The Second Lady Emily

by Allison Lane

  Mrs. Tibbins paused in the doorway to the great hall, waiting patiently while the last of her charges trickled through. Mabel was expanding her tale of ghostly wonders. “I hope she wasn’t annoying you, my lady,” she whispered. “It’s been eighty years since a Broadbanks last set foot in this house. I want the occasion to be a positive one.”

  “You know?” She cringed.

  “How not? Stay after the others leave and I’ll show you the rest of the place. Don’t worry about reporters. I doubt those outside recognized you. They are hoping to see the stars.”

  Cherlynn raised a brow.

  “We’re turning the Hall over to a film crew at five o’clock, so they can shoot Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park. This will be your last chance to see the place until autumn.”

  “Thank you.” The words lent a different twist to the urgency that had propelled her to Broadbanks this day. What had she hoped to find? It had not been used by the family since World War I. Had she thought the sixth marquess might materialize to explain how to break the curse? If any clues existed, surely one of the many previous marquesses would have found them. Her incentive was no stronger than theirs. They had all faced early death.

  Unless it was the gypsy herself who had impelled this visit. Perhaps she needed Broadbanks Hall to connect with someone outside the Villiers bloodlines.

  “Oh, my God!” she muttered under her breath. It was June 15.

  Perspiration instantly soaked her shirt, bringing on clammy chills from the cool air. She fought down her fear. This was a perfectly ordinary English great house full of perfectly ordinary tourists. No one was going to leap out and strike her down. Besides, she had seen no one resembling a gypsy – which showed how superstitious she had suddenly become.

  Biting her lip to control incipient hysteria, she concentrated on Mrs. Tibbins’s lecture, turning obediently to examine the portrait above the mantel.

  It was the missing sixth marquess. His expression was grim, his eyes revealing fathomless grief and stoic determination. Neither was suited to his face. The drawing room had held a painting of five children, commissioned when this man was fourteen. In the group he had been happy, radiating life and laughter with a face designed for smiling. What had happened in the intervening years to turn him into this dour shell? It couldn’t have been the curse, for this portrait had been completed before it was cast, if Lady Travis’s letters were accurate.

  She drifted closer until she stood directly below him, mesmerized by his haunted countenance. Despite pain and desolation, his mouth remained sensuous. With melting warmth added to the chocolate brown eyes and a light breeze ruffling his short brown curls, he would be a lady killer. Those muscular shoulders bespoke athleticism. She could see him laughing as he effortlessly controlled a team of fractious horses.

  Where had that image come from?

  Stiffening, she tried to back away, but her feet were rooted in place. New shivers attacked. A writer needed a healthy imagination, but nothing in this portrait pegged him as a sensuous Corinthian. Deep furrows plowed his forehead above eyes nearly black with despair. Lines dragged his mouth into bitterness. The weight of the world bore down on his shoulders, bending his back into a permanent stoop.

  She wanted to pull him into her arms and comfort him, to remove his burdens and free him from care. Her hand stretched upward, straining to reach those sagging shoulders. Empathy flowed from her fingertips. His countenance matched her own reflection during those last weeks of her marriage, reviving her pain, her helplessness, and that overwhelming certainty that she had no future. He had been right about his own prospects, and unless she could do something, hers were no better.

  Mrs. Tibbins was gathering her flock to lead them into the gift shop. Ruthlessly suppressing her thoughts, Cherlynn turned to follow.

  Unseen hands grabbed her shoulders and pushed. Hard. As she fell, she caught a glimpse of blue out of the corner of her eye. Then her head hit the stone hearth, and blackness engulfed her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  June 15, 1812

  Drew Villiers, by courtesy Earl of Thurston, made an unnecessary adjustment to his cravat and sighed. Procrastination served no purpose. Even contracting some dreadful disease that would keep him away from the great hall would change nothing. His fate had been irrevocably sealed three months ago. The contracts were long since signed. This was merely the public acknowledgment of a fait accompli.

