Rogue Grooms

by Amanda McCabe

  Emily would be twenty-two now. Once again, he wondered if she was married, if she had grown into the beautiful, glorious woman she promised to be. A lady like that would be an exemplary example for Anjali, an exemplary, passionate wife for any man.

  Would they ever come to meet again?

  Anjali settled back for her nap after her father left her, watching the shadows of the punkah move against her ceiling. She bit her lip as she recalled her papa’s answers when she asked him about a new mama. He was truthful, she was sure—her papa was always truthful. But she was unsure, nonetheless.

  She remembered all the dark-eyed beauties of the town, all the pale English ladies with their bonnets and parasols. Their eyes, whether dark and kohl-rimmed or lightest blue, were wide with sympathy as they looked at Anjali, their lips, some carmine and some shell pink, pursed in coos and murmurs. They patted her head and gave her sweetmeats, whispering all the while, “The poor lokhi mei. Her mother has been gone so very long, and she has no lady to teach her proper behavior!”

  Several of those ladies, so soft and fluttering in their silks and muslins, had their eyes on her papa. They watched him from under their parasols or behind their ivory screens. They were always trying to gain favor with Anjali’s great-grandmother, or even with Anjali herself. But none of them had ever been right for her papa.

  Truth to tell, Anjali had never much missed having a mama. Her own mother had died when Anjali was only little, and she remembered her more as a lovely dream than a real person, a vision of gleaming black hair, a whiff of jasmine perfume, a soft voice calling her a gulpoola mei. For as long as she could truly remember, her papa had been her only parent, and that was fine. Better than fine—it was perfect.

  And she never wanted it to change.

  Chapter Two

  London, Ten Months Later

  Her mother always admonished Emily not to eavesdrop, always said she would not hear anything to her own advantage.

  The dowager duchess was a very sensible woman, Emily knew that and often took her sage advice. But not in this. After all, how else was she to learn anything, advantageous or not? No one told her anything directly. Eavesdropping had often served her well since childhood.

  It served her now, as she leaned against the closed breakfast room door, unabashedly listening to the conversation of her brother Alexander and her sister-in-law, Georgina.

  Emily had been about to open the door and join them in their meal. Then she heard her name, and paused with one hand on the painted porcelain knob.

  “I am worried about Emily, my darling,” Georgina said.

  “Worried about Em?” There was a sharp click of silver on china, as if Alex had abruptly set down his fork. “Why? Is she ill?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. At least not that I am aware of.”

  “Good. I did not think a lady could be ill and still attend two balls, a musicale, and a Venetian breakfast in a twenty-four-hour period.”

  “Perhaps that is what I am worried about,” Georgina murmured.

  “Whatever do you mean, Georgie? Do you suspect she is unhappy about something?”

  There was a soft rustle of silk; Emily imagined Georgina shrugging her shoulders. “She does not appear to be so. She delves into the social whirl of Town with every appearance of enjoyment. But there is something—something not quite right.”

  “Georgie, my love, we have been married for years now, yet I confess I still do not always rightly understand you. Emily dances and smiles, and appears for all the world to be a happy young lady. Yet you are worried,” Alex said, his voice full of fond exasperation.

  Georgina gave a little laugh. “Oh, darling, sometimes I do not rightly understand myself! But I do worry about Emily. This is nearly the end of her third Season, and she has not yet found someone she can esteem enough to marry.”

  “Yes. I sometimes worry about that myself, yet truly, I do not think we have cause for concern at present. You and I were not exactly callow youths when we wed. She has time. And I would not want to see her married to someone she cannot truly love, just because he is suitable or it seems like the proper time.”

  Amen to that, Emily thought fervently. She remembered the parade of suitors over the past three years. Their number had not been insubstantial—her family title was an old one, after all, and she was well-dowered thanks to the fortune Georgina had brought with her to the family. But most of those men were too old or too young, gambling fortune-hunters, merchants seeking a title, widowers wanting a mother for their twelve children.

