by Jo Beverley
“I don’t think,” he said softly, “expertise is really what counts.”
He raised her hand and brushed his lips across her fingers, making her heart tremble. Then he drew her a little closer. His other hand came up to lie along her cheek, threaded slightly into her hair. He brought his lips to hers again.
Emily tried to decide if he was good at kissing or not, but having nothing to compare this kiss with, it was a pointless exercise. Kissing was certainly an extraordinary thing—like a toasty warm fire in the winter, and an icy fountain in the summer; a crisp golden day of autumn and the first snowdrops of spring . . .
She could see why Margo had burst into tears if she was used to doing this with Marcus and hadn’t seen him for a year, and he was very likely dead . . .
Verderan was telling himself he had to stop his gentle exploration of Emily Grantwich’s soft, shy lips before he got completely carried away, when she burst into tears and buried her head on his shoulder.
It was the most alarming thing that had ever happened to him.
“Emily? Miss Grantwich ...” He pushed her away slightly so he could look at her, and demanded, “What the devil’s the matter?”
She looked up, eyes swimming with tears, and appearing utterly bereft. “Marcus!” she wailed.
He felt a death-chill go through him. For God’s sake. Marcus was her brother! Surely to heaven—
“You were kissing me,” she hiccupped, “and I thought of him. And he’s probably dead.” She pulled out a handkerchief and blew into it. “It’s so sad.”
“Why did you think of him when I was kissing you?” he asked, knowing his voice was razor sharp but unable to alter it. If Marcus Grantwich was still alive, he wouldn’t be for long.
She looked up at him in alarm, clutching the handkerchief tightly. “I’m sorry,” she said nervously. “I don’t suppose that’s what a lady is supposed to do when being kissed, is it, think of her brother?”
“No,” he said baldly.
“Well, there’s no need to snap,” Emily replied with spirit, pulling back. She belatedly remembered that he was wicked and violent and probably mad. She mustn’t allow the fact that he was so good-looking and could bring the wonders of earth and heaven through a kiss to erode plain good sense.
It was rather hard to be so resolute.
“You may be an expert at this,” she said firmly, retreating to the furthest corner of the sofa, “but I’ve never been kissed before in my life, Mr. Verderan! How was I to know it would be so . . . so nice and make me think of poor Margo and how she misses Marcus and his kisses, and make me sad . . . why are you laughing?”
He leant over and dropped a gentle kiss on her lips before she could avoid it. “Because you enchant me,” he said lightly. “Or perhaps it’s the Poudre de Violettes again. Tell me, has life become very strange for you too since we were showered with the stuff?”
“Yes,” said Emily, feeling hollow. So his desire to kiss her was ridiculous and he knew it. Because she’d sought this interview he’d probably put this whole episode down as her fault and see it as more evidence of her spinsterish desperation.
Utterly miserable, she stood up and moved away. “I only wanted to speak to you,” she said briskly, “about Father. I don’t think you need to say anything to him about our little arrangement.”
“I would have thought your father should be the first to know,” he said, rising lazily.
“Not since it is all pretense,” she retorted. “Which reminds me—” She fixed him with her fiercest look. “What exactly did you tell Father about this morning’s incident?”
“Why?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “I told him your cousin’s friend forced unwelcome attentions on you and your cousin did nothing about it. I felt he should know the sort of man Felix Grantwich is, and the sort of company he keeps.”
“He already knows,” said Emily with a frown. He must have said more than that. “But none of us can ignore the fact that Felix is heir after Marcus. If Father doesn’t know the whole, however, there’s no need to tell him of our supposed relationship.”
“As you wish,” he said agreeably. “Should we perhaps, then, cut short our time in this room? If we’re discovered it will certainly give fuel to any rumors, but it could push matters further than you wish. Your father might send for a special license.”
