by Brenda Joyce
“You are too good for him!” Margery cried, flushed.
Ariella did not want to argue any further. “I trust you to keep my secrets.” When Margery didn’t answer, she opened the carriage door and stepped outside, staring at the door to the barbershop. She could see through the storefront window that Stone had no customers.
Aware of Margery coming to stand beside her, she entered the surgeon’s, the doorbells jingling. Stone, a tall stout man, came out from a back room, smiling obsequiously at them both.
Ariella did not smile back. “Mr. Stone, I required your services at Woodland yesterday but you sent my coachman back, refusing to come.”
His eyes widened. “Miss de Warenne, I was busy with a patient. Your coachman apparently did not explain correctly.”
“Jackson was very clear,” Ariella trembled with anger. “You refused to come. I believe your exact words were that you would not treat a lice-ridden Gypsy.”
He stared at her, no longer smiling. “I don’t treat Gypsies, Miss de Warenne, just like I don’t treat Jews or Africans.”
She inhaled. “You are despicable.”
He shrugged. “I have been to Rose Hill several times, miss, and I have always admired your father greatly. Go home, where you belong. And when you need my services at Rose Hill, I will gladly come.”
“Your services will never be required by my family ever again!” Ariella cried.
Margery seized her arm. “We should go.”
“No! My mother was a Jewess, Mr. Stone. You have insulted not just me, but my father, as well.”
“No wonder you’re a Gypsy lover,” he spat.
Margery stepped forward, between them. “You will pay for that remark!” She pulled Ariella from the shop, ashen. Outside, they stared at each other, horrified. Ariella could not recall every being spoken to in such a way.
Ariella breathed hard. “That is what Emilian lives with every single day of his life.”
THE MOMENT HE SAW the de Warenne seal, he knew the letter was from Ariella.
A tension he had never before experienced filled him as he slit the envelope. He was seated at his desk in the library, his hands shaking slightly. After their last encounter, she hadn’t come back to Woodland. He had not been surprised.
Three days had passed since their tryst—three endless days in which he had roamed his home, filled with regret and guilt, torment and concern. He had been very busy with his business affairs in preparation for his departure, but she remained on his mind, impossibly. He had been resolved to deny his interest, attraction and desire. He knew such denial was best for her, yet in the end, he had so quickly succumbed to passion. Each and every day since the affair, he had wondered if she would ever call again, his insides churning with his tension. It was best that she did not come; it was best that she hated him now. But Ariella was so entirely unpredictable.
He was sorry he could not be someone else, a proper suitor, the kind of nobleman who could give her the friendship she craved. He was sorry he had been so aloof after their encounter, but what did she expect? The guilt had exploded the moment they were done. And he’d never had a lover who wanted anything except his prowess in bed.
Did she finally hate him?
Aware of fearing her rejection when he should covet it, he opened her letter and began to read.
Dear Emilian,
I hope this letter finds you in good spirits and good health. I have been concerned about Nicu’s condition. How is he faring? I thought you might like to know that I set down the surgeon quite boldly, although I doubt my actions will affect his behavior in the future. He is truly a base fellow with no concept of proper humanity.
He was disbelieving. She had gone to the surgeon and confronted him? Was she mad? He could barely imagine the debate Ariella must have engendered. He read on.
My father and brother have gone off to London for a few days, leaving the ladies to their own devices. I am very much enjoying the company of the females in my family, especially my little sister, Dianna, whom I simply do not spend enough time with. I am hoping to convert them all to my latest cause, a trip to the steppes of Mongolia and China’s Great Wall.
He laughed.
Then he stopped, shocked by the sound that reverberated in the library. What had just happened to him?
He inhaled and finished the brief letter.
Alas, Dianna’s interest is in a husband and fashion, and Margery, ever the dutiful daughter, claims she cannot leave her family for such a great length of time. My stepmother, however, is an adventuress and has said she would dearly love to go. I shall begin lobbying my father the moment he returns.
Cliff de Warenne would surely refuse his daughter such an insane journey. Emilian had never traveled that far east, but he didn’t have to in order to know it would not be safe for her and her stepmother. Neither land was civilized, to the best of his knowledge.
I would like to know you are always welcome at Rose Hill. The next time you are in the vicinity, I would be pleased to receive you.
He reread the last two lines five times.
She wanted him to call.
He tossed the page across his desk, suddenly as furious as he was incredulous. When would she lose faith in him? Why couldn’t she understand that no matter how kind and resilient she was, she was a gadji princess and he was a half-blood Rom? He was not a suitor! He did not wish to be a suitor! What did those last lines mean? Did she still think a friendship between them possible? If so, she was deluded—their tryst had proved that!
He leaned hard on the desk. He had expected anything but an invitation to Rose Hill. Of course he would never accept.
Did she even know that he was leaving with the kumpa’nia in a few more days? He couldn’t recall if he had ever mentioned his plans.
