Isabel studied Emily, as she would study a book of science in the vast Danby library. "Of course," she responded coolly. "How do you do, Miss Ware?"
Emily bobbed a curtsy. "Very well, thank you, Lady Isabel."
Philip made an impatient gesture and sat on Isabel's vanity bench. "Listen, enough of the formalities. She's Mrs. Barlow, as you bloody well know, Izzy. But now she's going to be mine. At last." He grinned at Emily, a boyish smile that made her heart race. "That's her daughter, Rose, asleep there. Soon to be my daughter."
Isabel regarded her brother carefully, as though looking for a sign or symbol in his visage. "This is good," she pronounced, guarded happiness in her words.
"Yes, it is," Philip rejoined. "Where's Emma?"
"That's Lady Heathfield to you, Philip. She was married just yesterday."
Philip grinned. "And you, Izzy?"
Isabel turned a delicate shade of pink. "I am to marry Damien Lockwood on the morrow."
"Lockwood, that jester? Ah, Izzy, what a time you shall have. And so both of my sisters have found their happily-ever-afters." Philip clasped her in a warm embrace, and Emily smiled. There seemed to be so much joy in this forbidding castle. If only she would be allowed to share in it.
Breaking away from Philip, Isabel turned to Emily. "Oh, Emily, how glad I am that you found my brother."
The door to Isabel's room opened abruptly, and Isabel's twin rushed into the room. "Philip!" Emma cried, nearly knocking him over with the force of her embrace.
Philip hugged her back, and then set her on her feet. "Listen, you beggars," he responded, "Whatever the past was, it's over and done with. And Emily is mine now. She'll be a Whitton as soon as I can arrange it." He turned his intent gaze on Emily, and she gave a shy smile in return.
"Emily Ware?" Emma asked, her brows drawing together in confusion.
"Yes," Isabel jumped into the fray. "She belongs to Philip now. And that's her little girl over there, sleeping. Isn't she sweet?"
"A perfect lamb," Emma pronounced. She glanced quickly at her sister—a glance that seemed to communicate something privately between them. Isabel nodded and turned her gaze on Philip. Emma smiled. Heavens, it was like being in a foreign country and not knowing a word of the language. Whatever transpired, Emma seemed satisfied. She embraced Emily, calling her "Sister."
"You can arrange it quickly, Philip," Isabel broke in. "Uncle Henry is with Grandfather now, and he has a stack of special licenses. I'd lay odds there's one with your name on it."
"Special licenses?" Philip ran his hands through his hair. "Is that how you two light skirts are getting wed so quickly?"
Emily gasped, but the two sisters just laughed, apparently used to Philip's brazen ways. "And you, sir? Might we ask why you need to wed so soon?" Emma teased him, causing perspiration to break out on Emily's brow. It would take a while to get used to this type of joking.
"Because I need her. You both know that." Philip swatted Emma's arm and headed for the door. "I'm off to see if Uncle Henry really has a special license for me." He turned at the threshold and aimed a glowering, heated look at Emily. "You be ready as quickly as possible." With that he turned on his heel and left.
"But she can't be married in all that black! It's unlucky," Emma moaned, crossing over to Emily's side.
"Oh, I can't leave off mourning," Emily demurred. "I've only been wearing it for four months."
"That's long enough," Isabel stated flatly. "Emma, go and get your pink gown…"
"With the darker pink ribbons?" Emma finished. "Of course. It's perfect. It will highlight the glorious color of her eyes."
Emily submitted to the twins' ministrations, allowing her widow's weeds to be stripped from her body and permitting Emma to weave a garland of pearls in her hair. As she sat at Isabel's dressing table, her eyes clouded with tears as she regarded her reflection. "Lady Isabel, Lady Heathfield," she began.
"Stop! Isabel and Emma," Isabel replied, sticking a final hairpin in place.
"I just want to say how sorry I am—" Her voice broke off, tears threatening to pour in earnest.
Emma sat beside her on the bench, patting her shoulder. "The moment I saw Philip, I knew he had changed," she said softly. "He's happy now, and you made that possible."
