The Wedding Chase: In His Lordship's BedPrisoner of the TowerWord of a Gentleman

by Kasey Michaels

  She wasn’t quite the provincial he believed her to be. After all, Papa had had a mistress, and her mama had still had an honored and necessary place in his life.

  “To manage their households,” she said, thinking about her mother’s many roles. “To keep them running smoothly.”

  “And to bear their children. Very suitable ones with an impeccable lineage.”

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, feeling blood heat her cheeks, despite the cold. She prayed the darkness would hide it, lest he realize how naive she really was.

  “I’ve made you blush,” he said, putting that hope to rout. “Forgive me. I had forgotten that tonight is reserved for romantic notions.”

  “And children are not?”

  “Hardly ever,” he said. “Children are entails and titles and settlements.”

  “I think you are very jaded, sir.”

  “Undoubtedly. And I am charmed that you are not.”

  Her blush deepened, but she did not deny the charge.

  “And is this to be the extent of your last, great adventure?” he asked, waving a gloved hand toward the vista beyond the balustrade.

  Her eyes followed the gesture, considering again the snow-covered ground and the velvet sky lit by stars. Until his arrival she had been quite content with it. Now, seen through his eyes, her rebellion seemed very tame and commonplace.

  “I fear it must suffice,” she said. “At least the air is clear, and the night—”

  She turned to face him and found that he was closer than he had been before. Indeed, it seemed that he was leaning toward her. Before she could object, his lips tilted again, adding the spark of masculine beauty she had noticed earlier to those pleasingly regular features.

  Again her heart responded, skipping and then beginning to race as his mouth continued to lower toward hers. Although she was well aware that she should object, put a warning hand against his chest or call for help, she did neither. She simply waited as his lips descended.

  They were warm against the chill of hers. Firm and practiced. And very sure of their reception.

  She did not disappoint him. Her mouth opened—perhaps in shock, but opened nonetheless—to the invasion of his tongue.

  It was not the first time she had been kissed. After all, she had been out in company for almost a year at home. There had been country dances aplenty. And country gentlemen aplenty, too.

  None of them had ever kissed her like this. It robbed her breath and then the strength from her knees, so that she swayed, bringing her body into a more intimate alignment with his.

  Perhaps he took that as an invitation. His arm came around her waist, pulling her close against his hard masculinity.

  She did not resist. His tongue continued to explore, ravaging her senses. Her hands came up, not to push him away, but to slip inside the warmth of his cloak to rest on the broad chest it covered.

  After what seemed an eternity, he was the one who broke the kiss. He raised his head, blue eyes luminous in the reflected moonlight as they looked down into hers. No trace of the laughter she had seen there now remained.

  “Tell me your name,” he demanded softly. He lifted his gloved hand to brush a strand of damp, wind-blown hair away from her cheek.

  “Emma. Emma Termaine.”

  “Don’t let them break you, Emma. Rebellion is a good thing. The secret is in knowing when to rebel and when not to.”

  She nodded as if that made sense, her eyes locked on the mesmerizing intensity of his.

  “A distinction I should have learned, I’m afraid.” He released her, stepping back as if at the end of a dance set.

  Away from the warmth of his embrace, the night felt far colder than it had before he had taken her into his arms.

  “Will you be in London?” she asked.

  There was no place for false pride in the tumult of emotions she felt. She needed desperately to know if she would see him again.

  Even if he were not, as he had assured her, a “catch,” he had encouraged her to rebellion. If the occasion warranted. Surely, surely, this would.

  “For the first time in my existence, I really wish I could be.”

  “But—”

  “Make sure the fortune you find is large enough to make you happy, sweet Emma.”

  He took another step, widening the distance between them. Unable to resist, she laid her hand on his arm. It was very pale against the fine black wool of his jacket.

  He put gloved fingers over hers, lifting them and bringing them to his lips. His eyes above their joined hands watched her.

  And then he smiled at her. That same slow tilt of his lips she had noticed before. Again it transformed his face into something extraordinary.

  Their eyes held through another eternity. Finally he freed her fingers and almost in the same motion, turned on his heel and crossed the wooden gallery to melt like a phantom into the shadows near the stairs.

  She leaned over the balustrade, eyes searching below for a glimpse of him. The snow had begun again, falling like fine powder over the empty courtyard.

  There was no sound, just an eerie drift of flakes swirled into motion by a silent wind. No jingle of harness. No hoof beats. Nothing.

  She closed her eyes against the sting of tears. After a moment she forced them open again, aware that she was cold and damp and very much alone. Aware also that she could remedy only a limited number of those discomforts.

  She looked down, fumbling for the ends of her aunt’s shawl to pull it more tightly around her shivering body. As she caught up the fabric, a single snowflake landed on the smooth black wool. For an instant, every detail of its incomparable design was visible, clear and perfect, stark against the darkness of the cloth. And then, almost before she could fully comprehend its beauty, it was gone.

  A fleeting perfection, to be cherished more, perhaps, because it could not and had never been intended to last.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Twelve years later

  “BUT SURELY you intend to meet her?”

