His Dark Enchantress (Books We Love Regency Romance)

by Chatham, Victoria

  Lucius quickly vacated the barouche and reached for Juliana’s hand.

  “You may wish to go straight to your room, Juliana,” he said pointedly.

  Without a word Juliana did as her brother bid her while he walked to the head of his team. His experienced eyes noted that none of them were distressed. Sahara nudged his arm and lipped at his coat sleeve. He patted the animal’s neck and inspected each horse’s legs for any sign of strain. Satisfied, he nodded to Noble.

  “Rack ‘em up, Noble,” he said quietly.

  Noble beckoned to the waiting grooms, who stepped forward and swiftly unhitched the team. Instead of taking the horses to their stalls the grooms led them towards the ménage.

  “Noble, where are they going?” Lucius demanded.

  “An idea of Miss Devereaux’s,” Noble responded. “Letting them loose for a short time appears to help them recover from their work more quickly.”

  “Does it indeed?” Lucius said grimly. “This I must see for myself.”

  Emmaline, anxious to leave as soon as she could, gathered the skirts of the driving coat and got to her feet.

  “Stay where you are if you please, John Coachman,” Lucius ordered abruptly. “I will deal with you momentarily.”

  She opened her mouth to let loose an angry retort but one look from Lucius made her snap it shut. Her knees buckled with exhaustion and she sat down again, feeling alone and exposed on the high, open box. She drew the driving coat about her to ward off the first chill of night but it did not prevent the shivers that now consumed her from head to foot.

  Lucius followed the grooms into the ménage. As soon as the horses were turned loose, they sank to their knees in the sandy surface, their pleasure obvious as they stretched out and rolled like playful children.

  Their snorts and groans brought smiles to the dour faces of those who watched them. One by one the animals regained their feet, shook themselves and went to their grooms to be taken for the feed they knew awaited them.

  “Now where would she have got an idea like that?” Lucius mused, curious despite his anger with her.

  “I collect, my Lord, that Miss Devereux mentioned a Greek gentlemen. A Mr. Xenophon if I remember it right.”

  “Ah, The Art of Horsemanship.” Lucius was quiet for a moment, remembering her perusal of his copy of Plato. He turned to Noble. “Saddle my park hack.”

  He spoke quietly but with stern authority and Noble simply went to do his bidding. Lucius stayed in the ménage, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt, his temper barely under control. He returned to the barouche and looked up at his coachman.

  “What in hell’s name possessed you to imagine you could drive my horses?” he demanded. His voice cracked with anger.

  “Imagination did not enter into it,” Emmaline returned.

  Lucius was so furious he missed the tremor in her voice.

  “You could have overturned the barouche and injured my horses. You, Juliana and Noble could all be dead. Did you think of that?”

  “No, I did not.” Emmaline stood up on the box. “And don’t shout. I am not deaf.”

  Lucius paid her no heed as she scrambled down from the driving seat. “What if you had been recognized? How would it look for my team to be driven by a woman?”

  “Is it your horses, your people or your reputation for which you are concerned, my Lord?” Emmaline quivered from head to toe as she looked up at him.

  His grey eyes glinted with fury under drawn brows and he lifted his hands, fingers outstretched. She took an involuntary step back from him but he caught her shoulders in a firm grip and shook her until her teeth rattled.

  “I take my responsibilities more seriously than apparently do you,” he shot back at her. He released her as quickly as he had held her and she staggered back against the wheel of the barouche, felt the hard rim press between her shoulder blades. “I do not hide behind a borrowed tricorn nor pad my shoulders with a rolled sheepskin.”

  He towered over her, his face overshadowing hers but all he saw was a vision of her on the ground in a tangle of broken limbs. How could he explain that to her family and to his peers? What would his life be without her in it? He shook his head to clear it and for the first time saw the fatigue in her face, the warring expression in her eyes.

  She was as angry as he, but beneath the anger there was something else, something he could not immediately determine as she drew herself to her full height. Her eyes blazed like blue beacons and her lips were as bloodless as her face.

