by Aileen Fish
Charles Calvert was dirty and disheveled, from his wind whipped hair to his muddy boots. He’d lost his coat somewhere and his shirt had become un-tucked from his dusty trousers. His cravat was unraveling, hanging over his barrel chest and flapping around behind him.
Nicholas fared only slightly better, in that he still wore his coat. There was a big glob of what looked like cow manure on the left shoulder and the seam was torn, the sleeve hanging precariously by a thread, the cuff dangling, all but covering his hand. In that hand he held a bouquet of wilting weeds and what might have been winter holly.
He stopped beside her father to look about the room, his gaze clearly unfocused, his entire being listing to the right.
“Go upstairs immediately,” Margaret said from the head of the table, her tone surprisingly calm. “Do not come down until you have scrubbed the dirt and stench of whatever cow pasture you fell into clear away.”
“Are you going to marry that harridan?” Da bellowed across the room.
For one heart-stopping moment Emily thought his query was directed at Nicholas and she was the harridan in question.
“If I can talk her around to it,” Viscount Talbot replied with a wink at Margaret.
“About bloody time,” Da hollered, smacking Nicholas on the back and nearly sending him to his knees.
He grabbed hold of the wall beside him and tottered there before leaning his head forward and resting it on the hard surface. He looked down at the sorry bouquet in his hand.
“Emily Ann Calvert!” He staggered upright and spun to face her where she sat between Mr. Boone and Mr. Endicott. “Good Lord, woman, what a temper you’ve got!”
Emily ducked her head as heat stole up her neck and into her cheeks. She bit her lip to keep from smiling. It was going to be all right. She’d seen the admiration in his eyes when they’d met hers.
“She’s Irish,” Da exclaimed as if that explained it entirely.
Emily peeked up at the other guests around the long table. Without exception the gentlemen were all smiling in good humor, Mr. Boone even laughed aloud when he caught her eye.
The ladies seemed to be taking the sight of two staggeringly drunk gentlemen fairly well. The Duchess of Martindale sat with her spine rigid and a pinched look about her face. Mrs. Sanderson was staring down at her plate, her face as pink as Emily suspected her own was. Lady Kildare was watching Emily with a fond, sympathetic smile, as if she’d been the subject of a drunken gentleman’s attentions a time or two. Lucy, Adelaide and Mary Endicott were all staring at the two tipsy buffoons in the doorway. Bernice was whispering in Mr. Kildare’s ear and Emily heard her soft laughter across the table.
Only Veronica Ogilvie seemed unduly upset by the boisterous, and admittedly odiferous, arrival of Da and Nicholas. She sat with her head bent, her long graceful fingers gripping her wine glass. She peered up through her lashes at the foxed men in the doorway and quickly looked away. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her head and looked straight at Emily. Her face was eerily without expression but for a sad and rather frightened look in her eyes. She blinked and the look was gone, replaced by a hard glint that turned those eyes to gun-metal gray.
“When you’re ready to apologize for calling me a gargantuan imbecile I’ll be in your room!”
Emily swung her gaze to Nicholas in time to see him blink in confusion.
“My room,” he amended hurriedly, “I’ll be in my room!”
“Damned right you will,” Da hollered.
Nicholas met her eyes and one side of his mouth tilted up. He looked so damn boyish and sweet and mischievous that it was all Emily could do not to scramble from the table and run to him, to pull his mussed head down and capture his lips with her own.
“Out!” Margaret ordered. “Out this very instant.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Nick awoke sometime before dawn with a marching band parading through his head and a herd of fuzzy sheep residing in his mouth. He stumbled naked from the bed to brush his teeth and make use of the chamber pot before wandering to the window and pushing back the drapes. The first rays of the sun were just cresting the distant horizon and the fields were coated in a heavy frost.
He leaned his forehead against the cold glass as bits and pieces of the proceeding day’s events filtered through his sluggish mind.
He’d gone with Charles, Charlie, to see a cottage that was not a cottage at all. Rosewood was a sprawling manor house built along the lines of an old Tudor mansion with dark brown timber and crisp white trim. Constructed in a giant “U” with a courtyard nearly overrun with roses in the middle, it was bigger than both of his country houses together. The land itself was insignificant, barely two hundred acres of fields and woods surrounding the grand mansion. It would serve as a pleasant retreat rather than a working estate.
He’d known Emily’s father was a wealthy man. How could he not? The dowry Charlie had named as they’d discussed the marriage settlement had been staggering. In his wildest dreams he’d never thought to come into such a financial windfall. But as he’d watched Charlie wrangle with Rosewood’s current owner’s solicitor, as he’d listened to him strike a deal to purchase the house entirely in gold, gold that was sitting in a London bank, he had realized that the man could pay off the King’s whopping debts and hardly miss the sum.
He thought about the conversation he and Emily had shared with Bernice the evening of that lady’s arrival.
I’m not certain a lady of good fortune and a fortune-hunting gentleman are likely to find contentment together… If he is a proud gentleman, surely he must feel a certain amount of indignity in the knowledge that her funds have allowed him to continue in the lifestyle to which he is accustomed.
