Twilight with the Infamous Earl

by Alexandra Hawkins

  Chapter Fourteen

  “No need to trouble yourself, brat. I will see Emily home.”

  Frost had made the announcement to his sister hours before dusk could cast its shadow over London. He had brought her to the Pashleys’ residence; logic dictated that he would be the one to bring her home.

  Emily had felt Regan’s questioning gaze on her, but she did not acknowledge it. Thankfully, her friend had not pressed her on what she had overheard within the narrow anteroom in her house. To her surprise, Emily had enjoyed the gathering.

  As Frost had predicted, she had been introduced to the other Lords of Vice: Dare, Reign, Sin, Vane, Hunter, and Saint. It was obvious by the tales that had been shared and their unguarded affection for one another that the gentlemen had a long history of friendship and rivalry. With the exception of Frost, all of the gentlemen were married, and she could not fault their choices in wives. She liked every one of them, and all of them had done their part to make her feel welcome.

  Of course, there were speculative glances among them as she and Frost circled each other. He was the sole bachelor of the group; it was natural his friends would wish to see him settled with a wife at his side.

  If anyone had bothered to ask, Emily could have told them that she was not that lady. Or perhaps they already knew.

  To prove that she was not afraid of him or the attraction that seemed to flare to life when he was close, Emily had stared into Frost’s exotic turquoise-blue gaze and thanked him for offering to take her home. He appeared startled that she was not fighting him. In truth, she was equally surprised, but there was something alluring about flirting with the forbidden.

  And Lord Chillingsworth was not the type of man any respectable lady would encourage.

  It was a quiet drive home. Perhaps it was due to the long day filled with lively debate and conversation, but neither felt inclined to speak. Emily found the silence comforting. She smiled to herself, thinking that Frost hardly qualified as a restful companion. He challenged and annoyed her. He teased and made her laugh. Then she thought of Lucy, and what joy she felt faded into the shadows. She was flirting with a gentleman who might very well be her enemy and the reason why her sister took her own life.

  I am stronger than Lucy.

  The fierce thought shamed Emily. Her sister hadn’t been weak. She had been beautiful and generous; she had wanted to be loved. She had trusted the wrong man and her spirit had been broken.

  “Here we are. Safe and relatively untouched,” Frost said with a trace of humor as he secured the reins and disembarked from the phaeton to see to the horses.

  Emily waited in the carriage for him to finish his task. He walked around to the side and held out both hands. Unsteadily, she started to rise, but Frost took matters literally into his hands. Without permission, he grabbed her firmly by the waist and lifted her to ensure her skirt was not smudged by the wheel of the carriage. His strength was impressive. There were no visible signs of exertion on his face when her feet touched the ground.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  With a casual shrug, he said, “I’ll seize on any excuse to put my hands on you.”

  He extended his arm to her.

  If her mother or sister was watching, they would be distressed to see her arguing with the earl. To placate any observers, she placed her hand on his coat sleeve. “You cannot speak to me thus.”

  “Why do you persist in tempting me to prove you wrong?” Together they started up the front walk. “Or is it that you secretly desire my touch?”

  “No,” she exclaimed a little too vehemently. “Do you know what you are, Lord Chillingsworth?”

  “You have figured me out?” he asked, sounding impressed. “Quick, clever, and utterly kissable when you are vexed—I might have to marry you, after all!”

  Her stomach fluttered like a jar filled with moths. She refused to allow him to unbalance her again. “You are spoiled. You call your sister a brat, but I believe the nickname aptly applies to you.”

  “Pet names for me, too?” he teased. “Next you will be begging for my kisses.”

  “You are so accustomed to ladies falling at your feet that you have little respect for them,” she said, refusing to be dissuaded from speaking her mind before she lost her courage. “These silly creatures foolishly offer their heart and favors, while you … you—”

  She was horribly embarrassed that she had worked herself up to such a state, she was on the verge of crying.

  Frost halted, the teasing light in his blue gaze winking out as she grew increasingly agitated. “What do I do, Emily?” he asked quietly.

