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

by Kasey Michaels

  “Freedom from guilt if you fall in love at some future date. I would not want to be responsible for forcing you to have to choose between your honor and the woman you loved.”

  “You’re as ridiculous as Shackleton.”

  Jamie’s responding laugh was low and free of mockery. When he spoke, however, his voice was deadly serious. “It wouldn’t matter to a woman who loved you, you know.”

  “You do have absurdly romantic notions of the world, don’t you? Mother’s influence, I suppose.”

  “And you have a remarkably cynical one,” his brother rejoined.

  “I believe the appropriate word is realistic. Let it go, Jamie. Nothing has changed.”

  “Except I understand better now what you are missing.”

  Alex turned at that, fighting the ridiculous anger the comment had inexplicably evoked. This was something he had made peace with long ago. Or so he had thought.

  “Should I thank you for that reminder?”

  “It is my dearest wish that one day you will.”

  “I’ve told you—”

  “Yes, I know. You’ve made up your mind that it’s quite impossible. You are, however, the only one who believes that. Please allow the rest of the world, like Shackleton and I, who are not fools by the way, to disagree.”

  He held Jamie’s eyes, expecting his brother to back down as he always did when faced with his displeasure. Instead the blue gaze remained calm and steady.

  He was the one who finally broke, turning again to the window. To the entrance below. And to the memories.

  You are, however, the only one who believes that. And for the first time in more than a decade, he wondered if that could possibly be true.

  “JUST THINK, Georgie, one day you shall be hanging here. Perhaps looking every bit as pleased with yourself as she is.”

  Emma was staring up at the life-size portrait of a woman in a wide, lace-edged Elizabethan ruff. The ornate frame that surrounded the picture was an appropriate setting for the richness of her velvet gown and the rubies and pearls that adorned it.

  “Shh,” Georgina cautioned her, trying not to laugh. “The countess will hear you.”

  “Oh, she’ll quite approve of your addition. Perhaps she will have you and Jamie painted side by side.”

  Georgina’s ready smile tilted the corners of her lips, but her eyes remained dutifully on their hostess’s back. Leaning on a gold-topped cane, Lady Greystone was leading the procession of her female guests along the house’s portrait gallery, understandably famous in the district. Generation after generation of the Leighton family lined the walls of the central corridor of the great west wing, peering down upon them as they strolled along at the snail’s pace the countess’s infirmity demanded.

  “I wonder if Jamie has already been painted,” Georgina said, her eyes examining the young cavalier under whose portrait they were now passing. “That one looks to be barely out of the schoolroom. He’s surely younger than Jamie.”

  “They died very young in those days,” Emma said sotto voce. “It was necessary to have them painted early.”

  “Emma,” Georgina protested, trying not to laugh.

  They were far enough back in the group that they had missed most of the countess’s commentary, which bothered neither of them. At least the stroll along the gallery was a form of exercise. Today’s rain had denied them any other. Not only were they accustomed to long country walks, but this afternoon in particular, they had desperately needed something to occupy their minds.

  According to Charles, Jamie was meeting with the earl and his man of business, which seemed to portend something important was afoot. That information had only added to the tension Georgina had been feeling the last few days.

  Her obvious nervousness was one reason for Emma’s silliness about the portraits. Despite her repeated assurances that the earl had promised to make the stipulation they believed Charles would require, Georgina was terrified something would go wrong with the negotiations.

  “We seem to be coming into the more modern section,” Emma said as they approached the current generations of Leightons.

  The first portraits were of the countess and her husband, the late earl. In her youth Jamie’s mother had borne a remarkable resemblance to her youngest son. His delicate coloring was hers, as well as the slight statue. His father was a far more imposing figure, wide-shouldered and dark, with striking blue eyes.

  Emma could hardly tear her gaze away from his picture. And she knew why, of course. If the current earl had taken after him in facial features as well as in build and coloring, he would be a very handsome man.

  “It’s Jamie,” Georgina said, her sweetheart’s name uttered in a voice that was almost reverent.

  Her stepdaughter had continued down the gallery while Emma had been lost in contemplation of the late earl. Now Georgina was standing several feet away, looking up in love-struck awe.

  Emma hurriedly closed the distance between them. As her gaze followed Georgina’s, she found the expected portrait of the youngest Leighton. The expression Jamie had assumed for the portrait was too solemn to capture the sweet charm that was such an attractive part of his nature. Still, it was a very good likeness, even to a hint of color along his fair cheeks.

  “And those must be his brothers,” Georgie said, turning her attention to the massive oils hanging between the one of Jamie and those of his parents.

  “Brothers?” Emma questioned while her eyes eagerly examined the first of them.

  This then was the earl. After their clandestine meetings, he had become almost as much an object of her fantasies as the young man she had met so long ago at the inn.