There he was, hinting again that she was trying to trap him into marriage. Emily darted over and flung open the door. “No such thing,” she said sharply. “I am, after all, twenty-six years old, Mr. Verderan, not a green girl. No one would suppose anything other than that we were discussing business.”
“How true,” he said sharply and came towards her. “Doubtless your advanced age protects you from the very idea that you might be a wild, passionate woman.”
He almost sounded angry. He was turning mad again. Wild and passionate had never been applied to Emily Grantwich. “Mr. Verderan ... ,” she said as he took her in his arms.
“Yes?”
“The door’s open!” she squeaked.
“I know. But you’re such a dried-up old thing that no one would care even if they did see us, would they?”
“Mr. Verderan!” Emily protested, but it was too late, for he had her firmly in his arms and his lips were on hers again, but more fiercely. She was held tight to his hard body, cradled in his arms, and melded with him as he slanted his head and carried her into a dizzying spiral of wild and passionate sensations.
It was outrageous.
It was scandalous.
It was delicious.
Just as she resigned herself to her fate, he released her and shook his head.
“My dear Miss Grantwich,” he said, “you’ll undoubtedly be the death of me.”
Blaming her again. It simply wasn’t fair. And, she thought emptily, it wasn’t at all fair that he’d stopped . . .
Before she could express her feelings, he focused one of his devastating smiles on her and added, “I look forward to such a demise immensely.”
He was assuredly mad. Still bound by a lifetime of training, Emily muttered a polite “Excuse me!” before fleeing the room.
On the upstairs landing she almost collided with Junia. “What is it, Emily? You look as if there’s an emergency.”
“No, no,” said Emily with some control, then blurted out, “He’s here and he’s dangerous!”
“Oh good,” Junia said and continued downstairs. “Aren’t you coming to dinner?”
“In a minute,” said Emily.
As an afterthought, Junia asked, “How, dangerous?”
“In every way,” gasped Emily and hurtled into her room.
Verderan had to take a few minutes to recover his composure after his interview with Emily. He was wondering if there was any way of being locked up in a cellar with her for a few days—it would be a wonderful experience—when Emily’s aunt Junia entered the room. She too closed the door firmly but quietly, and he awaited new developments in amused anticipation.
“So pleasant to see you again, young man,” she said and extended her hand.
He kissed it, despite the strong aroma of linseed oil. “My pleasure entirely, Miss Grantwich.”
“Call me Junia,” she said airily, head on one side like a robin. “You’re very good at that.”
“At what?”
“Hand kissing. It’s an art and not as much practiced as it was.”
“Thank you. I strive for perfection in all the manly arts.”
She chuckled and gave him a surprisingly roguish look. “I’ll go odds you do,” she said.
She was dressed quite conservatively in a high-waisted dress over a silken slip, but he had never seen such fabric before. It was a coarse, heavy twill printed with large leaves in blue and orange. He rather liked it, though it was distinctly barbaric. That was probably why he liked it. That was probably why he was coming to like Junia Grantwich.
“Young man,” she said straightly, “I have a number of things to say to
you, and I’d appreciate it if you did not distract me with flummery.”
“I am all attention,” he responded warily. Few people ever addressed him as “young man” but with Junia Grantwich he felt just that—a little wet behind the ears.
Junia sat in a plain straight chair and waved him to a seat. He took the sofa again, simply because it held pleasant memories.
“I have spent nearly sixty years,” said Junia, “watching people make damn fools of themselves. I confess to having generally found it amusing, but in the case of Emily I cannot merely be an observer. The common advice is to leave well enough alone and keep out of other people’s business, but if Emily is unhappy it will cut up my peace, so I think it is my business.”
“‘No man—or woman—is an island,’” said Verderan. “Emily is fortunate in her family.”
“No, she ain’t,” Junia said implacably, startling him. “I am a very selfish woman. Henry is a very selfish man, but that is less surprising as men are raised to be selfish. He is also a fool. He preferred simpering little Anne to Emily. Though I have to admit,” she added thoughtfully, “that was to Emily’s advantage or she might have ended up married to Sir Hubert. Do you know Sir Hubert Keynes?”
