you have simply disposed of all your mortal enemies.”
Laughing as they rode side-by-side, he replied, “If it were only so easy. I must own there are times when I pine for the days when the lord of the manor could dispose of his foes with a strong force of men as lief a barrage of barristers.” He caught her reins and edged closer to her horse. “And times when I consider the privileges offered as le droit de seigneur.”
“We have grown more civilized.”
“Have we?”
She knew she should not let the husky warmth in his voice entrap her, but resisting the impulse to look into his enigmatic eyes was impossible. As he drew both horses to a walk beneath the shadow of the wall that was encrusted with moss and vines, he leaned toward her. Boldly, her hand glided up to his shoulder as his mouth slanted across hers. His arm around her waist tilted her even closer to him as he probed within her mouth, setting each slick surface alight with rapture.
Sudden brightness struck Emily’s face, and she drew back to discover they had ridden through the gate and
into the glow of the late-afternoon sun. “Oh, my!”
“I had hoped for a more enthusiastic response to our kiss than simply ‘Oh, my!’” Damon said with a laugh.
She stared at what lay within the ancient wall. Her assumption that it was intact had been an illusion, she discovered, for only the one section remained standing. The austere tower, which once encompassed the keep, now was the centerpiece of a trio of wings that must be several hundred years old. Arched windows and deep sills were a reminder that this once had been a fortress. An avenue of trees invited them to explore as they rode past the broad lawns leading to the house and the smaller outbuildings that were set like courtiers around the grand dame.
“I had no idea,” she whispered, “Wentworth Hall would look like this. How do you keep from becoming lost within that maze of wings?”
“It was the perfect place for a lad who was eager to find a hiding place to avoid his tutor.” Setting his horse to a walk again, he said, “You must explore while you are here.”
“And if I become disoriented amid all those rooms?”
“Then I shall have to come to your rescue. That is the duty of the lord of the manor, is it not?” He caught her gloved hand in his as the rakish leer returned to his face. “And then, mayhap, I can learn just how grateful you can be.”
Wandering through Wentworth Hall that evening, Emily paused to look at the portraits lining the dusky walls. Faces, proud and somber, were edged with long hair and short as well as ruffs and stiff, starched collars. As she stared at the paintings, she could hear within her memory the sound of her grandmother’s voice, telling the old tales of her ancestors. Family and the family’s traditions must always be the most important aspect of one’s life.
Here, with every breath Damon took, he was a part of the past. A line unbroken, a line unblemished.
Emily sighed as she turned to walk along the deserted hallway. Purity of bloodlines was something the peerage took pride in. The purity of the bloodlines of their horses, of their hunting dogs, of their heirs.
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