Nick knew he was a proud man. Would he come to resent the enormous fortune that had saved his family from ruin?
But you do not allow for the gentleman to be properly gratified by the gift his bride has bestowed upon him… She might remind him that those qualities he possesses that led her to choose him, the goods he brought to market, so to speak, are of value. That it was a fair trade.
Lady Bernice was a surprisingly intuitive woman. A fair trade, indeed. What qualities did he bring to market? What could he give Emily that might somehow make their marriage a fair trade?
She would be the wife of a gentleman, daughter by marriage to a viscount.
But Emily cared nothing for titles or the doors a title would open for her. She did not aspire to become a leading matron of the ton. Hah, she would fight tooth and nail not to have to walk that path.
Perhaps they could set up their own horse-breeding program at Rosewood, build their own empire together, something they could leave to their children.
Children. He could give Emily children, lots of children. Little girls with red curls and flashing green eyes and big strapping sons to carry on the Avery name.
Laughter. She had a ribald sense of humor, one he’d never expected to find in a lady. They shared the same sort of humor, would doubtless continue to discover a shared joy in the absurd. They would have years of laughter and love in their house.
She would never doubt his love, he would make damn sure of that.
Passion. Nick had only begun to show Emily the beauty and power of passion. She was a sensual woman by nature. And she’d thought to be happy with a man who didn’t have a lusty bone in his body!
Nick heard the soft click of the door knob give way and turned to watch the door slowly swing open. A small white hand wrapped around the thick wood and the door came to a sudden stop with only the smallest space open. One dainty blue-slippered foot appeared in that space.
“Emily,” Nick whispered in relief. He had only a vague memory of stumbling drunk into Lady Margaret’s dining room with a wilted bouquet of winter greens clutched in his muddy hand. He figured between that shameless display and his earlier error of the morning, he had his work cut out for him to get back into his fiancé’s good graces.
Yet here she was, sneaking into h
is room just as the sun’s first golden rays topped the horizon.
He heard a soft sigh from behind the door and pictured Emily drawing in a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, gathering her nerve to confront him. He stepped away from the window as the door slowly swung open.
And Veronica Ogilvie stepped into his bed chamber and pushed the door shut behind her.
“Holy Hell!”
“Oh!” Veronica cried as she found him in the shadowy room.
“Get out,” he ordered, taking one step toward her where she leaned against the door draped from head to toe in pale blue satin and lace. Her blonde hair was swept up into some sort of convoluted arrangement of braids and ribbons atop her head. Her long, lean body was revealed to him by the sheer night gown and robe she wore.
He stopped in the center of the room, suddenly conscious of his naked state. He searched the room until he spotted his dressing robe listing toward the floor from the foot of the bed.
The bed! Christ, it looked like a herd of wild horses had run through it during the night. The coverlet was bunched at the foot, pillows were strewn about in abandon, and one corner of the sheet was pulled away from the mattress. He’d ever been a restless sleeper when deep in his cups.
Storming forward, he retrieved his robe, wrestled his arms into it and pulled the belt tight before turning to find Veronica staring at the bed with huge eyes.
“What the bloody hell are you doing in my chamber?” he grated out between clenched teeth.
“There was no announcement last night,” she whispered, her gaze still riveted to the bed.
“What?” He barely heard her quiet words. His mind was a jumble of panicky thoughts, all of them centered upon how best to remove the lady from his bed chamber without touching her or waking up the entire household. He couldn’t storm out of the room, not with his bed looking as if he’d spent the night reveling in debauchery. He wouldn’t even need to be present in the room with the lady should anyone enter. The bed would be enough to ruin his chances with Emily forever.
“You are not officially betrothed.”
The hint of steel underlying the softly spoken words brought Nick’s attention back to Veronica with such sudden clarity that he felt a moment of supreme dizziness. He reached one long arm out to wrap his hand around the bedpost for balance.
“It’s still possible,” Veronica said, finally turning her eyes from the bed to focus them on a spot just below Nick’s chin.
“No,” he barked. “Whatever you are thinking is definitely not possible.”
“You are my last chance, Mr. Avery.” The way she said the words, the cold finality he heard in her voice, sent a shiver down his spine.
“Miss Ogilvie,” he began, not quite sure what he intended to say, what argument he might offer that would send her running from his bed chamber.
“I have only until the new year,” she mumbled and now her eyes were darting about the room as if looking for a safe place to land.
Nick wondered if she was even aware that she’d spoken aloud. It seemed as she spoke more to herself than to him. His suspicions were confirmed when she continued.
“It’s not enough time. How will I bear it if he won’t relent?”
There was a wealth of despair in the words and just enough acceptance that Nick took one step forward, dropping his arm to his side. “If who won’t relent?”
“Don’t you see?” she asked plaintively, raising her eyes to meet his for the first time since she’d entered the chamber. “I must… In that bed…”
“No, Veronica. Whatever it is, whoever threatens you, I will help you.”
She jumped at his words, trembled before squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin in the air. “There is only one way you can help me.”
“I will not marry you.”
“You will if they find me in your bed.”
“No one is going to find you in Nick’s bed.”
Veronica spun around with a smothered cry as Nick’s gaze flew to the door.