  “I will tell you, sir, neither your horses nor your people were ever in danger. I thought only to do you a service when your coachman was injured, and instead I am reviled and castigated for it.”

  Around them the air vibrated with their anger, was felt in the darkness of the stable where Noble waited with the grooms and the hack. Neither combatant had heard the crack of the door or scrape of the window as members of the household listened to the furious argument.

  For a moment Lucius said nothing, his mouth clamped into a thin line. His gaze raked over her once more.

  “I have to tell you, John Coachman, that you have impressed me in ways you cannot possibly begin to imagine.” His voice was calm but vibrated with a dangerous undertone which chilled Emmaline to the bone. “However, there is no room for you in my employ and I do not wish to see you here ever again.”

  The words were spoken softly but as sharply as the crack of a whip. The words flayed Emmaline’s fragile hold on reality.

  He never wanted to see her again.

  Her heart pounded so hard in her chest it sent her blood roiling in her veins and blurred her vision. Lucius caught her hand, into which he pressed something hard.

  He called for his horse and Noble brought up the hack. Lucius vaulted into the saddle.

  She looked up into his white, handsome face. The moonlight shone on the flat planes of his cheeks and shadowed his eyes but she could see the furious glitter in them. As he spurred his horse forward the sound of its iron shod hooves clattering and scrabbling on the cobble stones,rang loud in the clear night air.

  Emmaline, drained of all emotion, staggered back and grasped the wheel rim for support.

  The yellow rind of a full moon peeped above the roof tops and chimney stacks, casting their linear outlines into sharp relief. Moonlight illuminated the silvery trail of a single tear as it rolled slowly down her cheek. She dashed it away and uncurled her fingers to see what Lucius had pressed into her gloved palm.

  There, glinting in the cold, pale, light was a single golden guinea.

  It weighed as heavy as thirty pieces of silver.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Here, Miss, let me help you.”

  Emmaline roused herself from her misery and gave Noble her hand, taking comfort from his calloused grip.

  “Don’t be upset, Miss Emmaline,” the head groom advised. “I know his Lordship well. He didn’t mean what he said and has only ridden off to cool his temper.”

  “Thank you, Noble,” Emmaline said. “You are very kind and I am not deserving of it.”

  Noble pressed her hand. “Now that’s nonsense, Miss.” He led her across the stable yard and stopped at the back door. “If I may suggest, it might be better if you go up the nursery stairs to Miss Juliana’s room.”

  Emmaline whispered her thanks and passed through the door which he opened for her. Before mounting the dark, narrow flight of the stairs, she shed the heavy driving cape, leaving the drab fabric in folds on the floor. Running up the stairs as lightly as her heavy heart allowed, she hurried along the first floor landing to Juliana’s boudoir.

  Juliana instantly opened her door in answer to Emmaline’s hesitant tap. Affected by her visible distress, Juliana drew her into a consoling embrace.

  “Oh, Emmaline,” she gasped, giving her a tight squeeze.

  Her heart thudding, limbs shaking, Emmaline bravely held herself together but Juliana’s warm concern was almost her undoing. She would not cry, she absolutely would not.
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  Juliana quickly guided Emmaline to a comfortable chair beside the fireplace. Bright, warming coals burned in the hearth. A tea tray waited on a table beside the fire. Juliana poured a cup, added a liberal measure of sugar and handed it to Emmaline whose hands were shaking so much the cup rattled in its saucer.

  “Drink up,” Juliana ordered as she gently but firmly rested her hand on Emmaline’s shoulder.

  Emmaline sipped the steaming tea until she was able to relax a little. Warmed from the tea on the inside, she turned to the fire. The warmth from its flames glowed on her face and helped compose her features to disguise the distress that bubbled beneath. Lifting her head, Emmaline at last looked at Juliana.

  “I am going home,” she announced. As much as she disliked admitting defeat, right now it seemed the better course for her broken heart.

  Juliana nodded. “I will order the curricle and Noble shall take you back to your aunt’s house.”

  Emmaline shook her head. “No, Juliana.” Her voice broke. “I mean I am going home to Devon. Now. Tonight.”

