A Seductive Lady Rescued From Flames (Historical Regency Romance)

by Emily Honeyfield

  Of course, he was very much still trapped in it. No matter how little he thought of the silliness of these moments, he still knew that society looked to him to marry Grace Bragg. He owed it to everyone to uphold what he’d said he would do.

  When the applause died down, the marquess and the crowd looked at him expectantly. Grace squeezed his arm hard, alerting him it was his turn to speak. Ernest wished he could will himself back to bed. He would trade his ability to speak, if only he didn’t have to do this.

  “Good evening, everyone,” he said, his nostrils flared. “It’s a unique honour for Lady Bragg and I to be here with all of you, so soon before our wedding. I know she’s felt your welcome just as much as I have. And we look forward to a future with you: helping you, hearing you, being what you need us to be.”

  Grace did just as she was meant to do, then. She drew her head around and planted quick kiss on his cheek. The crowd blared their cheers. Ernest felt on the brink of collapse. Image after image of Diana flashed through his mind.

  How could he get back to her?

  When Grace brought her lips away from his cheek, she hissed at him, “Smile, you imbecile. You look like a fool.”

  Ernest’s nostrils flared. “Must you really rub your horrible logic in my face in public, Grace?”

  Grace let out a twinkling laugh. She really was one of the most beautiful women at the ball. The stunning contrast of her evil and her glowing looks hurt the eyes.

  “Darling, please. Don’t be so dramatic.”

  The crowd was far too rowdy to hear them. The orchestra swirled back into their romp. Ernest took a light step back to the ground and turned back, holding his hand out for Grace to take. She did so gingerly, stepping lightly beside him.

  “Look at us. No one could say we aren’t decent partners, could they?” Grace said. Her eyes were mere slits, as though she didn’t care to look at him too closely.

  Tatiana, Grace’s cousin, appeared from the crowd and ducked toward them. She drew her hand across Grace’s slim upper arm, gripping it. “Darling, you looked absolutely marvellous up there—”

  Grace frowned. “Tatiana, you’re going to leave a bruise.”

  Ernest’s heart bumped in his chest. He glanced back toward the drink table, where the duke had directed his body toward the three of them. The duke lent him a menacing smile and then stuck his hand in the air to give a slow, even wave.

  It was clear he was playing with Ernest, now.

  “You saw what Martha was wearing, didn’t you?” Tatiana whispered to Grace, seemingly not even aware that Ernest was standing directly beside them.

  “Absolutely wretched,” Grace affirmed, seemingly forgiving her cousin in the wake of the gossip.

  “Doesn’t she know that she’s gained a good 20 pounds since the beginning of the year…”

  “All those Christmas biscuits,” Grace offered, clucking her tongue.

  “It’s a sad thing to see. I know she fancies Michael. But Michael won’t look at her twice, even. She struts herself past him every ten minutes or so. Look—there she goes again.”

  “Oh! I must tell the duke about this. He’ll grow absolutely dizzy with it!” Grace said. Her eyes cast back toward Ernest, seemingly remembering his presence once more. “Of course, I can’t imagine Ernest taking any pleasure. Do you, Ernest? That good, even heart of yours. You’ll never laugh with me. Will you?”

  She stuck her lower lip out, pouting, and then gripped Ernest’s hand. She dipped his arm back and forth, like it was a toy. “Come now, Ernest,” she sang. “Won’t you please banter with me? Won’t you please use that little skull of yours for a bit of funny evil?”

  Ernest rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what on earth goes on in that head of yours,” he mumbled. “But I shan’t be a part of it.”

  With that, he spun toward the door. He tucked his chin into his chest and stomped away, his heart thudding dully. It was as though he was walking underwater: his legs felt heavy, like they were made of lead. He felt eyes upon him, even heard his name several times. But when people actually had the gall to stop him, he just offered them an earnest smile and said, “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m feeling quite ill. It’s a wretched thing. No, no. I don’t wish to interrupt Grace’s good time. Look at her! She’s life of the party. Please, have a dance with her. I imagine she’ll love it.”