Isabel nodded. "Whatever the past was, it's over and done with. There's no need to beg our forgiveness. Now for heaven's sake, don't cry. You don't want your eyes to be all red at your wedding, do you?"
With a laugh, Emily dried her eyes. Then, rising, she walked to Isabel's bed, where Rose still slept. Gently touching her daughter's forehead, she smiled at the two sisters. "I am so grateful to have this wonderful family."
~ * ~
"So let me make sure I have heard this correctly. You want to marry a penniless widow, and one with a small child at that?" Father brought his hand down on the desk, but Philip refused to jump. He'd been called on the carpet many times during his youth, and the ducal study no longer inflicted cowardice in his being. He shrugged. "I wish to marry Emily Ware. She got away the first time. I shan't let her go a second. Uncle Henry, you have a license, do you not?"
"I do." The vicar sat back and rolled his eyes at Grandfather. "Moreover, my own daughter has arrived tonight from France, and I should like to see her at some point this evening. If we can hasten this along."
"Well, then? Is it settled?" Philip shifted impatiently in his chair. "I want to wed her tonight."
A clear, feminine voice piped up from beside Father's chair. "Darling, are you absolutely sure? You were so devastated before." Mother gave him the same look she would give him when he was a child, and had fallen and scraped his knee. It was her "be brave, but I love you" look, a mixture of stubbornness and tenderness.
"Mother, I beseech you. She makes me happy."
She nodded, satisfied, and sat back in her chair, placing her hand on Father's arm.
There was a slight knock on the study door, and Father hastened to open it. Emily stood on the threshold with Rose, clad in a filmy pink dress that made her look like she had as a girl. Philip swallowed, consuming her with his eyes. It was as though the past few years fell away. And if Uncle Henry would hurry up, he could begin proving that fact to his bride again.
"I felt I should introduce myself and my daughter," she explained quietly, bringing the still-drowsy Rose into the room. Rose yawned and rubbed her eyes. Mother leapt from her chair and swept Rose in her arms, coddling her and talking to her in a sweet, high-pitched tone. Emily smiled and came to stand by Philip's chair. He rose, embracing her, turning her towards the duke. "Grandfather?"
Grandfather nodded at Uncle Henry, who retrieved a piece of foolscap from the desk drawer. With a flourish, Uncle Henry added Emily’s name to it handed it to Grandfather, who smiled at both of them, a merry twinkle in his faded eyes.
"All this nonsense. Over the Ware gel."
~ Epilogue ~
The Whitton School of Music
London, England
December, 1813
"All right, students, that's good enough for today." Philip put aside his bow and violin and stretched his arms. "Have a nice holiday, and we will convene again after the New Year."
His students, half a dozen of the finest violinists a man could hope for—well, violinists under the age of ten, that was—began packing their cases. The hubbub in the room rose as they tugged on their coats and gloves. "Merry Christmas, milord," "Happy holidays to you, sir," they mumbled, filing out of the classroom to the foyer, where servants and the occasional parent waited to take them home.
"Class is over, darling?" Emily bustled into the room, tidying up the bits of sheet music strewn about. Her increasing middle made it difficult for her to bend over, and he rushed to help her.
"You should be resting, sweet Emily. I can clean things up." He kissed her forehead.
"Nonsense," she trilled. "It's good to stay active when one is increasing. Besides, I have a letter for you." She waved it at him, and he beckoned her to sit do
wn. "It's from Danby."
"I see." He unfolded the foolscap, flicking a glance at the ducal crest. "It's Grandfather again. Swears he really is perishing this time. He wants the whole family to convene at Danby for the holidays."
Emily sat down, fanning herself with a scrap of music. "Well, shall we go?"
He folded up the letter and cast it aside. "With you increasing? I should think not." Besides, he was ready to spend a cozy fortnight in the arms of his wife, with snow drifting down and hot cider mulling on the stove…"This weather reminds me of last year, when we first made love."
She swatted at his arm with the sheet music. "Philip, darling. We must focus. The duke is getting older, and this may be his last time to see us—and he is beside himself with pride about the music school you've started. And you know how much your mother dotes on Rose. I'll be fine. Let's join the rest of the family."