He was eager to go. He had begun to feel that he couldn’t stand being in his own skin at Woodland—or was it being in an Englishman’s skin? Her haunting him did not help, nor did his guilt and concern. This letter had suddenly made the pretense of his life even worse. He was almost certain that, once on the road, he would forget his entire past, including Ariella. And that would be best for them both.
ARIELLA SAT in the chaise by her bedroom window, trying to read a copy of Francis Place’s latest program of social change, the People’s Charter. She should be fascinated, but she could not make heads or tails of what he was saying. She missed Emilian and thought about him constantly. Almost a week had passed since she had last seen him. She wanted to pursue the friendship he was refusing her, but to call on him again felt very forward now. Besides, he might misconstrue such a call as a very improper advance. As she had already made very improper advances—which he had accepted—she wouldn’t blame him if he misunderstood her this time.
However, if she did not encourage their friendship, she was fairly certain he never would. She had finally sent him a friendly note, casually ending the brief missive with the polite suggestion that he stop by Rose Hill when he was next in the vicinity. Not only had he failed to do so, he hadn’t even penned a reply.
The past few days felt like an eternity.
It was beginning to appear that she must call on him after all, or at least call on Jaelle at the Roma camp and use his sister to her personal advantage.
“Ariella!”
Ariella was relieved to put down the pamphlet, even if Margery sounded distraught. She took one look at her, standing at the door, and saw that something was very wrong. “What is it?”
Margery was pale and stiff. “You have a caller—one I am more than prepared to send away.”
So much disbelief began. Emilian had come. “Don’t you dare refuse to admit him!” she cried, leaping to her feet.
Margery didn’t move as Ariella rushed to the mirror over her bureau. She wore a pale short-sleeved dress and she quickly adjusted the bodice. It was so plain. She opened the jewelry box on the bureau and chose a pair of pearl drop earrings, which she hooked onto her ears. She added a pearl cameo on a dark r
ibbon, aware of her hands trembling. That was better. She dabbed perfume between her breasts. Then she started pulling pins from her hair. He liked her hair down.
“What are you doing?” Margery exclaimed. “You can’t receive a caller with half your hair down!”
She had let the back half-down and she began combing the tight curls. Finished, she turned. “I am starting a new fashion. How do I look?”
“You look like a woman in love—or one about to meet her lover.”
Ariella went to her and hugged her. “I don’t know what he wants. I sent him a note, but I was certain he would not respond. I am afraid to hope!”
“I am dearly afraid, too,” Margery said, following her from the room.
Ariella ran down the stairs, her skirts held ankle high. She took a breath, slowed her charge into a sedate walk, squared her shoulders and tried to manage a calm, serene smile. Ahead, she saw him standing in the blue receiving room, a top hat in his hands. He saw her at the very same time.
He looked so English in a dark green hunting coat with a waistcoat beneath, even with his too-long hair, and he was the handsomest man she had ever laid eyes on. He took her breath away.
He inclined his head. “Miss de Warenne,” he said politely. He straightened but did not smile. His gaze was searching, his demeanor far too solemn.
“Emilian,” she said. Impossible tension filled her. She was always so terribly aware of this man. “This is such a surprise—a very pleasant one.” Was something wrong?
His gaze flickered past her. “I received your invitation.” She realized Margery stood on the threshold, intent upon chaperoning them.
Ariella turned. “Can you give us a moment alone?”
Margery was clearly displeased, but she departed, leaving the door widely open. Ariella faced him breathlessly again.
He seemed to peruse every feature of her face before he slowly spoke, as if choosing his words with care. “Your letter was a surprise. I did not think you would ever wish to receive me.”
She was surprised. “I will always receive you.”
His expression hardened into severe lines. “That is far too generous, even for you.”
Ariella hated this formal pretense. She went to the doors and closed them, then faced him. “Nothing has changed. I remain your steadfast friend, Emilian. What happened recently was as much my fault as yours.”
His stare did not waver. “I beg to differ with you. Nicu is better.”
“I am so glad!” she cried, beaming.
His mouth seemed to lift before it firmed. “I was in some disbelief when I read that you went to the surgeon to berate him.”
“He deserved it, Emilian. It was a bit awkward, but I did what I thought right.”
He stared. “I cannot imagine any encounter being awkward for you.”
She smiled. “That is high praise, indeed.”
“It was meant to be.” His eyes held hers, dark and intense. “I do not wish for you to fight my battles, Ariella.”
Her eyes widened. “I fight many battles, all of the time. I am proud of being an independent thinker. I consider myself somewhat radical.”
“Yes, you are an independent thinker, a radical, as well as an eccentric.” His faint smile faded. “But you were distressed at the ball, and then with the surgeon. You do not need to be a part of a world of bigotry and hatred.”
Ariella shook her head. “Now I beg to differ with you. I am a part of this world, Emilian, this entire world, even the shadows we do not care for—shadows most men and women pretend are not there.”
Silence simmered between them as if charged, like the sky before a storm.
“I am so glad you have called. I do not think I could have held out for too much longer,” she whispered, wishing suddenly she were in his arms. She wanted to reach out and stroke his cares away, but did not dare.