  There had never been one among them with whom she could make a home and family, whom she could truly love. Love as her mother and father had possessed, or as Alex loved Georgina.

  Sometimes Emily watched them as they danced together at a ball, or walked in the garden. They had eyes for no one else, and were always holding hands or linking arms, completely uncaring that it was not the done thing for married couples to be in love. She watched them as they played with their children, always laughing together. Emily was happy for her brother—truly she was. He deserved his happiness after long years at war, and Georgina had never been anything but the best of sisters to Emily.

  Yet sometimes—only sometimes!—her heart would ache with envy at their romance. When would she find love like that? Would she ever? Or did it not truly exist, except in books and for a fortunate few? If she did find it, would she be brave enough to embrace it, or would she run?

  But she had thought no one noticed these thoughts. She tried so hard to hide those pangs behind the merriment of the Season, filling her time with shopping and soirees. Emily forgot that Georgina was an artist, that her sharp eyes saw even things that were veiled.

  “I would not want to see her wed to someone she does not love, either!” Georgina protested. “I love Emily as my own sister, and I want only to see her happy. If the single life suited her, I would be glad for her to live with us at Fair Oak forever. But I cannot be so selfish. Emily has so much love in her heart. And you have seen daily how wonderful she is with the children.”

  “Yes. I have.” Alex’s tone grew quiet and serious. “So, what shall we do, my love? Send out far and wide for every eligible gentleman to come and present their suit for her?”

  No! Emily’s mind screamed. It was embarrassing enough to be spoken of like a pitiable charity case. She would never want her brother to go barreling about in Society demanding that someone marry her.

  She shuddered at the very thought.

  “Of course not,” Georgina answered. “Don’t be silly, Alex darling. Perhaps she could come to Italy with us this summer? We always meet such interesting and unusual people there. She might encounter someone more to her taste in Venice or Padua.”

  “You do have a point, Georgie. Emily did not lead the life of a sheltered young miss for many years. She is too intelligent and shrewd for all these London fribbles. Perhaps a change of scene is needed.”

  Emily gave a silent, humorless laugh. No, she was not as all the other misses in white muslin making their bows at Court and Almack’s. During the years before her brother Damien’s death, while Alex was away fighting in Spain and Damien was gambling away almost every cent of the Kenton fortune, it was Emily who kept Fair Oak going. She scraped together harvests and saw to it that the roof was patched, the fields plowed, the tenants looked after. She took care of her mother, who was confined to a Bath chair after a hunting accident. She had seen things, been responsible for things, that few young ladies of twenty-two ever were.

  Those years had been difficult. They had hardened her heart and soul in some ways, but she was also proud of them. Proud that she had managed to keep their home together, and upheld the honor of their name when Damien had been doing his damnedest to destroy it. The Kenton name, the title of Duke of Wayland, was one of the proudest in England, and Emily would do it all again to keep it that way.

  But it did not make the search for a soul mate easy. Men wanted soft, gentle wives, who embroidered and san
g and laughed quietly. Not wives who could keep farm accounts like a bailiff and scythe hay under the autumn sun. Not wives who rode and walked quickly and spoke their minds.

  Emily almost laughed aloud. Those hard days were gone now. Since Alex married Georgina and restored their grand position, Emily had only to enjoy herself. And she did enjoy herself. She loved dancing, and shopping without worrying over what she was spending. She loved riding in the park, and playing with her niece and nephew, and buying her mother lovely little gifts. She had a fine life, and she was a great fool to feel even an ounce of self-pity.

  But Italy would indeed make a nice change. Perhaps there, under the warm sun, she could breathe again.

  Emily pushed open the breakfast room door and breezed in, as if she had not a care in the world. And as if she had definitely not been eavesdropping.

  “Good morning, Alex, Georgie,” she said, kissing them each on the cheek before she sat down in her place and reached for the rack of toast. “I trust you both slept well?”

  As she spread marmalade on the triangle of bread, she noticed the two of them exchange a surreptitious glance over the table. She took a large bite to stifle her chuckles.