  Juliana was instantly on her knees in front of Emmaline, taking her hands in her own and grasping them tightly.

  “No, you cannot!”

  “I can and I will.” Emmaline battled the tears which she could no longer quell. “Oh, Juliana, you must see that I cannot stay! Lady Darnley has achieved her aim of making me a persona non grata. Today I made nothing more than a cake of myself when I was only trying to, to. . . . “

  “To impress my brother,” Juliana finished for her.

  “It will not happen.” Emmaline choked on a sob. “Rather than give him cause to admire me, I have rather raised in him a great disgust and he does not want to see me ever again.”

  “Oh, no,” Juliana gasped. “You cannot mean that.”

  “He told me so himself.” Emmaline scrubbed the back of her hand across her face. “I will hire a post-chaise and leave immediately.”

  Juliana rose to her feet. “You will not hire a post-chaise. If you are so determined then you will take my brother’s.”

  “I cannot do that!” objected Emmaline.

  “You can and you will,” retorted Juliana. “If you think I will allow you to hire a post-chaise at this time of night, you are all about in your head. You must do what you think best, but so shall I. Now, freshen yourself while I go and talk to Noble. Do you need Fanny to assist you?”

  Emmaline shook her head. “No, thank you. The fewer people who know of this the better.”

  Juliana left and Emmaline curled into the chair. She was exhausted, not only from the physical exertions of the morning in taking care of the coachman’s emergency, but also from driving the four-in-hand to and from Epsom.

  Her emotions ebbed and flowed, held her mind in firm determination one moment, doubt the next. She closed her eyes and immediately saw Lucius’ dark face with that wayward lock of hair falling across his brow. How many times had she wanted to reach out and brush that aside, to feel his hair between her fingers? Was it coarse, or soft and silky?

  She could feel his scornful eyes on her even now. Could see their angry glitter. Could see the clenched muscles in his jaw. It seemed like a life time ago when she made up her mind to seduce him and coax him into marriage with her.

  Impatient that Juliana had not yet returned and anxious to leave, Emmaline looked about her for a wrap, spied one thrown across the foot of Juliana’s bed and draped its soft, rich swags around her shoulders. Leaving the bedroom she ran lightly down the front stairs, paused in the hallway outside the library where she first saw Lucius. She stifled a sob and let herself out into the night.

  ***

  Lucius stormed into his club, pushed past the sleepy porter and pounded up the stairs two at a time. His stride carried him into the gentlemen’s lounge, the only light at this late hour provided by a still well stoked fire.

  He came to a halt in front of the hearth, rested his forearm along the mantle and stared into the flames.

  He had thought to gallop his frustrations away. No one saw his wild ride along Rotten Row, or complained at the divots and dirt thrown up in his wake. He only succeeded in tiring his mount and disgusting his groom when he returned the sweat stained animal to its stable.

  His anger with Emmaline had not yet abated. He gritted his teeth and the muscles along his jaw twitched. How dare she commandeer his team? What were her thoughts when she drove into the throng at Epsom? The race and his considerable winnings had dimmed into oblivion as his concern that she should be recognized grew.

  An idea filtered through the fury, formed into a positive thought. Had Rosemary Darnley’s ill-conceived attempt to discredit her prompt Emmaline to throw all caution to the winds? As he considered the possibility, he saw that it might. It was something he would do himself. He rubbed a hand over his face as he realized he had simply compounded his problems.

  “How the devil did I get into this mess?” he muttered.

  A slurred voice answered his query from the gloom beyond the circle of light around the hearth.

  “That you, Avondale? You trying to give a fellow the headache by asking damn fool questions?”

  Lucius spun around, frowned as he recognized the voice. “Skeffington?”

  “It is indeed.” Lord Skeffington hauled himself upright in the deep wing chair he occupied. Firelight glinted off his blonde locks.

  “Why here so late?” Lucius asked, wishing he was alone to indulge his woes and fancies.

  “Foxed,” Lord Skeffington replied with a hiccup. “Couldn’t be bothered to make m’ way home. Brandy?”