  “You seduce them, and—and cast them aside. It is your nature. You leave them heartbroken, friendless, and lost. In a fit of despair, they…” Emily shook her head, reluctant to continue.

  “No, finish it,” he said, his expression shuttered. “What does this mysterious lady do?”

  Emily brought her fist to her mouth and sobbed. “She kills herself when she learns that she is carrying her lover’s child.”

  Frost nodded almost absently. “Your sister.”

  “Lucy.” Emily sniffed, then realized she had forgotten to tuck a handkerchief away in her reticule. She blinked as Frost produced one from a hidden pocket. Accepting it, she murmured her thanks. “My sister’s name is Lucy. Good evening, Lord Chillingsworth.”

  “Wait!”

  She halted and glanced back at him. His tense, angry expression was no encouragement to linger.

  “Lucy Cavell. Your sister was Lucy Cavell.”

  “She has been dead five years, my lord. Has so much time passed that you have forgotten her name?” she asked. The sadness expanding in her chest was almost unbearable.

  “Let me get this straight. You think I callously seduced and abandoned your sister?” He took several steps toward her. When she edged away, he laughed bitterly. “This is rich. Aye, I knew a Lucy Cavell. I have not seen her in years, and did not connect the lady with you.”

  And why should he? She looked nothing like Lucy.

  She turned to leave.

  “One more thing before you dash off,” Frost called out, his words causing her to stop. “I was never Lucy’s lover.”

  With her hands curled into fists, Emily squeezed her eyes shut so tightly she would likely suffer a headache from the abuse. She fought to keep her emotions bottled inside. If she let go, she feared she would start screaming.

  She did not conceal her anger and unspoken hatred toward the gentleman who inspired feelings that would betray the memory of her sister. “You, Lord Chillingsworth, are a liar.”

  Frost stared at her as if she were a stranger. “If you were a man, I would call you out and put a bullet in you for such an insult.”

  “Then it is a good thing that I am not a man,” she said, shaken by the cold fury in his voice. “Because I would die knowing that I was able to return the favor.”

  “You have the wrong gent, Emily,” he said when she tried to turn away.

  Her instincts told her that he believed what he was saying. It only proved that she knew little about men.

  “Did I mention that I was the one who found her? I was fifteen years old, and could do nothing to save her. She was dying, and no one heard my cries as the hem of my skirt soaked up her blood.” Emily twisted the handkerchief in her hand. “She was out of her head from the blood loss, but she whispered to me about the baby, about her mistakes, and begged me not to make the same ones.”

  Emily wanted to slap him for the pity she saw on his face.

  He shook his head. “You must have been terrified.”

  Emily did not want his sympathy. She wanted answers. “I asked her who betrayed her, and she uttered one final word. Can you guess what that word might be?”

  “Are we playing a game, Emily?” he asked lightly.

  “Lucy said one word. Frost,” she spat. “Now tell me again of your innocence, Lord Chillingsworth?”

  His face whitened in shock.

  “I
thought not.”

  Throwing his handkerchief to the ground, Emily straightened her shoulders and walked into the house.

  The earl did not make the mistake of calling her back.

  * * *

  Frost bent down and retrieved the handkerchief Emily had discarded. Lucy Cavell. How had he forgotten about that silly chit? He rubbed his thumb over the linen. It was damp with Emily’s tears. She believed he was the vilest scoundrel. A man capable of planting his seed in a woman and then casting her and their unborn child aside.

  I asked her who betrayed her, and she uttered one final word. Can you guess what that word might be?

  Emily was wrong. Frost was not the man who had betrayed her sister. He was furious. At himself and Emily. She had not connected him to her sister when he had initially introduced himself to her. That had happened later. When? He stood there in front of the Cavells’ house and thought for a moment. The Fiddicks’ ball. Regan had called him Frost, and Emily had escaped. He had assumed it was the kiss that had upset her. Now he knew better.