Lady Bernice stood at the threshold, one hand on the door knob, the other on her hip.
“Thank God,” Nick said, relief rolling though him in a giant wave.
Bernice stepped into the room and closed the door before marching forward until she stood toe to toe with a shaking Veronica. “You’ve gone too far this time, Ronnie O.”
What a sight she was with her vibrant hair tumbling around her shoulders, color flaming on her high cheekbones and her pale green eyes blazing. Nick imagined this was just how she’d looked before she slapped Jamison and again he wondered how his friend had been able to resist all that fire.
“Yes, I have gone too far.” Veronica waved one small hand in Nick’s direction. “We have gone too far.”
“Balderdash,” Bernice bellowed so close to the other lady’s face that Nick saw Veronica’s curls shimmy over her forehead.
“We did it right there in that bed,” Veronica insisted, her gaze shifting to the bed before skittering away again.
“You? In that bed?” Bernice demanded heatedly, her eyes widening as her gaze flew across the rumpled bed. “You haven’t enough passion in you to mangle a bed in that fashion. And your lovely coiffure would not be quite so lovely if you’d risen from that bed.”
“My coiffure,” Veronica spun away from the taller woman, her eyes darting once more to the bed before they landed on Nick standing beside it.
Nick lifted his hand and ran it through his hair until the curls stood in wild disarray on his head.
Bernice followed his example, took it further, ruffling her already wild hair until it shot out from her head in gnarled tangles before she flung her head from side to side in a overdone approximation of what he assumed was supposed to be the throes of passion. “You’d be rumpled and sweaty and listing around on bowed legs. Not standing in front of me with your slippers on and pretty blue ribbons artfully arranged in your hair.”
“Bowed legs?” Veronica asked in alarm, her horrified gaze locked on Bernice.
“Men are perspiring, moaning, grunting animals at the best of times, you nitwit. In the bedroom they are a thousand times worse.”
“Oh,” Veronica murmured, clearly appalled by Bernice’s words.
“Do yourself a favor and stay as far away from a man’s bed as you can for as long as possible.” Bernice’s voice was softer, calmer but still determined.
“But I must marry.”
Bernice stared long and hard at the small blonde woman before she said, “We’ll find another man to marry you.”
“I only have until the first of the year,” Veronica whispered.
“Nearly a month,” Bernice replied with a decisive nod. “We’ve plenty of time.”
Bernice led a surprisingly docile Veronica to the door, whispered something low in her ear, before gently pushing her from the room and closing the door.
“How did you know?” Nick asked.
“I was in the hall… Um… Going…Never mind.” She gave a quick shake of her head. “I saw her come in.”
“And you waited to follow her?” Nick demanded as his legs gave out and he sat on the rumpled bed.
“I wasn’t sure what to do! Etiquette lessons most assuredly do not cover what to do when you see a scheming she-wolf enter the bed chamber of your friend’s fiancé.” Bernice seemed to realize she was screaming and drew in a long breath. “I was still half asleep and it took me a moment to decide what was most important. Quit looking at me like that. I got here before anything happened.”
“Before anything happened?” he asked warily. “Do you honestly believe that something would have happened had you not arrived when you did?”
“Of course not. I only meant that I arrived before she screamed and brought the entire household to your door. ”
“Was that her plan?” Nick could picture it in his mind. Margaret and the duchess bursting through the door with Adelaide and her mother and all the others right behind them. The houseguests jostling for position to s
ee into his chamber. Him in his robe and Veronica with her coiffure intact. And his obscenely mussed bed.
“I don’t know what her plan was when she entered your room,” Bernice admitted. “But I’d bet my last dollar she couldn’t have brought herself to actually crawl into your bed.”
A door shutting in the hall outside his room had Nick jumping from the bed.
“Egad,” Bernice squealed. “I’m in your bed chamber alone with you.”
“Christ, could this morning possibly get any worse?”
“Shhh,” she hissed.
They stood frozen in the center of the room and Nick knew a moment of sheer panic as he stared at Bernice with her tangled hair and flushed face. Good Lord, her feet were bare!
She crept to the door, pulled it open, and whispered to someone on the other side, presumably Veronica.
“All clear,” she murmured over her shoulder before giving him a cheerful wink and disappearing out into the hall.
Chapter Thirty-Three
When Nick descended the curving staircase an hour later he found Lady Margaret in whispered conversation with his father while Joan, Oliver and Bernice stood off to the side. Emily’s lady’s maid, her cousin, the pretty little Tilly, sat in a chair with her head buried in her hands.
Nick could hear her muffled sobs from halfway up the stairs.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded as he took the remaining steps two at a time. “Where’s Emily?”
Tilly’s wailing escalated in volume until it bounced off the walls to assault his whiskey tender head.
“Margaret.” His harsh voice brought the lady’s head around and she pinned him with glittering green eyes.
“A rusty blade,” she growled, taking one unsteady step toward him.
“Now, turtle dove.” His father grasped her upper arm in one beefy hand, halting her at his side.
“Nick did nothing wrong.” This from Bernice who stepped away from the gathering to stand beside him as if she might protect him from Margaret’s wrath.