A Seductive Lady Rescued From Flames (Historical Regency Romance)

by Emily Honeyfield

  Now, it felt like a death sentence.

  “Here she comes,” Rose muttered. She swiped her fist across her right cheek, seemingly trying to fix up the mess she’d crafted of herself. “She has death in her eyes.”

  Rose was entirely correct. Ernest’s eyes switched up to his young fiancée’s, finding them heavy and somber, entirely in contrast with the rest of her appearance, which was like a fine dessert. She bounced toward Rose and Ernest, her smile fixed, and then perched herself in front of them, placing her hands at her waist.

  “Ernest, it’s been far too long since we had a dance. Don’t you agree?”

  Rose shifted, tilting her elbow into her brother’s side. Although Rose was a good thirteen years Ernest’s junior, it seemed she still had a firm grip on his mental state. But Ernest’s hands were tied. He felt the burning eyes of countless members of the party, watching him, casting judgment. It was essential that he project a healthy image. He knew Grace was right about this, if only this.

  Together, Ernest and Grace embarked upon the dance floor once more. The air felt heavy between them, despite the lightness of their feet.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Grace finally uttered, as though she’d been bursting with it.

  “Rose was ill. As her older brother—and her only remaining family member, I really felt that I—”

  “Oh, goodness, Ernest,” Grace blurted. “How long are you going to go on with this endless tirade? It’s a tragedy your father died, yes. But he wouldn’t wish you to linger on with such sadness. Don’t you remember when I found you, weeks after his death? You had whittled yourself down to nothing. You looked wretched, just days from the grave. But I reminded you of what had always been said about us. I gave you something to live for. Always remember that.”

  Ernest’s lips parted. He felt hungry with the desire to tell her just how little he felt for her, that he’d regretted falling into this relationship nearly every day since it had begun. He felt faced with an impossibly grave future, one of glittering balls and uppity discussions and—worst of all—words of disdain toward his favourite human, Rose.

  “Did you manage to meet Lord Hayward yet?” Grace asked then.

  “I don’t believe so,” Ernest returned, cursing himself for his inner weakness.

  “Oh, you absolutely must!” Grace spat back. “He’s incredibly rich, you know. He informed me that he worked frequently with your father when they were in their 20s and 30s, before losing touch for a bit. He says he’d loved to meet with you, to discuss how you could work together in the future. Isn’t that wonderful, darling? You can make these old connections back. For the good of us.”

  “I really care only for the good of the earldom,” Ernest said. “We have enough money for ourselves, darling.”

  The word ‘darling’ felt almost mocking in his ears. He marvelled at how easy it was to fling it off his tongue, directing it toward someone he felt in increasing increments was a stranger.

  After this next dance, Grace slipped her slim arm through his and directed them back toward Lord Hayward, muttering that it was essential for the conversation to happen now, rather than later. “He’ll be terribly insulted if you don’t make an effort, darling.”

  As Ernest and Grace swept through the crowd, Ernest’s gaze was again drawn to his sister, who’d found her own collection of tittering teenagers to giggle with. Of course, her own eyes looked a bit hollow, and her face powder remained caked oddly across her cheeks and forehead. She gave Ernest a strange look, her nostrils flared.

  Ernest forced himself through yet another round of drivel-conversation, then found himself in another. His energy depleted, he forced his shoulders back all the same, letting out raucous laughter at all the proper times. Grace seemed to feed off this energy, piping up with compliments regarding Ernest’s ability to lead.

  “Always such a stunning man. We grew up together, you know,” she offered. “My father and his father were the very best of friends. How many blissful summer days I spent at the Bannerman estate! Ernest was five years older than me, and thus perfectly in-line to pick fun at me, if he so chose. But he never did. Once, I fell off a horse, smashing my arm across a rock. You should have seen it. I was perhaps 13 years old, an absolute mess. I thought surely I was going to die. But Ernest arrived seconds later, lifting me up and carrying me back to the house. In that moment, I felt sure of it—I would marry this man one day.”

  Throughout this story, Ernest’s heart dipped lower in his chest. He hadn’t a single memory of such an event. He glanced across Grace’s arms, trying to note any sign of once-breakage, yet nothing revealed itself.

  It came to him, now: had Grace possibly made up the entire tale?

  Once they retreated from this group, Ernest led Grace to the side of the room and leaned in to whisper, inhaling her perfume. “Did that actually happen, Grace? I don’t seem to remember.”

  She let out a twinkling laugh. “Darling, of course not. It’s only that these people need some sort of story to cling onto. Don’t you want the kind of story that people will tell to one another after the ball? The kind that shows you to be the passionate, caring, strong man… And the one that shows me to be the one who pined after you for years…?”