  “If she’s your choice, Jamie, I promise you I shall be well satisfied.”

  There was a small silence. Alex Leighton, the ninth Earl of Greystone, forced his gaze to remain on the printed page before him. He knew his brother was attempting to formulate some plea—one that would not give offense—for his presence when the guests arrived. Through the years, Greystone had become quite adept at rebuffing those, no matter how well intentioned. As Jamie’s would be, of course.

  “If she is to become my wife…”

  His brother’s words trailed into silence. This time Greystone looked up, patiently awaiting what he knew was coming.

  “And if we are all to live in the same household…”

  Again the sentence faltered. Alex decided to take mercy on his sibling, who was really the best of brothers and far more forbearing than he had any right to expect.

  “Forgive me. I thought I had told you,” he said. “I’m moving to Wyckstead.”

  “To Wyckstead?” Jamie’s voice rose at the end of the name as if his brother had announced he was about to take up residence in a cave. “That’s little more than a hunting lodge.”

  “And will suit me nicely. The stables are fine, and there’s plenty of room for my books.”

  “It won’t do. I won’t allow it,” Jamie said decisively. His fair, handsome face colored as it did when he was upset.

  “Forgive me,” Greystone said softly, playing a card he seldom used, but one his poor brother could not possibly trump. “I find that I have no wish to live here with you and your beautiful new bride.”

  Jamie’s flush deepened. The finely shaped mouth worked once, but since there was nothing to be said to that very reasonable wish, he wisely said nothing.

  “When do they arrive?” the earl asked. Not because he gave a tinker’s dam, but simply to break the awkward silence.

  “This afternoon,” his brother said stiffly. “If I had known that you would object—”

  “You mist
ake me. I have no objection whatsoever to this house party. This is your home, Jamie. You may entertain within it whomever you wish. As long as you don’t expect me to play host. Surely you know me better than that.”

  The silence that answered this equally unforgivable ploy was, thankfully, more sullen than embarrassed.

  “I had thought that you might like to meet the woman I intend to make my wife.”

  “I can’t imagine why you should,” Alex said, smiling at him to take the sting from the rebuke.

  “What shall I tell them about your absence?”

  It was obvious from the question that Jamie had conceded the point.

  “That I’ve gone to Paris?” Greystone suggested, smiling.

  His brother cocked an eyebrow, an I-am-not-amused gesture, one that the earl recognized as a copy of his own mannerism.

  “No?” he responded. “Then tell them I am indisposed. If they are ill-bred enough to question that, you might wish to rethink your proposal.”

  “I wanted your approval.”

  “You’ve had it since I put you on your first pony and you very properly failed to fall off. Now, go greet your guests and leave me in peace, if you please.”

  “I’ll look in on you later,” Jamie promised, his ready smile restored.

  “I believe I shall be in Paris,” the Earl of Greystone said, pointedly returning his attention to the book in his lap.

  His brother laughed. Then Jamie touched his shoulder in farewell before he crossed to the outer door of the earl’s sitting room, which was located in the oldest part of the house.

  Alex’s eyes remained downcast until his brother’s footsteps faded away across the keep’s stone floor. Only then did he lay aside his book and lean his head back against his chair.

  He was never comfortable when there were outsiders at Leighton. Even without encountering them, he was aware of their presence. Having someone else in the house disturbed the quiet tenor of his days. As would the proposed move to Wyckstead.

  He opened his eyes, looking around at the well-beloved objects with which he had filled these rooms. His books and his weapons, the few mementos of friends and places that he had chosen to keep.

  His world. One that he could, had he wished, choose to keep inviolate. The estate and all it encompassed were his and would be until his death.

  What he had told Jamie, however, was nothing less than the truth. He had no desire to live here with his brother and his wife. Far better a brief disruption of his environment than a slowly festering envy of the happiness he so sincerely wished for them.

  “AND WHATEVER YOU DO, Emma,” her brother-in-law said for the tenth time, “don’t hover.”

  “Emma never hovers,” Georgina denied loyally.

  With little more than ten years between them, Georgie had long ago begun calling her by her first name, at least when they were not in public. Much to the annoyance of Charles, of course.

  “Your stepmother has your best interests at heart,” he said, “but we are here for a private visit. En famille, if you please. And since the primary purpose of that visit is to give you two young people an opportunity to become better acquainted, there is no need for her to supervise your every action.”

  “Of course there isn’t,” Emma agreed, calmly ignoring the fact that she was only a year or two older than the masculine half of the couple that had just been referred to as “young” people. “Georgina knows very well how to conduct herself.”

  “The countess will also wish to arrange some time alone with you,” Charles continued. “That’s customary, I believe.”

  “To see if I pass muster, do you mean?”

  “Georgina,” her uncle said repressively.

  Emma bit the inside of her lip to keep from answering the quick tilt of Georgie’s mouth. Charles need not worry. Although the girl had a lively wit, she was perfectly capable of charming Jamie’s mother, at the same time convincing her that in every respect she would be a proper daughter-in-law as well as a proper countess.

  She would be, Emma thought in satisfaction, as she surveyed her charge through lowered lashes.

