His Dark Enchantress (Books We Love Regency Romance)

by Chatham, Victoria

  Yes, he knew she was headstrong – heavens, had he not just witnessed that today? She was mercury one moment, missish the next, a ploy that did not become her. What was her purpose?

  Yes, she could be sharp and argumentative yet he saw in her a soft femininity, a caring for others that made him want to pull her into his arms, to hold her and protect her.

  What would she feel like? Would her hair tickle his chin? Would she still smell of gardenias and honeysuckle? Would she want him?

  That idea shook him to the core. His enjoyment of women never included what they might need, what they might want of him other than his money and to be seen to have made a conquest of a titled member of the ton.

  Damnation, why couldn’t she have been just another chit?

  CHAPTER 17

  Lucius, at first unable to sleep and choosing a fireside chair rather than his bed, woke with a start, looked at the clock and swore long and loudly.

  Leaping to his feet he saw that his valet, Everett, had laid out fresh clothes on the end of his bed. Two strides across the floor took him to his washstand, where he filled a large decorated porcelain bowl with water from the matching ewer sitting inside it.

  He stripped off yesterday’s shirt, plunged his face into the bowl and splashed water over his head. The cold water shocked him fully awake and, gasping and shivering, he reached for a towel and quickly dried himself. There was no time to shave, no time to dress his hair which he raked his hands through before tying back with a leather thong.

  Not stopping to view the result, he continued downstairs to his breakfast room. The serving chargers on the sideboard steamed invitingly but he ignored them and instead poured a cup of coffee. Cup in hand, he went to the doorway and called for Mr. Tubb.

  “Is something wrong, milord?”

  “Nothing,” growled Lucius. “Have Noble bring my curricle round, if you please.”

  Tubb went to do his bidding as Juliana descended the stairs.

  “Why are you bellowing?” She surveyed her brother’s haphazard toilette with suspicion.

  “I was not bellowing,” returned Lucius as he poured himself a second cup of coffee.

  “Oh, forgive me.” Juliana sat down at the table. “From the first floor landing it rather sounded like an enraged bull was loose in the house. I was fearful for my life.”

  “Stop it,” commanded Lucius, in no mood for her banter.

  “I suspect you are feeling guilty for the way you treated Emmaline yesterday, but there is no need to take it out on anyone else. A cup of coffee, if you please, Lucius.”

  Lucius looked at her askance, but she returned a clear, cool gaze and he simply shook his head.

  “This is why we have servants,” he grumbled, but did as she bid.

  She took her first sip and he eyed her warily, knowing she was building up to a revelation he would not want to hear. Their upbringing had been more lenient than most of their station, with loving parents who engendered an uncommon closeness between their children. For all his undoubted position as head of his household, it was easy for Lucius to fall back into the close comfort of sharing confidences with his sister, despite the difference in their ages.

  “Go on,” he said with a sigh. “I know you are about to upbraid me for my behaviour last evening.”

  “You were quite disgraceful, and you know it.” Juliana carefully replaced her coffee cup in its saucer. She would very much have liked to show him her frustration by throwing it at him. “Your orders to meet you at Epsom could not have been met if not for Emmaline. She took complete control of the whole disaster, looked after poor Mr. Tockington, sorted out your precious horses and delivered your equipage to you safe and sound. And,” Juliana quivered with suppressed anger as she got to her feet and paced around the table, “instead of being thankful you, dearest Lucius, gave her an unmitigated set-down and told her you never wanted to see her again.”

  “Was I to know she was a first class whip?” Lucius stood in front of Juliana, his face as angry as hers. “For all I knew she could have killed you all. And her escapade could have ruined her reputation if not for . . .”

  “Rosemary Darnley’s lies,” concluded Juliana. “So you have heard that on dit, have you?”

  Lucius nodded. “Last night at my club. Skeffington says it has been the talk of the town for the past week.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “That at least is to your credit but there is something else you should know.” Juliana clasped her hands.

  “What?”