  He indulged in one last grimace before forcing his countenance into ennui, which was as close to pleasant as he could manage. How discouraging to discover at six-and-twenty that his range of emotions had permanently shrunk. Fury now stood in for passion, grief for joy, hatred for love, and bitterness overlay everything. But somehow he would survive.

  Emily.

  His cowardice was yet another cross he had to bear. He had committed solecism upon solecism in the past two days, refusing to greet her when she arrived, pointedly ignoring her in the drawing room, and abruptly reversing course when she had approached along the hallway that afternoon. Charles had noticed, of course, but assumed that he was avoiding a potential scene. Charles had often joked about his sister’s virulent case of calf love. Drew had never contradicted him, though he knew that Emily’s feelings went far beyond infatuation. As did his own. The pain on her face at his pointed cut had matched the agony stabbing his own heart. She deserved an explanation, but cowardice had won in the end. If he got close enough to gaze into her eyes, to feel the heat of her touch, to smell the delicate lilac that always enveloped her, he would be incapable of carrying out his sworn duty. If Charles had not been his closest friend, he would not have invited them to his betrothal ball – or would at least have arranged for them to stay elsewhere. But again fate had conspired against him.

  Emily. My love.

  No! He could not allow her to remain in his thoughts. After this evening had destroyed the last vestige of hope, then perhaps he could explain. They had made no vows—

  His conscience rose in protest. While he had put nothing into words, he had implied plenty – with hints, with mutual plans, with kisses that would destroy her reputation if they became known. And he had meant every one, not that it mattered now. Dishonor faced him regardless of his course, so he could only choose the path that harmed the fewest people. Emily was better off without him, a fact she would realize soon enough. If she was lucky, his caddish behavior would teach her to hate him. If not, his explanation would make her despise him for all eternity. He would make sure of that. Either way, the break would be clean. She would return to Yorkshire with Charles. Next Season she would go to London to choose a husband who was worthy of her. He himself would not be there. He would rusticate here in Kent, dutifully attending to business. In time, he would put the memories aside and find contentment.

  “Ha!” His snort was lost in the banging of his bedroom door, which he slammed with far more force than was necessary. These mental perturbations were naught but smoke. He was not ignoring Emily so she would learn hatred or prudence or even cynicism. He was a coward. If he got close enough to speak with her, nothing could keep him from sweeping her into his arms and carrying her off – which was what he should have done three months ago. If only he had married her out of hand . . .

  Instead, cowardice had trapped him. He should have stood up to Fay. He should have immediately confessed to his father. But pride and cowardice had held his tongue. Pride, cowardice, and the knowledge that Emily would repudiate him anyway once she learned the truth. He could bear being a cad in her eyes, but he could not bear her condemnation once she learned he was a—

  He turned down another hallway. If only he had informed his father by post. Or chosen another day. Or another time. If only he had stopped for dinner instead of pressing on into the evening. If only Fay had been home where she belonged . . .

  He deliberately emptied his mind. The past was over. His future was set. He could survive only by concentrating on the present. Set one foot in front of the other. Descend this last
flight of steps smoothly. Don’t picture the first marquess’s ghost distracting Charles II’s so the man could not witness the dishonor the marquess’s descendant would bring to the title Charles had bestowed.

  Nodding coolly toward his father, Drew took his place in the receiving line. Broadbanks had suffered spasms for the past week, but he seemed healthy at the moment. Drew held himself rigidly erect and set about doing his duty. Everyone who knew him noted his grim expression, but no one dared comment.

  Fate offered one small reprieve. Charles and Emily delayed their entrance until after Drew led Fay into the opening waltz. But Drew’s eyes locked onto Emily’s bent head the moment she arrived, her obvious anguish stabbing his soul. It took all his resolve to tear his gaze away.

  * * * *

  Lady Emily Fairfield followed Drew with her eyes. He waltzed as if his partner had the plague, holding her so far away that her hand had no chance to reach his shoulder and their fingertips barely touched. Describing his expression as grim implied more warmth than was evident. But she took no comfort in the sight.