Having begun to get the measure of his companion, Verderan confined himself to a monosyllable. “No.”
Junia nodded. “Thought not. If you’d come across him you’d probably have shot him out of simple irritation.”
Verderan burst out laughing. “Miss Grantwich,” he said at last. “Junia. Truly. I very rarely shoot people.”
“Most people never do,” she pointed out, “but that’s neither here nor there. My point is that Emily has been put upon by a thoroughly selfish lot all her life and deserves better. She’s falling in love with you. You are falling in love with her and I think it’s a good thing.”
“Thank you,” said Verderan, startled again and feeling decidedly off-balance.
“Henry said something to upset her,” continued the amazing woman. “Probably warned her of your wicked reputation. Now I find her rushing upstairs as if the devil himself were after her. I don’t know what you had been up to, but she is convinced you’re mad, largely because of your obsession with sago pudding. If you could avoid . . . Now why are you in whoops?”
Verderan had his head in his hands, wondering if it might not be simpler to commit himself to Bedlam immediately and have done with it all. He collected himself enough to say clearly, “I am not obsessed with sago pudding. I have never eaten the stuff since my nursery days.”
“Hardly surprising,” Junia pointed out, “if you have a reputation for shooting anyone who offers it.”
“I do not—” He’d had this conversation before. “Miss Grantwich,” he said firmly, “I promise never to mention pudding again in my life if only everyone else will agree to do the same.”
“But there you are, dear boy,” she said, leaning forward to pat his knee kindly. “It’s not normal. How are we supposed to get along? What if you marry Emily? Is she to be scared to ask such a simple question as, ‘What kind of pudding would you like tonight, dear?’ There you go laughing again . . . but you’re not mad,” she said. “I did make enquiries, you know.”
Verderan snapped himself out of his amusement. “What?”
“I wrote to a few friends. No one has heard of insanity in your family, or in you.”
This was going beyond the limit. Verderan stood. “Miss Grantwich, I do not relish you poking around in my personal affairs.”
She faced him calmly. “I’m not surprised in view of some of the things I turned up.”
He instinctively sheathed himself in the cool arrogance which had been his protection for so long. “Then I’m surprised you want your niece to marry me.”
“You forget,” said Junia quietly. “I knew your mother as a girl.”
He stilled as if hit. He had forgotten that Casper Sillitoe was his mother’s brother and that Helen Verderan had grown up here.
“I got a fine tale from Irene Devenish,” Junia said. “She’s always been one of your mother’s bosom-bows. She had plenty to say of your wicked ways and arrant cruelty to poor Helen—Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving. You will make my excuses to Sir Henry.”
“Coward.”
The word stopped him at the door, and he swung round. “And you are a meddling old bitch!”
“Of course,” said Junia, finding it surprisingly hard to keep her voice level. Her enquiries had told her he could be dangerous, but she hadn’t quite believed it. As he put his hand to the doorknob she added, “If you want Emily, you’re going to have to stay and listen to what I have to say.”
Verderan went no further, which was as much of a concession as he was willing to make. He could feel anger growing, and he’d made a resolution not so long ago never to allow his temper free range again. “If you’ve been digging,” he said quietly, “then you know I don’t deserve Emily.”
“Don’t you? It seems to me you deserve some good fortune in life.”
He did turn then and look at her. She appeared to care and that was positively demoralizing. He should leave. His hand tightened on the doorknob.
“I can read between the lines, you know,” the woman said. “As I understand it, your grandfather is an old tyrant who tried to keep his son within rigid lines and lost him. When your father died, he persuaded Helen, who was always a clinging ninny, to take you to Ireland and tried again, but with considerably more ruthlessness. You were eight when your father died and somehow you survived until you went to Eton at twelve. I’m not sure why he let you go.”