  Lucius’ tone hardly encouraged confidence but Juliana took her seat once more.

  “William has asked me to marry him and I have said yes.”

  “What?” Lucius’ pale face turned dark with anger. “How dare he propose to you without my permission?“

  “Because each time he tried to approach you, the only thought in your mind was for Emmaline,” said Juliana, her cheeks aflame.

  Lucius thought back to the times when Beamish had hesitantly put himself forward. Juliana was right, he thought. His mind had been filled with Emmaline and nothing else.

  “No wonder he has been haunting my house of late,” he said with resignation. “Is this what you want Juliana?”

  “Yes, it is.” Juliana looked up at him. “I know you and Caroline would have preferred a titled suitor for me, but none of those who have offered inspired any passion in me.”

  “But why the hurry? Why could he have not waited until I returned to Town?”

  “Because he is being sent to India and I am going with him. But that isn’t what I have to tell you. .”

  “There’s more?”

  “Just listen, Lucius!” Juliana clenched her fists. “While William and I were discussing our future, Lady Darnley and Olivia arrived. She jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion, in that our announcement had not yet been made because you had not made yours.”

  The import of Juliana’s words slowly sank into Lucius’ befuddled mind.

  “You mean, after all her meddling, she still thinks I am going to offer for that simpering child?”

  “I am very much afraid that is the case.” Juliana found her appetite quite gone as she considered the enormity of their situation. “If you love Emmaline, you have to go after her, even though it may now be too late. She intended to return to Devon immediately and I know she has no expectation of seeing you.”

  Before either could say more, Tubb announced his Lordship’s curricle was waiting and would there be anything else?

  “Have Edward fill a purse,” Lucius said tersely. He turned to Juliana. “I will not return until I have found Emmaline. Please try to keep within the bounds of propriety while I am gone and stay away from Rosemary Darnley.”

  Juliana nodded, although his last instruction was entirely unnecessary. She had no intention of having anything to do with the wretched woman. She watched Lucius don his morning coat, cram his hat on his head and stride down the hallway and out of his house, all without a backward glance. Once set on a course of action he would not, she knew, be deterred.

  At Montpelier Street he jumped down from his curricle, raced up the steps to the front door, grasped the curved knocker and rapped it as hard as he could. The fading sounds of his insistent knocking were replaced with those of slow footsteps. The door swung open and Giles stood to one side, accusation plain in his eyes, as Lucius walked past him.

  Juliana had been quite correct. An array of boxes, portmanteaus and valises stacked in the hallway awaited the carrier and silently announced Emmaline’s departure.

  There was, however, nothing silent about Mrs. Babbidge as she advanced towards him.

  “Well don’t just stand there, you great gawp,” she blurted, with no regard for his station. “She took a hackney to Hounslow and planned to travel on by stage or post-chaise.”

  A grin suddenly split Lucius’ grim face as he realized Mrs. Babbidge’s intent. The dear woman had rightly interpreted his sud
den arrival.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” she continued. “You’ll have your work cut out to woo and win that one now.”

  Lucius leaned in and planted a swift kiss on her cheek.

  “I know it, Mrs. Babbidge, but I do thank you,” he said, and ran to his curricle.

  ***

  Emmaline rested her head against the window frame, thankful for the corner seat she had managed to claim in the crowded stagecoach. Dressed in her shabbiest clothes, her cheeks dirtied a little and a wide-brimmed bonnet pulled down as much as possible to hide her face, no one paid much attention to her.

  Pressed on her left by a large farmer, she sank further into her corner and remained mostly unseen by her fellow passengers. The gentleman sitting opposite her tried to draw her into conversation but, after being subjected to her mute nods and one syllable answers, soon left her alone.

  If not for her thoughts of Baymoor House, her grandfather and Lucius, Emmaline would possibly have slept a little. Baymoor itself would not have changed, its grey stone walls withstanding all winds and weather as it had done for a century and more.