“I should not have accepted your advances, Ariella,” he said abruptly. “And I am filled with even more regret than previously.”
She was dismayed. “I have no regrets! Not one!”
“Then we are at an impasse.” His expression tightened. “Surely you have not decided you wish for a casual and sordid affair.”
“No! Of course not. You were right. An affair without friendship or love is far too base for my nature.” She wondered if he could hear her heart thundering.
“I have come here for several reasons. One is to apologize. You may not be sorry, but I am.” His face almost softened. “I do not wish for you to be the one in my path, Ariella.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Emilian,” she said, meaning it. “You speak as if you are a hurricane!”
He tensed and their eyes locked. “It feels as if that is exactly what I have become—and you are the carnage I leave in my wake.”
This was not the call she had expected. It felt dangerously like an ending. “Something is wrong, isn’t it? Why have you really come?”
“I came to say goodbye.”
And the moment he spoke, she knew he was leaving for a very long time. “What do you mean?”
“I am going north with the kumpa’nia. We’ll go to the Borders, where I was born. I don’t know when I am returning,” he said, “or if I ever will.”
She went still. “What?” He could not leave! What about their friendship, their affair? “But you are the viscount St Xavier! What about Woodland?” she cried, shocked and filled with dread.
“I hired an estate manager. He started his duties today. I have been English for too long,” he said flatly.
She was in disbelief. “You are half-English, Emilian!”
“Edmund took me from my mother, rather forcibly. Although I chose to stay with him, I have begun to have grave doubts that my choice was the right one.”
“Grave doubts!” she echoed, horrified. He was going to walk away from his father’s heritage, from his estate, from his title, his life—from her—to become a Gypsy?
She recalled seeing him that very first night, when she had mistaken him for the vaida. He had been dancing under the stars with the kind of passionate fervor that only a true Rom could have. Their music had been in his blood, in his soul, because he was as much a Rom as an Englishman.
They were his people, too.
But to leave his entire life behind?
Ariella sank into a chair. He could not be leaving forever. “You have to come back,” she gasped, and pain exploded in her heart. He had to come back to her.
“Isn’t this for the best for everyone?” he asked gravely. “Look at the damage I have already done. You will find your Prince Charming, Ariella.”
“You are my Prince Charming,” she cried, her sight blurring with tears. Panic overcame her and she leaped to her feet, reaching for his arms.
“I know you believe that.” He did not pull away. “One day you will see that you were wrong. In fact, the day will come where you will not even remember me.”
She would never forget him. “When will I see you again?”
He shook his head. “I do not know.”
She clung to his powerful arms. “How can this be happening? I love you!”
“Don’t,” he said harshly, twisting away.
She barely heard him. Her mind raced wildly in confusion. “Are you leaving now?”
“We leave shortly after sunrise tomorrow.”
“Spend the night with me.”
His eyes widened.
She clasped his face. “I can feel that you still want me. Make love to me tonight, Emilian. Give me something to hold on to until you return.”
He went still, breathing hard. “What good can come of that kind of evening?”
She had shocked him. “I need to be with you another time. I don’t want you to leave. You must let me have memories I can cherish!”
She felt the male heat blazing in him and his eyes smoldered, but he began shaking his head. “You deserve a great love and that friendship you are always speaking of. You do not deserve another ill-fated liaison
.”
She couldn’t speak. He was leaving Derbyshire. He was leaving her. Why couldn’t he see that they had begun a precious and fateful journey together?
“Don’t cry,” he said roughly. “Please.”
She choked on a sob and moved into his arms, which opened to admit her. She clung, wishing she could do so forever. His huge body was stiff and hard against hers, and he was trembling, too.
“I am hurting you again,” he said.
Ariella could not speak.
He held her for one more moment, his grasp on her tightening, before stepping back from her. He glanced at the salon’s closed doors. “Your cousin is probably pacing in the hall.”
She didn’t care. If only she had the courage to go with him. But that would require the loss of all pride. Besides, she knew he would send her back.
“Ariella?” he asked.
She couldn’t move. He turned grimly and went to open the doors. The moment he did so, he stiffened. Ariella saw past him, into the front hall.
Margery stood there, speaking with Jack Tollman, the owner of the White Stag Inn.
She hurried to Emilian and saw his face change. His expression hard and dangerous, he said, “What is he doing here?”
“I don’t know. I am sure he has a valid reason,” she said uncertainly.
“He is here for me.” He started forward determinedly and she ran to keep up. What was Emilian talking about?
Tollman saw them and he smiled unpleasantly at Emilian. “Your butler said you’d be here.”
Something was terribly, dangerously wrong.
“Why are you looking for me?” Emilian demanded.
Tollman grinned. “’Cause we thought you’d like to watch us hang a horse thief.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EMILIAN’S DISBELIEF TURNED to fury. “Like hell!” He snarled.
Ariella rushed to step in front of him, horrified by the unfolding events but determined to prevent a full-scale battle. Emilian gave her a darkly incredulous look. “This is Tollman’s idea of revenge.”