  Christ’s bones! Angrily, he stuffed the handkerchief into the pocket of his coat. Frost cast an impotent final glance at the Cavells’ front door before he headed for his carriage. Even if he pounded on the door and demanded to speak to Emily, she would not listen to him.

  She believed him to be an immoral liar, a charming seducer, and a calculating scoundrel.

  And the uncomfortable realization was—Emily was right.

  He was guilty of being all three.

  * * *

  Emily sagged against the other side of the door as her tears left tracks on her cheeks. It hadn’t been a mistake.

  Five years ago, Frost had met Lucy in London.

  He had seduced and discarded her as he probably had countless other women. Hadn’t his own sister warned her to stay away from Frost? Of course, he had denied being her sister’s lover. He also had appeared genuinely surprised about the news of Lucy’s pregnancy. Nevertheless, it did not prove his innocence.

  She assumed her sister intended to take the secret to her grave, but she had not counted on Emily discovering her. Confused and in pain, she had whispered the unthinkable into Emily’s ear, never considering that her sister might seek out the gentleman who had ruined her.

  “Emily, is that you?” Her mother’s voice floated down from upstairs.

  “Yes. I will be right there, Mother.”

  Hurriedly, she used the cuff of her sleeve to wipe away the evidence of her crying. She grimaced, wishing she hadn’t tossed away Frost’s handkerchief. Untying the yellow satin strings under her chin, she took her time as she climbed the stairs, taking a moment to compose herself.

  When she reached the door to the drawing room, she gave her face a final swipe and pasted a smile on her face before she entered the room.

  “Oh, Emily, dear,” her mother said, not glancing up from her embroidery. “How was your afternoon with Lord and Lady Pashley?”

  She removed her hat and smoothed her hair. “I had a wonderful time, Mother,” she said, silently marveling at her composure. Her mother had not lifted her gaze from her needlework. With any luck, she could escape to her bedchamber. “The gathering was just family and close friends, but I managed to catch up with Regan. I still cannot believe she is a marchioness and a mother.”

  “And what of your escort, Lord Chillingsworth?” her mother said. She glanced up, but Emily turned away to suddenly admire the pair of Sèvres biscuit porcelain figures of Psyche and Cupid.

  “What of him?” she said flippantly. She picked up Cupid. He was seated on a rock with his right finger touching his lips. His mischievous expression reminded her of Frost. She set down the forty-five-year-old figurine. “He fulfilled his duty as escort and then wandered off to join his friends.”

  “And that is all?”

  Something in her mother’s voice made her glance over her shoulder. Had she seen her and Frost arguing through one of the windows? “Why do you ask?”

  Her mother’s frown became more pronounced when she noticed her daughter’s flushed face. “Emily, are you all right? You look as if you were—”

  Emily waved aside her concern. “On the drive home, something … an eyelash or grit got into my eye. It hurt dreadfully, but my tears washed away the debris.”

  She was becoming rather adept at lying to her family.

  The older woman patted the sofa cushion. “Sit beside me. The coloring in your face is quite off.” She set her embroidery down, adjusted the spectacles perched on her nose, and studied her daughter’s face.

  Emily smiled and tried to laugh away her high coloring. “Too much sun, I confess. I should have chosen a different hat.” She placed the hat on the table and sat down.

  Her mother placed her hand on Emily’s forehead. “You don’t feel feverish. That is a good sign. You must show more care when wandering about in the sun. You are already twenty years old, you must look after your skin. I recommend that you have Mercy prepare a wash for your face. Crème de l’Enclos, I think.” She began to tap her fingers as she recalled the ingredients. “Milk, white brandy, the juice of the lemon.”

  Whether she knew it or not, her mother’s nagging was somehow soothing, even if it was annoying. “Mercy knows the recipe, Mother.”

  She wasn’t listening. “Add the ingredients together and boil … then let the mixture cool before you use it. Use it night and day for a week.”

  Emily stood, preparing for escape. “Yes, Mother. I will give Mercy your instructions. Thank you.”

  Her younger sister, Judith, swaggered into the room. Perhaps it was a mean-spirited thought, but a year or two under Miss Swann’s watchful eye would improve her sister’s posture and gait.