  “Very well, thank you, Emily. And yourself? You danced every dance at the Michaelson rout. you must have been very tired,” Georgina said, passing her a platter of eggs.

  “Indeed. I slept like the proverbial baby. I also enjoyed the theater last night; didn’t you? Mr. Kean was in fine form. I do not think I have seen a finer Macbeth.” Emily sipped at her tea, and gave Georgina an innocent smile.

  “Quite, my dear,” answered Georgina. “Would you care for kippers?”

  “There was an account of the play in this morning’s Times,” Alex said, and handed the folded sheaf of newspaper to her. “It says you were wearing a gown of coquelicot muslin with white Vandyke trim. And here I thought you were wearing red with some sort of jagged ribbons. I am not very à la mode, am I, Em?”

  Emily laughed at his teasing, and skimmed over the account of the play and its spectators. “They liked Georgina’s silk demi-turban, as well. How gratifying. What do they say about the Hurst ball? I was sorry we missed it, but I did promise Lady Michaelson first.”

  “Oh, it was bound to be quite flat,” Georgina said, with a dismissive wave of her teacup. “Mrs. Hurst has declared she can no longer serve ‘intoxicating beverages’ since that dreadful Lord Carteret destroyed her ballroom last year after getting foxed on her husband’s brandy. So there was to be no champagne at all, only tea and lemonade. As insipid as Almack’s, I vow.”

  “Heaven forfend,” Alex said in mock horror.

  Emily read over the particulars of the ball. It sounded quite as insipid as Georgina described. She started to turn the page, when another headline caught her attention.

  SIR CHARLES INNIS TO DONATE THE FABLED STAR OF INDIA TO THE NEW MERCER MUSEUM.

  The shock of those words was like a dash of cold water to her face. Emily gasped aloud.

  “What is it, Emily dear?” Georgina asked solicitously. “Some unpleasant news?”

  “Oh, no,” Emily said quickly. “It is just—I swallowed my tea too quickly.” She drew the paper up to cover her expression, and read quickly.

  It had been many years since the Star passed from their family to Sir Charles Innis and his wife, yet Emily recalled it as if it was only yesterday. There had been a most dreadful scene.

  Emily’s father was dead for several years by then, yet Lord Darlinghurst had never sent for the jewel. Nor did his family in India, after his passing. It resided in the library safe at Fair Oak, a silent reminder of their old friendship with their departed neighbors. Emily had loved to think of it there, a shimmering blue link to David and a faraway land she would never see. She dreamed of the day she and David would meet again, and she could give the Star safely back into his hands. It took her away from her everyday life of looking after the estate and her mother and drew her into a dreamworld.

  Until the afternoon Damien came riding hell-for-leather up to Fair Oak and took the sapphire from the safe.

  Damien did not come often to Fair Oak. He detested the country, and much preferred the excitements of Town. All the better to squander every shilling that was not entailed, of course. The country boasted no gaming hells or brothels. Emily had been only sixteen at the time, but she was already fully aware of all these matters. There was no escaping the whispers of the servants and the neighbors, her mother’s weeping despair.

  So, that morning, Emily was shocked to see him riding down the drive at Fair Oak. She ran out of her chamber and halfway down the grand staircase, just in time to watch him tear into the library. He had once been as handsome as Alex, tall and dark-haired, but by then he was ravaged by his debauchery. He was heavy with excess fat, his eyes red-rimmed and his jaw slack. He was covered with mud from his wild ride.

  Emily’s mother, confined to her chair, shouted at him from the doorway of the drawing room. “What do you think you are doing, Damien? Get out of your father’s library this moment! You have no right to be in there.”

  “It is my library now, Mother,” he shouted back. “As is everything in it. I am the duke now, in case you have not noticed. So, I will thank you to be silent.”

  Emily’s mother gasped in outrage at his harshness. Emily, her heart full of her own white-hot anger, dashed into the library to see him take the Star from the safe. For one instant, she saw the rich glow of its blue fire—then it disappeared inside Damien’s greatcoat.