  He waved a bottle invitingly. Lucius nodded, sat down on the leather topped fender and ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair. Skeffington reached for a fresh snifter from a tray, splashed brandy into it and handed it to Lucius who lifted it and eyed its contents suspiciously.

  “Congratulations,” he said, his voice as dry as the Epsom dust, “you got most of it in.”

  “Ring for Riley,” Skeffington said. “Order up another bottle. Seems you have nothing better to do than drink the night away and I’m gettin’ m’ second wind.”

  Without removing his moody glance from the amber coloured liquid he swirled around in the snifter, Lucius reached back and tugged on the bell rope.

  “Why are women so bloody irritating, Skeff?”

  It was a comment to which he did not expect a reply, having known since their Oxford days that Lord Skeffington avoided women at all costs, preferring to drink and gamble with his cronies much to his widowed mama’s dismay.

  “Miss Devereux getting under your skin, is she?” Skeffington asked.

  Even in the poor light Lucius could see the slightly mocking grin on the other man’s face. On any other occasion Lucius would have quickly removed it, but Skeffington was too close to the truth.

  “I cannot deny it, and be damned if I know what step to take next.” Lucius pressed the palms of his hands against his temples. How could he have made such an error of judgement? He had Sir Mile’s permission to press his suit, yet his last words to Emmaline were to tell her he never wanted to see her again.

  And that was a lie. He not only wanted to see her again, but see all of her. He wanted her naked in his bed. He wanted to unpin her hair and run his fingers through it. He wanted her, dammit, body and soul.

  An evil cackle drifting from the confines of the wing chair made him look up. Skeffington waved his brandy balloon about his head.

  “I know a cure for what ails you,” he snorted. “Roger yer way through the ton’s most eligible widows. That’ll help you forget Miss Devereux.”

  “The ton’s widows hold no interest for me, Skeff. I know at least half of them too well and none of them have the effect on me as does Miss Devereux. Anyone else I can bed, laugh with and leave, but her.. “

  “Well, with that scandal hanging over her head, you’d do well to drop all connection with her.”

  Lucius drew his brows together in a deep frown. “Is Miss Dev
ereux’s indiscretion on the town already?”

  “On the town already?” Skeffington echoed. “Avondale, where have you been? It’s all the talk this past week that Miss Devereux, or whoever she is, is a murderess.”

  “A what?” Lucius stood up and set his brandy glass on the mantle so firmly he all but cracked it. Skeffington’s words rang in his head, echoed in his ears and left him momentarily lightheaded. Emmaline a murderess? Strong willed though he knew her to be, he would never have considered her capable of such an act. “What did you say?”

  “A murderess,” confirmed Skeffington, slurring the word a little as his head drooped over the snifter he held in one hand while the empty bottle slipped out of the other. “Have it on the best authority.”

  “And whose authority would that be?” Lucius asked. His breath stilled while he awaited Skeffington’s answer.

  “Why Rosemary’s, of course.” Skeffington hiccupped again. “Don’t she know everything and then more?”

  Lucius raked his hand through his hair again.

  “Rosemary.” He spat the name out as if it was a bad taste in his mouth. “I should have known she would not have left the matter alone.”

  “What matter?” Skeffington was busy pulling the cork from a fresh bottle unobtrusively delivered by the night butler.

  “Never mind.” Lucius tossed back the remains of his brandy and set his empty glass on a tray. “I must go.”

  Bleary eyed, Skeffington looked up, but Lucius had already gone. “Odd. Damned odd. Oh well, if the fellow’s fallen into the petticoat line, I’d better drink to him.”

  The night air did no more to cool Lucius’ temper than did his wild ride. He strode the pavements with grim determination, his long legs carrying towards home. Letting himself into his darkened house he went straight to his room.

  Emmaline a murderess?

  It could not be. His boots echoed on the floor boards as he strode to and fro. He considered all he knew of her which, he realized, was very little.

  Yes, he knew that she had witnessed military action and its aftermath in Spain. Could she have been involved in one of those actions, had she needed to defend herself?