  “Smile!” hissed Charles.

  How could she smile when ice encased her heart? She could feel the blood drain from her face to pool around the shattered remnants of her soul.

  Betrayal.

  So this was what it felt like. Her governess had warned her against men who teased and cajoled, promising the moon when they had no intention of delivering. But she had never suspected that Drew was such a man. He was her brother’s best friend! A man to be admired, liked – and eventually loved. He had been her life for four years, since the day he had moved to Thurston Park, the estate adjoining her brother’s seat at Clifford Abbey. She saw him whenever he visited Charles. For the past year, she had also encountered him in the woods common to the two estates.

  She had lived for those meetings, her love too powerful to allow other interests. Body. Mind. Soul. She was his and would do anything for him.

  He had hinted that he returned her love, though he had never spoken the words. When he’d left for Broadbanks in March, she had thought he meant to inform his father of their betrothal, though again, they had never uttered a formal vow. Propriety demanded that he seek agreement from his family and hers before speaking of marriage.

  Fool! she cursed herself. Why had she thought him devoted to propriety? Memories of his kisses still flooded her with heat. How could he? Or she?

  When he had remained in Kent, she had been saddened, but not alarmed. His brother had recently died. Drew would have much to do, and proposing marriage during deep mourning was inappropriate. When the invitation to this house party had arrived, she’d sighed in relief. The marquess must wish to meet her before approving the connection.

  But nothing had gone as expected. Lord Broadbanks had been confined to bed, and she had exchanged not a single word with Drew. But the death knell for her hopes was her maid’s report that Drew would announce his betrothal to Fay Raeburn at the ball.

  She knew who Fay was, though she had not heard the name before. Fay was the neighbor Lord Broadbanks had chosen as Drew’s bride. Fay was the reason Drew lived at Thurston. He despised her, distrusted her, and swore his father could not force him into marriage. He had vowed to wed when he chose and whom he chose. Now he had chosen Fay. His face proclaimed that he had not chosen willingly, but that was small consolation for a broken heart. So many dreams shattered. So many hopes in ashes.

  Emily wanted to flee the ball, but that would only draw attention to herself. Pride demanded that she hide her pain. And so she donned the facade of gaiety. This was her first society ball – and her last. She would never see London now. Drew was all she had ever wanted. Wedding another would make her pain worse. And so she would return home. Charles had already agreed to leave at first light. For a time she would remain at Clifford Abbey. Once Charles married, she would retire to a quiet cottage and concentrate on gardening.

  Only once did she falter during the interminable hours before supper. Her eyes accidentally met Drew’s from across the room, and she could not drag them away. This might be the last time she saw him. She wanted to show him how badly she hurt, but she couldn’t. His own anguish was too obvious. And so she looked upon him with love one last time. He responded in kind, then paled alarmingly and wrenched his gaze away, stumbling as he slipped from the room.

  How long she stared at the empty door she did not know. Her trance broke only when someone grabbed her shoulders and shoved. She hardly had time to gasp before her head struck the stone fireplace. Then nothing.

  * * * *

  Drew’s eyes burned. He had not cried since boyhood, so it took a moment to recognize the need. Why had he looked into her eyes? Anguish already tortured him. He didn’t need confirmation of her pain. To regain his composure, he slipped across the hall, ostensibly to check the preparations for the supper that was to be served in barely half an hour.

  As he was returning twenty minutes later, the music ceased in the middle of a country dance. The crowd that was clustered around the fireplace parted almost reluctantly when he appeared.

  He nearly fainted.

  Emily lay crumpled on the hearth, blood already pooling under her head.

  “What happened?”

  Twenty people spoke at once, but even after sorting out their words, he knew little. No one had seen her trip, but the consensus was that she had misstepped and fallen.