  “That must be Simon,” Georgina said, indicating the picture Emma was staring at. “He was the first born, but he died shortly after attaining the title. A weakness of the heart. Jamie says he was always sickly, even as a child. Because of his ill health, there was some talk within the family of not purchasing the commission for Alexander—”

  The narrative halted abruptly. Of course, Emma had only been aware of the sound of the words and little of their sense for several seconds now. As soon as Georgie said the words “he died,” her gaze had shifted to the next portrait.

  A cone of silence had descended over her, blocking everything from her consciousness except the likeness of the second Leighton son. He had been painted in uniform. As dashing as the gold-laced red jacket, white breeches and high boots were, however, they were not what had held her eye.

  It was his smile. The one she had thought transformed his face into something extraordinary. As it did now.

  “Why, Emma,” Georgina exclaimed, putting a steadying hand under her elbow. “You look as though you’d seen a ghost.”

  A ghost. That was exactly what she had thought the night he’d disappeared into the shadows. That he had faded away like a phantom. Or a figment of her imagination.

  “Alexander?” She whispered the question.

  “The Earl of Greystone. Jamie calls him Alex.”

  Emma shook her head, closing her mouth and pressing her lips together. There was a sting at the back of her eyes, but she ignored it, concentrating on the handsome features she had never forgotten.

  The world they both inhabited by virtue of their births was incredibly small. Everyone in the ton knew everyone else, as well as their family connections. After all, they frequented the same clubs and resorts and stately homes at virtually the same times every year.

  She had always looked for him, no matter where she was. Even after she’d married Robert, her gaze would sweep across any room she entered, searching for tumbled black curls. Then they would focus on the face below, praying to find that particular smile and those blue eyes. She had always been disappointed.

  It was only much later that she had allowed herself to think the unthinkable, and her search for him had become more and more desperate. And more hopeless.

  Sometime in the course of those long empty years, she had come to accept that she wou
ld never see him again. She could not even be certain when that had happened. She had never consciously thought of him as dead, but the place he had held in her memory, once so strong and vibrant, had become little more than a hallowed shrine. An empty one.

  “Emma?” Georgina said, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I met him.”

  “The earl?”

  She nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from the portrait.

  “Of course you did,” Georgina said. “You talked to him about the title. About giving his assurance to Uncle Charles.”

  Emma turned to face her. “Before. I met him before we came.”

  Her stepdaughter’s eyes lifted to the portrait and then came quickly back to hers. “But…Jamie says he never leaves the estate.”

  “Long before. Even… It was before I married your father.”

  There was a telltale hesitation.

  “Then… You didn’t know? Before we came, you didn’t know it was he?”

  “I never knew his name. We met, and he went away. Then here… It was dark. I never saw his face. I had no idea.”

  Georgina glanced down the long corridor at the group of women still looking up at the portraits. She was concerned, of course, that someone might notice they were no longer with them.

  If so, Emma thought, there was nothing she could do about it. Perhaps the houseguests would put their concentration on this grouping down to Mr. Leighton’s quite obvious infatuation with Georgina. After all, his portrait hung right beside his brother’s.

  His brother. Alexander. Alex.

  “I take it,” Georgina said carefully, “this was not a casual meeting.”

  “Do you remember the first time you saw Jamie?”

  “But if it were that way…” Georgina allowed the question to trail.

  “I thought I’d never see him again. After all these years I’d given up hope.”

  “You couldn’t have,” Georgina said with the simple conviction of youth. “Not if you loved him.”

  It had not yet occurred to Georgie that Emma’s clinging to that hope would have been a betrayal of her own father, an emotional if not a physical one.

  “I finally decided he must be dead.”

  “And now that you know he isn’t?”

  She had no idea, Emma realized. She had barely had time to assimilate the shock. Certainly not enough to consider the ramifications of it.

  The first of which, she realized, was that if the earl had been the watcher at the window the day they arrived, then he had known all along who she was. Even if he hadn’t recognized her with the passage of those long years, he could have had no doubt of her identity after the story she’d told him.

  No doubt. And still he had said nothing about their first meeting. Because it had meant nothing? Because it had been only her fantasy? Her delusion alone that the kiss they’d shared had affected him as much as it had her?

  By his own admission he had been a popular young man about town. He had probably kissed a hundred girls, few of them so green as she.

  Or perhaps he had said nothing because he feared what she would do if she knew. Something he would find a far more annoying invasion than her repeated intrusions on his solitude.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I SHOULD HAVE REMEMBERED how she feels about showing off the gallery. I had been too concerned with the logistics of the house party to even think about her fondness for organizing tours of Leighton.”

  “I shouldn’t worry,” Alex said absently. His eyes strayed longingly back to the ledgers spread out before him. “After all, it’s an excellent likeness.”

  He had been immersed in the estate accounts when Jamie arrived. And he still wasn’t sure of the purpose of this late-night visit. His brother’s conversation to this point had been vague and slightly disjointed. The latest topic seemed an attempt to garner sympathy for their mother’s display of his portrait to the female guests this afternoon.