  “What are you doing?” she cried out. “How dare you? Put that back this very instant!”

  He glanced back over his shoulder at her, his eyes full of bitter weariness. “So, you are becoming a harridan, too, Emily. Just like Mother.”

  Emily ignored the insult, and stalked closer into the room, her hands curled into tight fists at her side. Her nails bit into her palms, yet she scarcely noticed the pain. “That does not belong to you. It is Lord Darlinghurst’s.”

  “He hasn’t been back for it in all these years, now has he? That means it is mine, to do with as I like. And I like to sell it.”

  With that, he left the house, the Star in his possession. Emily’s screams and shouts as she chased him down the drive had no impact at all. She never saw the sapphire again; the next she and her mother heard, it had been sold to the rich merchant Innis, who was a great collector of exotic items from other lands.

  Now he in turn was selling it, all these years later. Or rather, donating it to the Mercer Museum for their gemstone collection. Emily quickly read over the details, then scanned them again. The Star, which had not been seen since Sir Charles Innis purchased it, would be displayed at a grand ball in his London mansion. Then, after being examined by numerous gemological experts to confirm its authenticity, it would make its ceremonious way to the museum.

  “This is terrible!” Emily exclaimed aloud, before she could stop it.

  “What is terrible, Em?” Alex asked.

  Emily lowered the paper to find him and Georgina watching her intently. She had to tell them something. Anything but the full truth.

  Alex had been in Spain when the drama of the Star played out, and, as far as Emily could recall, he knew nothing of its history. She told him a shortened version of the tale as quickly as she could.

  She did not tell him of that other scene in the Fair Oak library, the one that took place almost a year after the day Damien snatched the Star away. Indeed, she hardly liked to recall it herself.

  Later, when Emily made her excuses to Alex and Georgina and escaped back to her bedchamber, she collapsed onto her chaise. She stared up at the ceiling, which had been whimsically painted by Georgina herself, but she did not see the cavorting gods and cupids against their blue sky. All she could see in her mind, replaying over and over again, was the day she learned the truth about what happened to the Star.

  She had not thought about that day, or the sapphire, in a very long time. At first it was too painful to recall how s
he, in her helplessness, had betrayed her friendship with David. Later, there were so many other things to worry about. The whole ugly story was hidden deep in her heart—a shameful secret. Now it was returned to haunt her.

  She rolled onto her side, and reached inside the bodice of her morning gown to pull out her Navaratna ring, suspended on its long gold chain. She always wore it there, hidden from the world but close to her heart, keeping her safe. Holding the circlet tightly in her hand, she closed her eyes, seeing again the day Damien returned to Fair Oak after stealing the jewel. He was in a terrible condition, his skin gray and clammy, his hair long and tangled, his eyes sunk deep in purple circles. He was so drunk he reeked of it from every pore.

  He died only a few months later, but she did not know then how truly ill he was. She only knew that she had to hide him from her mother. Dorothy was weak herself, unable to leave her chair. She did not need to see her eldest son in such a pitiful state.

  Emily helped him into the library, watched him collapse onto the leather settee. As she pulled off his muddy boots and drew a blanket up over his bloated shoulders, he caught her hand in his.

  “Emily,” he said raspily, his breath foul on her face. “You have grown into a pretty lady. If you went to London, you could marry a rich man, raise our fortunes again.”

  Oh, yes, Emily thought sarcastically. She would go to Town in her mended gowns and old bonnets, with her sun-browned face and calloused hands, and snare a rich man so her brother could gamble and whore some more. In the meantime, her mother would be alone and the crops would wither.

  But she just gave him a curt nod, and turned to leave him in his disgusting state. He caught her hand again, holding her where she was. His breath rasped in his throat. She tried to pull away, only to freeze when she felt the cold press of coins in her palm.

  She stared down at them. It was gold—more money than she had seen in a year. “Where did you get this?” she gasped. “At the gaming tables?”