Verderan looked down at his fingers, white on the porcelain doorknob, and relaxed them. “It was in my father’s will,” he heard himself say woodenly. He had never spoken of this, except perhaps to Randal, in bits and pieces. He wasn’t sure why he was doing so now except that he clearly was mad. “It was a haphazard document, but it spelled that out clearly, at least.”
He left the door and walked around the small room. “My father was”—he sought for a word that conveyed the largely forgotten magic of Damon Verderan—“eccentric, at the very least. But he had a flair for business, and when he ran away from home he made his fortune. He left my mother and my grandfather handsome annuities if they obeyed his instructions as to my upbringing. Unfortunately those instructions were very vague, except that I was to go to Eton and Christ Church.”
“And once you left you refused to go back.”
Verderan didn’t answer. He was amazed at how painful he found all this, and deeply resented the woman who was stirring the old ashes into flame.
Junia looked at him and saw the angel she had drawn, but a tortured one. She wondered if for once she had grasped more than she could handle. “How did you support yourself?” she asked, but gently. “Even if your grandfather was compelled to pay your various fees, that is hardly enough on which to survive, and you were no more than a boy.”
He turned to face her, and it was as if he wore a mask. Junia realized she was a foolish old woman. Thinking only of Emily, she had not considered that all this might still hurt a grown and hardened man.
“Didn’t the rumor mill tell you?” he asked. “My grandfather is a miser. When I left home I took his hoard.”
There was nothing for it but to get to the end. “I heard the story. He still gives it today as his excuse for scrimping and saving.”
“You don’t believe him?” he asked with superficial amusement.
Had no one else ever doubted that tale? “My assessment of his character, albeit hasty, doesn’t grant him a forgiving nature. He would have had you clapped in jail.”
“He would, wouldn’t he?” His smile widened, and there was a trace of genuine warmth behind it. “I did take his money, but he’d been stealing from my inheritance for years. He boasted of it to me all the time. If he’d prosecuted me, it would all have come out. He made up for it by continuing to swindle me until I came of age; my foray into larceny m
ade it unwise for me to look into matters too closely then. I think we ended up about even, and he still receives the annuity my father left him. If he’s counting the candles and hoarding string it isn’t for want of the ready.”
There was one other thing to be raised, and Junia found herself strangely reluctant. “What of your mother? It’s said Helen’s in dire straits and you refuse to aid her.”
The mask was back, but it couldn’t quite hide the anguish. “My mother chooses to live at Templemore with my grandfather,” he said in a voice as flat and hard as ice. “If she is in dire straits it is her own fault. I have offered her a comfortable home on this side of the water, but I’ll give no money where my grandfather might get his hands on it. She prefers to cling to the old man.”
Junia nodded. “As I said, I knew Helen. She always swayed towards the most commanding presence. If you went there, you could sway her to your side.”
He faced her coldly, but a flame was burning in his eyes. “If I went there, I would kill him.” It was all the more terrible for being uttered with quiet certainty. “That’s one crime I do not need on my record. As for my mother ...” He took a deep breath and said in a clipped voice, “You are exceeding your brief by a large margin. What has this to do with Emily?”
She had what she wanted. It had been more painful for both of them than she had ever intended, but life frequently was. Junia stood and smoothed her skirts, smearing one of the orange leaves. She looked at it with a frown. “Oh dear. I thought they were dry.” She looked at the chair, which was splotched with blue and orange. “How fortunate I didn’t sit on an upholstered one.” She returned her attention to Verderan, who was staring at her printing experiment, dumbfounded.
“Emily,” she reminded him. “Emily should be freed from this cage before she’s too old to fly. Henry’s accident has let her exercise her wings a little, but I fear she’ll regress if Marcus returns home. Heaven knows what would happen if Felix took over . . . It really wouldn’t be such a good thing for her to carry on being her father’s deputy until Henry dies, one, ten or thirty years from now. And, of course, she shouldn’t marry Hector Marshalswick.”