  “Gods, Em,” Judith exclaimed as she noticed her sibling. “Your face is a fright!”

  Emily retrieved her hat from the table. “Yes, thank you for your observation, Judith,” she said drily, leaning down to kiss her mother’s cheek. “Do not expect me for supper. I will ask Mercy to bring me a tray.”

  “Are you ill?” Her sister turned and followed Emily to the doorway. “You barely touched your plate this morning.”

  “I’m fine,” she lied, unhappy that Judith was bringing up that small detail to their mother. Emily looked askance at the woman. “Was there anything before I retire?”

  “So you are not joining us this evening?” her mother asked, not hiding her disappointment. “I managed to talk your father into coming along since we will be able to visit with my brother’s family.”

  “Offer my uncle my apologies. Too much sun,” Emily reminded her. “And I will not forget to use the wash.”

  “You don’t want to end up with a leather face like Mrs. Rummage,” her sister teased, poking at Emily’s cheek.

  “Quit it.” She slapped Judith’s hand away from her face.

  The older woman sighed. “Yes … yes, that is important. Take care, my dear.”

  Emily turned to leave.

  “Wait!” Her mother grimaced as she reached for her embroidery. “There was something I forgot to mention. You had several gentlemen callers this afternoon.”

  Her hat slipped from her fingers. “I did? There was?” She knelt down to collect her hat from the floor. “Who?”

  The butler had left the silver tray on the table. Her mother picked up the calling cards and peered through her spectacles at the names. “Earl of Ashenhurst, Lord Macestone, and Mr. Halward. I daresay you have captured the ton’s attention, my dear. Your success reminds me of your sister. There were afternoons when the butler presented us with a small mountain of cards. Oh my, Lucy was so popular, this drawing room was often filled with eager suitors.”

  Emily ignored her mother’s recollections of her sister’s popularity as she considered the names her mother had mentioned. She recognized all three. Ashenhurst and Macestone were two of the young gentlemen Lord Chillingsworth had frightened off.

  Before I knew he was Lucy’s Frost.

  She shook off the
melancholy thought. “You mentioned Mr. Halward,” she said.

  Emily thought of their encounter at the park, and Frost’s warning that the man was dangerous. “Did he say anything? Leave a message?”

  Her mother paused, mildly peeved at the interruption. “He mentioned seeing you at the park this afternoon. Which I thought was rather odd since you were supposed to be at Lord and Lady Pashley’s residence.”

  Ah, so that was the reason why she had been summoned. Her mother had thought she had caught her in a lie. Emily rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I was there. However, Lord Chillingsworth suggested a drive through the park since it was a lovely day. We encountered Mr. Halward, and he paid his respects. I cannot fathom why he called here.”

  She had not expected a reply from her mother, but she offered one anyway. “He said that he was looking forward to seeing you again.”

  Was it a warning? Emily doubted the man would have been brazen enough to have her mother deliver his threat. After Frost’s warning, she was seeing villains everywhere.

  Her mother retrieved her needle. “If you want my advice, I would leave Mr. Halward at the bottom of your pile of suitors.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “While I grant you he is wealthy, he is a commoner.”

  “Father is a commoner,” Judith protested.

  “Well, yes, but I think our Emily can aim higher. Take Lord Ashenhurst. He is young and titled, and I was impressed with his manners.”

  Her mother was impressed with his family connections and wealth. “Lord Ashenhurst is younger than I am.”

  Frost had called him a puppy.

  “Only by a few years,” her mother said, unwilling to view his youth as an obstacle. “You would do well to court his favor. Lord Macestone’s, too.”

  Emily made a soft noncommittal sound in her throat.

  “And let’s not forget the delightful Lord Chillingsworth,” her mother said cheerfully. To Judith, she added, “Such a charming gentleman. We should apply his name to the top of our list of suitors for Emily.”

  Appalled, she said, “Mother, Lord Chillingsworth is not courting me. The gentleman barely spoke to me at Regan’s gathering.”