  “Summon Dr. Harvey from the card room,” he ordered a footman, gingerly scooping Emily into his arms. She was still breathing, but very shallowly. “And find Lord Clifford,” he added to Lady Clifford, who had always been worthless in a crisis and was already on the verge of hysterics.

  * * * *

  Cherlynn’s eyes flickered open as someone shifted her body. Where—?

  Dozens of people clustered around, at least three times the number on the tour.

  She winced as pain exploded through her head.

  Regency clothes. The man lifting her wore an intricately tied cravat and smelled exotically of sandalwood. The movie cast, of course. How long had she been unconscious?

  The light hurt, so she closed her eyes. Powerful arms clasped her against a muscular chest and drew her head against a broad shoulder. Who—? She tensed, relaxing only when a soothing whisper tickled her ear, vowing eternal love. She was safe. Protected. Blackness descended.

  * * * *

  Drew fought down his panic. Emily was badly injured, though he refused to put the severity of her wounds into words. Blood still welled from a deep cut on her head. Even without touching it, he knew that the skull was depressed. He had seen a man die from a similar blow after falling during a hunt.

  He carried her upstairs, trying not to jostle her. Fear, rage, love – even confessions of his crimes – poured into her ear as he pleaded with her to fight for life. An eternity later, he laid her gently on her bed, pressing kisses to her mouth, her eyes, her cheeks. His own tears blinded him, but he suppressed them and forced control on his body.

  Already, footsteps approached. He could not afford weakness. The ball must resume. Tragedy changed nothing.

  He found a towel and pressed it against the cut, trying to stop the bleeding. Once the doctor took over that chore, he returned to the great hall, uncaring that blood streaked his clothing. How better to announce the end of his life?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Drew prayed harder than ever before, but it didn’t help. Emily was still unconscious.

  Most of the guests had departed the morning after the ball. Some had murmured about the impropriety of announcing his betrothal while adorned with the blood of one of his guests, though no one had mentioned it to his face. By now, only Charles, Emily, and their mother remained.

  Lady Clifford rarely visited Emily’s bedside, which was just as well. Her few visits sent everyone’s temper soaring. She invariably started with a litany of complaints and furious admonitions, then fell into hysterics when Emily failed to respond, bewailing the change of plans the accid
ent had precipitated. Her main concern seemed to be that Emily would die, forcing her to avoid London until the following year. Drew was relieved when she quit coming altogether.

  Charles was genuinely concerned for his sister, but he had no idea of how to help her. Fortunately, his fear and frustration kept him too preoccupied to notice how much time Drew spent at her bedside. Such devotion was beyond the duty of even the best host. Not that Drew was useful in a sickroom. He could only trust Dr. Harvey to save her.

  But as hours turned to days, Drew feared that Harvey’s efforts would fail. The restless movement that had characterized her first two days had ceased. Emily now lay motionless, her face like wax. And it was all his fault. He hadn’t needed Charles’s morning tirade to confirm it. His cowardice had hurt her. Displaying his love, pain, and longing was a self-indulgence that could only have increased her agony, making her clumsy. And the shock of learning that he had turned his back on her despite his feelings could have killed her will to live. He could not be more responsible for her fall had he pushed her.

  As the hours of his vigil dragged by, he plumbed the depths of his soul, shaking with shame at what he found. Cowardice. Fear. Weakness. His inability to deal honestly with the world had destroyed the one decent thing in his life. He had courted Emily in secret, fearful that announcing his intentions would lead to a battle, though in retrospect, he couldn’t name the presumed opponent. The match was a good one, undeserving of secrecy. He’d made worse mistakes after traveling to Broadbanks to announce his intention to wed. His father’s ill health had left him reluctant to do anything that might bring on another attack. Thus he had bowed to pressure and accepted a betrothal to Fay. Coward! Now the woman he loved lay dying, and he faced a living hell. Why hadn’t he put love first and consigned the rest to the devil?

  An hour earlier, Charles’s infernal pacing had finally shattered his control. “Get some sleep,” he’d ordered sharply. “You’re doing no one any good by making yourself ill.”