  “I thought you said you did pine after me for years,” Ernest reminded her, his throat tight. He needed a drink of water terribly. The music seemed louder and more harried, as though they were falling into a type of nightmare.

  “Darling, if we’re going to be married, I’m going to need you to understand how and when best to lie,” Grace whispered. She tapped a long, slender finger against her nose and arched her brow.

  Everything within Ernest’s body felt turned to ice.

  Just then, Grace’s eyes flashed toward the far end of the crowd. She sniffed, her perfect lips turning down. “I can’t very well believe Margaret would wear something like that,” she ventured, speaking about a girl she’d been friends with since she’d been a girl, Ernest knew. “Look at her. She’s coming this way. Surely, she wants to ride the coattails of my success. And I’ll be sure to tell her that would have been possible, if only she’d looked into a mirror.”

  Grace shifted, batting her lashes toward Ernest. “Darling, you know that will never be a problem with you and I, don’t you? I will always strive for the latest and best fashion. I will work tirelessly to ensure that I look the part of your wife, the countess. It’s quite good we found one another, don’t you think? What marvellous partners we will be.”

  When Margaret appeared before them, Grace’s demeanour changed entirely. She tapped two kisses upon Margaret’s cheeks, falling into glossy conversation. Ernest fell back. His collar felt tight across his neck, making it difficult for him to breathe. How could he possibly face life with this woman? He spun round and stretched his legs toward the enormous foyer, which echoed with the glitzy voices of the London elite. Once in the entry, he discovered his sister once more, her arms crossed over her chest.

  She glowered at him. “I really think it’s time for us to go,” she muttered.

  “Grace thinks it’s essential that we remain,” Ernest countered, sensing the lacklustre nature of his own voice. “She thinks we have to put our best foot forward.”

  “Whatever Grace thinks is quite evil, don’t you agree?” Rose’s nostrils flared.

  Ernest’s lips parted. As he stood, waiting for something, anything to fall from his mouth, a group of friends from his younger days approached—Lord Marvin Cottrill, Lord Adam Collingsworth, and Lord Peter Ellington. Looking at them was like looking at a memory. Their swagger, their charm reflected old days lost in gardens and moors, riding too quickly on horseback.

  “Well, if it isn’t the new earl!” Marvin called out, smacking his hand across Ernest’s shoulder. “Quite handsome, this one, don’t you agree, everyone?”

  “Quite,” Adam confirmed, his tone mocking. “I only trust a handsome earl. Why follow anyone who isn’t exceedingly good-looking?” />
  “You’re all ridiculous,” Ernest said.

  “And look at little Rosie here, all grown up!” Peter added. He reached forward, pretending to grip Rose’s cheek. She let out a playful shriek, just as she’d done when they’d been younger men and she’d been eight or nine years old.

  “Don’t you dare! I’m a proper lady,” she reminded them.

  “I didn’t realize fourteen meant proper lady these days,” Adam retorted.

  “Excuse me, Adam, but I’m fifteen years old,” Rose scoffed. “I demand more respect than this.”

  “All right, all right. Fifteen. I suppose that puts you over the mark.”

  “And when are we going to properly meet the future countess, Ernest?” Peter asked.

  “You’ve met her before,” Rose insisted. “She’s been marching around our estate since she was a girl, like she owned the place.”

  “Of course, I remember the snide Grace Bragg,” Marvin said. “Always so beautiful, though. She could truly get me to do anything.”

  “Perhaps she’s the new earl, hey?” Adam offered, digging his elbow into Ernest’s side.

  “Oh! There she is,” Marvin said, his voice hushed.

  Again, Ernest felt his heart dip. He spun round to see Grace diving through the crowd in the foyer, her eyes burning with ill humour. When she arrived, she lent each of them a false, too-sweet smile. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said. “Wonderful to see you again.”

  “Lady Bragg,” the men echoed back, bowing their heads.

  The air felt suddenly sterile, void of emotion. Ernest swept his hand across his black curls, willing himself forward to another year, another life. He felt the heaviness of his fresh title stretched across his shoulders. How could he possibly continue, forced down a path that felt entirely meaningless?

  “Darling, if you don’t ask me for a final dance before the evening is through, I will be beside myself with sorrow,” Grace said then, spinning her head toward him, her tongue flicking about like a lizard’s.

  Ernest felt himself churned into a cycle that hadn’t a recognizable cause and effect. “Very well, darling,” he agreed. “One more dance.”

  Chapter 2

  An hour, or perhaps a small infinity later, Ernest, Rose, and Grace piled into Ernest’s carriage, with a plan to drop Grace off at the Bragg estate before the siblings skirted the rest of their way home. For a moment, all was silent except the horse’s hooves clopping across the wild night. Ernest felt Grace’s emotions stirring, like the wind before a storm. Rose held his eyes for a moment on the other side of the carriage, seemingly agreeing. Something wretched was about to happen.