  Her grandfather, she knew, had been in a decline for some time before he’d insisted that she go to London. How much worse might his condition be now? And then there was Lucius. Did he have any regrets? Might he miss her just a little? Her heart weighed heavy just thinking of him.

  She remained awake through Staines, Bagshot, and Hertford-bridge. Basingstoke, Overton, Andover all slipped by in a blur.

  At each stop, with passengers clambering in and out of the coach, Emmaline avoided being jostled by sitting firmly in her seat. But, with the unsavoury smell of unwashed bodies and stale clothing, the constant noise of clattering hooves and rumbling wheels, she was almost comatose with fatigue.

  She endured the changes at Salisbury, Woodyates and Blandford, but at Dorchester she knew she must stop and rest. She had not eaten since she and Noble had racked up at the inn at Epsom. There she barely managed to choke down a small piece of cheese and a crust of bread and the tea she drank in Juliana’s room was a distant memory to her parched throat.

  As she entered the inn she paused, trembling, and placed her hand on the door frame to steady herself.

  “What’s this then?”

  Her vision wavered but Emmaline focused on the large figure of the lady blocking her way.

  “I beg pardon, ma’am, but I do need to sit down.”

  “You in the family way?” demanded the apparition.

  “No, of course not.” The question snapped Emmaline upright. “I merely require rest. A bed for the night will suffice and I am sure I will be quite well to continue my journey tomorrow.”

  “And how do you suppose to pay your way?”

  “What?” Flagging again Emmaline failed to comprehend the question asked of her.

  “Can you pay?”

  “Naturally I can pay.” Emmaline fumbled in her reticule but before her fingers could close around the coin she sought, her vision darkened and she crumpled to her knees.

  People pushed past, both hurrying in and out through the door, stepping around her. Someone’s box banged her head and she gasped and clutched at her bonnet. She vaguely heard the coachman’s final call for his passengers. Hooves struck cobbles. A blare from the coaching horn announced their imminent departure and still Emmaline slumped against the door.

  Odd sounding footsteps echoed on the stone floor and she heard the landlady’s strident voice again.

  “See? Told you she collapsed. Fine thing, and this a clean, reputable house.”

  Emmaline felt a firm hand beneath her elbow, another at her waist.

  “Come along, miss, you can’t stay here. Ups-a-daisy now.”

  Someone hauled her upright and helped her along a stone flagged passageway, her feet registering this information from the irregular seams of the flags. Through a doorway. Warmth. A padded seat beneath her, a firm settle at her back.

  “Drink this, miss.”

  A man’s voice floated somewhere above her. Someone wrapped her fingers around a mug, its contents warm and spicy. She inhaled its aroma and sipped, swallowed and sipped again.

  Her spinning senses slowed, her breathing steadied, her vision cleared momentarily then swam again as her eyes welled with tears.

  “Thank you,” she said and looked up.

  As the man sitting opposite saw her face, his mouth fell open.

  “Miss Em?” he queried. “Gawd love us, I never thought to see you again, and that’s a fact. Martha, come here!”

  Still trying to regain her senses, Emmaline stared back at the man. She recognized the round face and thatch of straw coloured hair. But from where? Sure that she knew him, she could not immediately recall his name.

  Then it came to her. Corporal Jones. From the hospital at Salamanca where it had been necessary to remove his left leg below the knee. No wonder the footsteps she’d heard sounded odd. She smiled as full recognition came to her.

  “Oh, I am so glad you are alive,” was all she could think to say.

  “That makes two of us, Miss, though I don’t think I would have made it if not for you.”

  Corporal Jones’ wife stomped into the parlour, displeasure clear on her face, arms crossed in front of her ample, apron covered waist.

  “She can be on the next stage out of here. I’m not having her sort under my roof,” she declared.

  “She’s staying as long as she wants,” Corporal Jones returned. “This is the young lady I told you about, Martha. This is Miss Emmaline, from the hospital.”

  “Please, Corporal, I want no dissension.” Emmaline stood up. The room wavered but she caught the edge of the settle and steadied herself. “If your wife wishes me to go then I will.”