He nodded. "Very well. But I am determined to be alone with you at some point during this holiday season, family or no family."
His wife lowered her eyelids to coquettish half-mast. "Honestly, my lord. At least all of your siblings have learned to knock—and most of them are occupied enough on their own."
Philip threw back his head and laughed. "True, my lady. Very well, we shall have our Christmas at Danby. It doesn't matter to me where we holiday, as long as you are there with me." For in Emily, temptress, muse, wife, lover—he found all that he had been seeking, all that eluded him those many years ago when he nearly ended his life. He bent down, taking her lips possessively, hungrily, as he had when he was a teenager exploring passion with her for the first time.
"Sweetest Emily."
Dedication
For the lovely ladies in our critique group: Heather, Erin, Louisa, Lauren, Robin, Tammy, and Marion. Thank you for your support, excitement, and patience while we worked on this project.
~ Samantha
~ 1 ~
Julian Beckford, second son to Viscount Pickton, grandson to the influential Duke of Danby, and reluctant accomplice to his deranged cousin’s newest venture, crossed his legs at the ankles and leaned back against the carriage seat. “Wake me when you’ve come to your senses.”
“Ho ho! Do not count on that any time soon.” Pen kept his eyes trained to the back entrance of the Lord Orrick Theatre, a small playhouse unlikely to be frequented by anyone of their acquaintance. “We’ll be here all night if that’s what it takes.”
“Fancy that.”
When Pen, who had been like a brother to Julian since they both wore short pants, invited him out for an evening on the Town, this was not what Julian had pictured. Still, he had missed Pen’s escapades these last five years. He just hadn’t expected to be thrown into one of his harebrained schemes less than a week after his return to England.
His cousin bolted straight up in his seat, kicking Julian’s leg in the process. “There! She is the one.”
Julian’s gaze followed the direction of Pen’s extended finger. “Her? Do you wish Grandfather to cry imposter the moment we reach Yorkshire?”
“Imposter?” Pen tugged on a lock of hair, studying the woman. “What fault do you find with this one?”
“The tucked up skirts. The generous display of bosom despite the frigid temperatures…”
“Oh, quite right. She’ll never do. Too daft.”
Jiminy. The woman wasn’t the daft one. “She’s a lightskirt, Pen. Did she even come from the theatre?”
Pen shrugged. “I’m uncertain. I was woolgathering.” He slumped against the seat with a weary sigh. “Won’t you please lend your assistance? You have a better eye for these things.”
Julian would like to tell him to sod off and abandon this fool’s mission, but in honesty, he felt sympathy for his cousin. Pen possessed no ability to protect himself against their grandfather’s manipulations. Danby was on his deathbed. Again. For the fourth time this year to hear Pen tell it. Each trip his cousin had made to Danby Castle, he’d found the duke hearty and hale. Danby had been especially lively when demanding Pen take a wife and fill his nursery. The old man would outlive them all.
A small smile pulled at Julian’s lips. He hadn’t been certain he would ever lay eyes on his grandfather again when he left for Calcutta. A Christmas spent at Danby Castle suited him.
“I’ll help you,” Julian said, “but as soon as I determine a likely candidate, we’re leaving for Rendell’s.”
Pen’s enthusiasm returned, and he wiggled back into position to observe the actresses leaving the theatre.
“Why not make a real match and be done with the matter?” Julian asked.
His cousin grimaced as if chewing a mouthful of horseshoe tacks. Julian had never seen such a pained expression cross his countenance.
“Must I take a wife, Jul? Truly?”
“Of course you must. Who else is to provide an heir to the earldom?”
“Blasted Miriam and Harriet! Neither one had the decency to be born a male.” Pen jabbed a finger Julian’s direction. “Do you know they’ve always been selfish, those two? Ever since they were babies. Crying and keeping me awake. Not to mention messing their nappies and contaminating the nursery.”
“That’s what babies do.”
“Well, they’re an inconsiderate lot.”
Julian chuckled. His cousin may complain often about his sisters, but Julian knew he held affection for both. Cousin Miriam, on the other hand, was less than fond of her brother. After all, Pen had stolen her birthright: blonde curls passed down from their mother.