  “I really don’t know why you waste your time with those creatures,” Grace blurted. She dropped her head against the back of the carriage, altering her ladylike posture to one that seemed callous and sloppy.

  “What are you talking about?” Ernest asked.

  “You know. Marvin. Adam. What’s the third one again? Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Those men, they’re a part of your past, now, Ernest. It’s not as though they’re going to help you strive to become what you’re meant to be.”

  “And what is that, exactly?” Ernest asked. His blood squirted past his ears, making his pulse a sombre, loud drumbeat. “Those men, I’ve known them since I was a child. I can’t very well not speak with them when I—”

  “It’s only that you’re meant to speak with the others at the ball. The ones who actually wish to propel you toward a better future. The ones who recognize that you, as an earl, are beneficial for their careers, as well. I tried endlessly to put you in line with the proper people at the ball, and each time, you resisted.” Grace flashed her palm toward Rose, stuttering. “Once, I find you consoling your little sister, here, as though you don’t have to do that endlessly at home. Rose, I recognize you’re young. But what your brother must do allows him very little time for what you need. You must grow up.”

  “Incredible,” Rose cut in, sniffing. “Our father was entirely knowledgeable. A beautiful soul. And yet when he looked at you, it’s as though—”

  “What is that, darling?” Grace interrupted, her shrill voice bursting through Rose’s softer one.

  “Oh, nothing. Only that it’s funny what people miss, if they don’t look closely enough,” Rose said.

  “That’s precisely what I mean about Ernest at the ball,” continued Grace. “He simply isn’t looking hard enough at the strategy he should be incorporating to ensure his career is sound. I’m glad you agree, Rose.”

  “I have a feeling we’ll be agreeing about a great deal over the years, Grace,” Rose said. “I look forward to many years just like it.”

  “I’ll improve at socializing, Grace,” Ernest assured her, trying to make himself stronger, surer. “You know I’ve been introverted for much of my life. It’s going to take time—”

  But as he spoke, the carriage came to a staggering, sudden halt. Grace nearly flung forward. Her curls flashed through the air as she gripped Ernest’s knee, holding herself upright. Rose spun round to peer out the window just beside the driver’s seat. She blinked into the darkness, then asked, “What is it, Max?”

  “Seems to be a bit of a jam, Lady Bannerman,” the driver hollered back.

  “Any reason you can see?” Ernest asked.

  “Long line of carriages up ahead,” he said. “Far as the eye. But up yonder, something flickering—reckon it could be a fire, although I can’t be certain.”

  “A fire?” Ernest bolted upright and forced himself out of the carriage, splashing his boots into the lingering puddles that lined the long country road.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Grace demanded. “Get back in here this instant. I’m sure it won’t be long before we can pass.”

  But Ernest no longer heard her. He peered into the distance, past the long line of carriages. The air further down was thicker, flickering, as though it was filled with dense smoke. There, no stars no twinkled. Only darkness echoed back.

  Ernest tapped forward and peered up at Max. “Do you think we could whip around this line and get up there to whatever’s burning? I want to help out if I can.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Grace hollered from the back.

  “I don’t think so, sir,” Max admitted. He tilted his head to the side, assessing the road. “There’s a bit of a dip off to the side of the carriages, and I reckon I could flip ours if I’m not careful. The mud round here is pretty deep.”

  “This is absolutely stupid. Just get back inside, Ernest. I’m sure it will be cleared in no time. And it’s far later than you think,” Grace continued. “You’re probably exhausted. You’re going to destroy yourself.”

  For the first time all night, her voice didn’t affect him.

  Ernest’s muscles twitched. Before he fully understood what he was doing, he stretched his long legs forward and sprung toward the burn. He flashed past carriage after carriage, charging toward this impossibility, this otherness. He’d never known himself to be particularly heroic. Yet in this moment, he didn’t question anything.

  About fifty yards away, Ernest could make out the outline of what was burning: an enormous mansion, orange and yellow and red—a near-artistic achievement, if it weren’t for the devastation. Smoke billowed out the cracked windows, forming the monstrous smoke blob above the home. Out on the lawn, a collection of the staff and family members peered up, standing together like an army. Ernest surged the rest of the way toward the crowd, feeling the air grow thicker and more difficult to breathe. He willed himself not to cough.

  A stooped middle-aged woman lurked on the outskirts of the crowd. Her body quaked with tears. She peered up at the mansion, wrapped tight in her cloak, looking as though she was witnessing the very last day of the world. Ernest glanced back at the house and then returned his attention to this woman.