  At eighteen, Georgina Stanfield had successfully navigated the treacherous shoals of her first London Season. Her uncle had already received three very respectable offers for her hand. He had answered none of those as yet, in hopes of accepting the one they all believed would result from the journey they were embarked upon today.

  “And the earl?” Emma asked.

  She couldn’t remember hearing Jamie Leighton refer to his father. Nor had Charles referred to him, now that she thought about it, although he was quite taken with the title and the long-held nobility of the family.

  “I believe he is an invalid,” her brother-in-law said. “It is somewhat uncertain, therefore, how long it will be until Mr. Leighton comes into the title. Can’t be helped, I suppose.”

  “I should hope not,” Emma said under her breath.

  Georgie’s laugh was turned into a smothered cough.

  “I pray you’re not sickening for something,” her uncle fretted.

  “I am never sick. Merely desirous of our arrival.”

  As if in answer to her wish, the coach began to slow. Three pairs of eyes sought its windows as the coachman pulled the team into the circle in front of their host’s country estate, which seemed ablaze with light in the twilight.

  The oldest section, a large square tower, appeared to be of Norman construction. Through the generations there had been numerous additions to that original structure, in a hodgepodge of architectural styles. The only guiding principle for those seemed to have been an increase in size and grandeur, which had certainly been achieved.

  The footmen made short work of the steps and the carriage door, which opened to reveal Georgina’s suitor. Potential suitor, Emma amended, smiling down at him. Providing, of course, that nothing went wrong during the two weeks of their visit.

  She watched as Georgina took Jamie Leighton’s hand, gracefully allowing him to help her from the chaise. The rush of color one might have expected to find in a young girl’s cheeks upon seeing her prospective fiancé bloomed along his instead.

  That tendency to blush was one of the most endearing things about the Earl of Greystone’s heir. It was an outward sign of what Emma had discovered to be a genuinely sweet and unassuming nature. Jamie might soon inherit what Charles claimed to be one of the oldest and wealthiest titles in England, but one would never guess that from his unaffected manner.

  “Welcome to Leighton,” he said, as he held out his hand to help her down.

  With his words, her gaze naturally rose to again view that imposing, ancient tower. As it did, she caught a flicker of movement in one of the windows on the second story.

  Though it had been little more than that, for some reason the hair on the back of her neck lifted. She kept her eyes focused on that particular aperture, part of a large oriel, for several long heartbeats, trying to fathom what she had just seen and why it should have disturbed her.

  “Is something wrong?” Jamie asked.

  She forced her eyes back down to his face, feeling foolish. One of the servants had probably been taking a peek at the arriving guests.

  “Someone was looking down on us from the tower.”

  Jamie’s eyes darted up to the exact window where she had seen the movement, despite the fact that she had given him no indication of which it had been. When they returned, his smile seemed strained, the color along his cheekbones deeper.

  “No one there now,” he said brightly.

  A little too brightly, Emma thought, now even more curious. At that moment, however, the second coach in their caravan arrived, carrying their luggage, the abigail she and Georgie would share during their visit, and her brother-in-law’s valet.

  Amid the resulting flurry of footmen and baggage and welcoming chatter, her eyes again lifted to search that dark glass. Then Georgina took her hand to ascend the steps, and she lost sight of it as they were swept into the Ea
rl of Greystone’s ancestral hall.

  HE FINALLY REMEMBERED to breathe. When he did, the air ratcheted into empty lungs in a series of shuddering gasps.

  He had moved away from the glass as soon as she’d lifted her eyes to the window, but he knew he had not been mistaken. Not unless his solitude had finally resulted in the loss of sanity his mother frequently predicted.

  He had thought about that night too often to have ever forgotten her features. Despite the many attempts he’d made through the years to rationalize away the importance that encounter had attained within his heart, he had failed.

  Emma Termaine had been his last sweet taste of England and home before he had sailed for Spain. Her face might have lived within his memory if for no other reason than that, but of course there had been other factors, equally valid.

  He could never have imagined, however, that he would see her again. That she would one day come to the only place on earth where that might be possible.

  He had never even asked the name of Jamie’s sweetheart, he realized. Not that it would have meant anything if he had.

  Twelve years ago Emma Termaine had been on her way to London to find a suitable husband. The ritual of the so-called marriage mart was repeated every spring. Even if she had not been successful that first year, she would have been eventually. The classic beauty of that heart-shaped face surrounded by softly curling chestnut hair would have ensured it.

  Although his disbelieving eyes had locked immediately on Emma, he had been peripherally aware of the grouping around her. His brother and the girl who must be his intended. And behind them…

  Emma’s fortune? Stout and ruddy, balding and old.

  Was that supposed to be a comfort? he wondered bitterly.

  There was little comfort to be found in any of this. Emma was in his home, and if this house party followed the usual pattern, she might be here for several weeks. He took another breath, trying to stem the welling tide of remembrance.

  And found it impossible.

  “THE TOWER is the oldest part of the house,” Jamie said, setting down the candelabra he carried. “It was the original keep. This level was undoubtedly the solar.”