  “I’m a Corporal no more, Miss. Just plain Jonesy now,” he told her, “and you’re going nowhere until you are good and ready. You look fair fagged and that’s the truth. I’ll get you some refreshment while our maid, Lucy, makes up a bed for you.”

  The concern in his brown eyes warmed Emmaline. She looked at Mrs. Jones who, only slightly mollified and whose lips still pursed with disapproval, nodded. Sinking down onto the settle once more, Emmaline closed her eyes.

  “Did you really help all those soldiers?” Mrs. Jones asked.

  Emmaline opened her eyes again, knowing that to nod her head would only make it swim more. “Yes.”

  “But you’re just a slip of a thing.”

  “So were many of the soldiers,” Emmaline told her. “Just boys some of them.”

  Jonesy came back with a tray of bread, meat and cheese.

  “It might not be what you’re used to, Miss, but ale can be very reviving.” He set a foaming mug on the table. “Best the house can offer.”

  Emmaline smiled at him. “I’m sure it will be splendid.”

  She ate the food placed before her, drank most of the ale and thanked her hosts, who still hovered near.

  “Lucy will take you up to your room,” Jonesy said. “It’s the farthest from the yard so the bustle when the next coach comes in shouldn’t disturb you too much. Can’t do anything about that yard of tin though. Them coachmen make a fair old racket with that.”

  Emmaline thanked him and his wife again and followed the maid up the stairs. A commotion in the yard caught her attention but Lucy opened the bedroom door for her, quite diverting her thoughts.

  “In here, Miss.”

  The room into which she stepped was clean, the linen smelled of lavender, cushions filled a comfortable looking chair beside the bed. The window overlooked a field where cows grazed in knee high grass. She crossed the floor and dropped her reticule and bonnet on top of a dresser.

  “Do you need any assistance, Miss?” Lucy hovered by the end of the bed.

  “No, thank you.”

  Lucy bobbed a curtsy.

  “I’ll take the warming pan. Don’t let it be too long before you slip between the sheets, or it’ll be cold again,” she warned. “Is there anything else
I can get you?”

  “A glass of lemonade or barley water would be most appreciated,” Emmaline said.

  Lucy nodded and, armed with the warming pan, left the room.

  Downstairs a door banged open and was quickly followed by raised voices. Emmaline, obviously not the only unwelcome guest, clearly heard Mrs. Jones remonstrating with the newcomer. The angry voices rose and fell followed by a slam that all but shook the house as the door shot into its frame.

  “What’s going on downstairs?” Emmaline asked when Lucy returned with her beverage.

  “Oh, some toff in a hurry like they usually are,” Lucy said. “Promised the grooms a guinea apiece if they can change his horses in under three minutes. Have a good rest, Miss.”

  “Thank you, Lucy. I shall.” Emmaline quickly undressed and got into bed. She relished the island of warmth left by the pan of coals, wriggled her toes into it and began to relax. Pulling the sheets up to her chin she snuggled her head into the pillow.

  Drowsy now, she again heard voices from below stairs. Then just one voice.

  A voice she knew well.

  A voice as hard edged as a knife.

  A voice that dropped to a silken whisper and stirred her emotions to boiling point.

  She knew she was not yet asleep so could not be dreaming.

  But dreaming she must be, for how else to explain the fact the voice she heard belonged to Lucius?

  CHAPTER 18

  “Where is she?”

  Lucius, travel stained and grim faced, brushed past Partridge as soon as the door opened and made his way into the parlour. The ashes were cold in the hearth, the table bare, no sign of the dogs or Sir Miles.

  “Who do you mean, milord?” Partridge looked puzzled.

  “Miss Emmaline.” Lucius said. “Has she not arrived?”

  Partridge shook his head as his wife joined him.

  “Keep your voices down,” Peggy hissed. “I don’t want Sir Miles upset. What’s going on here?”

  Lucius turned to her. “Miss Emmaline left London and I followed with no more than three hours delay at the most. I was sure she would have come here directly.”