The backdoor of the theatre eased open and a hooded figure peeked out, looking quickly in both directions. Apparently deeming the deserted alley safe, the person hurried out the door. Heavy, dark skirts and a lithe frame. The woman lowered her head, pulling the hood down to hide her face, and walked briskly in their direction. She clutched a large case in her hand.
Julian nodded. “She’s the one.”
It had dawned on him too late that it mattered very little which woman he recommended to Pen since Julian had every intention of talking his cousin out of his plans on the morrow. He could have ended this nonsense hours ago.
“Are you certain?” Pen asked.
“Yes. Now I’ve done my part, and I’m growing impatient with this clandestine operation. I’m ready to play faro.”
Pen rapped sharply on the roof and opened the window.
One of his servants moved into the woman’s path before she reached the end of the alley. “Pardon me, miss. Lord Penlow would like a word.”
She froze like a rabbit, poised to dash away. “Step away from me, sir.” She readjusted her grip on the bag. The poor dear was probably frightened out of her wits, being accosted the minute she exited the alley, and who could blame her?
“Make it quick,” Pen called out. “We have somewhere to be.”
When the footman turned his head towards Pen’s voice, she took advantage of the distraction and tried to bolt around him.
“Stop her!” Pen scrambled from his seat and threw open the door. “Stop her now!”
His servant lunged to grab the woman, hugging his arms around hers and knocking her bag from her hand. It hit the ground with a thud.
“My bag!” Her panicked voice echoed off the building.
“Quiet her,” Pen said. “Put her in the carriage.”
“No!”
The servant clamped a hand over her mouth before she let loose a scream and lifted her off her feet. She kicked and wriggled until he almost lost his hold. The hood fell away to reveal a cascade of dark hair.
Julian shot out of the carriage. “What are you doing? You said nothing about abduction.”
Her gaze darted towards him, her eyes wide, and her thrashing increased.
“See what you’ve done?” Pen sprang forwards and captured her legs. “Let’s put her in the carriage before someone discovers us.”
Together, Pen and his servant struggled to put her in the Berlin before Pen climbed inside. “Come on, Julian.”
&
nbsp; Julian hesitated a moment, then snatched up her bag and clambered into the carriage, closing the door behind him. Pen was sitting on the bench, holding his nose and oddly silent. The girl huddled in a corner, her breaths shallow and rapid. She was as scared as a church mouse. Good Lord, this might take some doing to make everything right.
Julian placed her bag on the floor and reached a hand towards her. “No one is going to hurt you, miss.” As he leaned in, her leg shot out, and her boot struck him in the center of his chest.
“Damnation!” He fell against the door; his side banged against the seat.
She barreled for the exit, trying to climb over him to reach it. Her boot ground into his thigh, and she lost her footing on the slick fabric of his breeches. She dropped like a lead ball, her knee crashing into his groin.
Julian hissed in pain. Pinpricks of light danced in the blackness, clouding his vision. His gut wrenched, wringing every ounce of comfort from him and replacing it with excruciating torture.
He would never trust his judgment again. He’d chosen a wildcat.
As the waves of pain slowly receded, he became aware of her hands resting on his chest. She was no longer struggling as she sprawled atop him. Her face was inches from his, her lips parted in horror. The carriage was moving now, carrying them away from the theatre.
“Please forgive me, sir. Did I hurt you?”
Her large brown eyes were filled with concern and caught him by surprise. He wouldn’t expect compassion from a woman he’d just helped snatch off the street.
“Of course you hurt him.” Pen grabbed her around the waist and hauled her off Julian. Her warmth was missed at once. Cool December air invaded the carriage through the open window. “Now do behave so we may conduct our interview and carry you to your destination.”
She sat in her corner again and folded her hands in her lap, warily looking between the two of them. “Y-you plan to release me?”
“Yes,” Pen said, “although I will require an apology first for bloodying my nose.” He pulled his hands away from his face. A dark stain marred his once pristine cravat.
A Summons From the Duke (Regency Christmas Summons Collection 2) Page 10