  “You flatter me,” Jamie said, his voice subdued enough to bring the earl’s gaze back up to his face.

  “I’m sure Miss Stanfield was enchanted,” Alex said, trying to feign interest out of a sense of brotherly duty. “She’s probably busy considering what color her gown should be when she sits for its companion piece.”

  “Her comments were extremely kind,” Jamie said. “Of course, that is her nature.”

  There was an awkward pause. Uncertain the conversation was over, but quite willing to prod his brother to leave him to his work if it were, Alex moved one of the account books nearer and ran his finger along a line of figures as if to verify them.

  “She expressed pleasure in viewing the rest of the family, as well.”

  “Good,” Alex said, his attention rather obviously fixed on the ledgers.

  “She mentioned that they had especially enjoyed the portraits of the current generation.”

  There was something about Jamie’s tone that brought Alex’s gaze up. That bloom of color, which always stained his brother’s cheeks when he was upset or embarrassed, was there now. The blue eyes met his steadily, but Jamie’s expression was far more serious than this discussion should warrant.

  Alex mentally reviewed the tail end of the conversation, to which he had admittedly been giving only half his attention. When he reached the last phrase his brother had uttered, a chill prickled along his spine, causing the hair on the back of his neck to lift.

  She mentioned that they had especially enjoyed the portraits of the current generation, which could only mean…

  He didn’t bother to put the question into words because he could see the answer in Jamie’s open countenance. He pushed back his chair instead, standing to face his brother.

  “I ordered that it should be taken down,” he said, forcing himself to calmness through a Herculean effort.

  “It was. As soon as you asked, but… Mother told me some time ago that she didn’t like the empty space. I should have had something moved there to replace the portrait before the guests arrived. Of course, a substitution would have thrown the groupings off, which would have upset her even more.”

  “What has she done, Jamie?”

  “Nothing so terrible. And it’s already been taken care of. I shouldn’t have known anything about it, except at dinner tonight Georgina…that is, Miss Stanfield—”

  “I asked you a question, damn it. What has she done?”

  Another pause, briefer but more telling.

  “She had them rehang it yesterday morning.”

  “Damn her,” Alex gritted out.

  “I know that you’re sensitive to the—”

  “I knew something like this would happen. If you had to have guests, why the hell—”

  “There’s no harm done,” his brother broke in soothingly. “Actually, it’s entirely possible that not having your portrait there might have caused even more—”

  “Was Lady Barrington with Miss Stanfield?” Alex demanded before his brother could complete his attempt to excuse this disaster.

  “I don’t know.” Jamie almost stuttered in response to the sharpness of the question. “Georgina didn’t mention her, but I would assume so, since the ladies of the party were all invited. You know how Mother enjoys leading guests along that—”

  “Damn it,” the earl said again, slamming both fists down onto the desk in front of him. “Bloody hell.”

  “No one had any reason—”

  Before Jamie could get any more of that ridiculous appeasement out of his mouth, with one motion Alex shoved the stack of ledgers forward. They and everything else on the surface of his desk flew off to land at his brother’s feet.

  Shocked into silence, Jamie had watched them fall. Then, his mouth still open at that uncharacteristic display of rage, his eyes lifted to his brother’s face.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Get out.”

  The fury that filled him made him want to pummel someone. Since Jamie was the only one within striking distance and had, besides
, confessed to being at least partially responsible for this fiasco, the odds were excellent it might be he.

  “It can’t possibly matter—” Jamie foolishly began.

  Only when Alex started around the desk did his brother retreat. He stalked him across the room, slamming the door in his face as soon as Jamie had stepped out into the hall.

  Then, his hand still on the knob, the Earl of Greystone bowed his head, closing his eyes against the unwanted images that bombarded him. That portrait, which had been painted shortly before his departure for Spain, was exactly how Emma would remember him. And it was how she would expect to find him now. The same man who had kissed her that night.

  Before she’d come to Leighton, he had prayed that if she thought of him at all, she would believe him dead. Now she knew that he was not.

  And there could be no doubt in her mind after she had told him the story of their stolen kiss that he had to know who she was. Being Emma, she would eventually show up here demanding to know why he had remained silent about his identity.

  Her memory of that brief interlude had remained inviolate all these years. As had his. For both of them it seemed to have attained far more importance than it should.

  The encounter came to represent for her what falling in love should be. And when she never again felt that way…she never again fell in love.

  That knowledge was a burden no man should have to bear. Rather than creating an even greater burden, however, this time one for her to bear, he had kept silent.

  Every dream he had ever had of finding love, of marrying a woman who loved him, of having children, had long ago been shattered. It seemed possible that Emma’s capacity to dream had survived the slow passage of the years. And now, if she forced another meeting between them, hers, too, would turn to dust.

  “Damn you,” he whispered, his head still bent. He was unsure, even as he spoke the words, to whom or to what they were addressed.