  Once he reached the night air, he huffed into it, gripping his knees. He felt he might pass out. When he righted himself, he drew his hand across his lower back and blinked toward the sky. An overwhelming fear took hold of him. For a moment, he thought he might scream—just open his mouth and let out a wild, raucous yell.

  But what good would that do? He imagined the gossip, spreading like fire. “Did you hear what happened with the new earl? Apparently, he went completely mad at the ball for the marquess. He just fell down on the ground, thrashing around, mumbling something about a woman called Diana. You can’t imagine what sort of pressure these men are under, of course.”

  No. He wouldn’t be just another thing to gossip about.

  When he arrived at the stables, he found his stableman and ordered him to remain on at the stables with one of their horses, so as to ensure that Rose and Grace could arrive home.

  “But, sir. Where are you going?” The stableman watched as he drew the horse’s reins over the softness of his white nose. Ernest’s fingers fluttered over the little hairs, feeling the weight of time, of space. How could he possibly translate what he was about to do to the stableman?

  Especially since the stableman had such a different reality than Ernest. He could never imagine the sort of pressure he was under—and probably only saw him as a well-off earl, with money and grandeur at his fingertips. How difficult it was to have everything one ever needed to survive.

  Happiness was always so evasive.

  Ernest kicked his leg over the horse’s back and forced the animal forward, casting stones behind them as they cut down the path toward the main road. With every drop of the horse’s hooves, Ernest’s skull shook. He cursed himself, over and over again, for what he’d done, for the decision he’d made.

  How could he possibly marry this villain?

  How could he possibly link himself to this woman who was content to stand blandly and gossip about other people’s appearances? How could he watch her flirting with some duke all night—and not feel an ounce of jealousy?

  Perhaps some small part of him had assumed that he would eventually grow to love Grace. Perhaps he’d envisioned it like arranged marriages had always been: two people who came together based on circumstance to make something better and greater than themselves.

  But no. Grace was no one he could build with.

  Ernest’s father had been buried approximately two miles away from the home of the marquess, in a cemetery with rolling hills and little stones that jutted into the night sky. At the entrance, he latched the horse to the iron fence, swallowed harshly, and then stepped inside. He hadn’t been to the cemetery at night before, and the back of his mind flirted with stories of ghosts, of ghouls.

  What if he ran into his father’s spirit?

  The thought rang through him, almost thrilling him. Would he have the opportunity to speak with his father—the actual soul of him—rather than just the weird mirror image of his father that lurked in the back of his head? Of course, one never yearned to encounter a ghost. The issue of death itself was a difficult thing to stare at too closely; where his father had actually ended up was something that only stirred questions in him late, late at night, when he was a bit too delusional to work through any sort of logic.

  His father was buried on the third hill to the right of the iron gate, with a stone that Ernest and Rose had chosen specifically—thinking that it was regal enough, without being too pompous. On the top were etched the words, “Loving Father and Husband,” and beneath were the dates of his life—so finite. Dead in the year 1814. Earlier that very year—and yet, it now felt like it had happened decades before.
Ernest’s body felt strung out from the weight of so much pain and confusion. He felt like a much older man, though knew he had so much of his life ahead of him.

  Ernest fell to his knees, muddying his pants, and pressed his hands against the tombstone. Above, he felt the lurking weight of dark clouds. In the far distance, lightning snaked itself across the sky. Moments later, thunder barrelled along with it. Perhaps he didn’t have as much time as he wished to speak with his father.

  Ernest hadn’t visited the grave in some time. It was funny what weather did to the stone, like it didn’t have any sort of mind for the feelings or emotions of man. Already, the environment had begun to tear at it, making the stone bleed a bit green. Ernest imagined it twenty years down the road, curving toward the ground, stirring into the grass. Would he still be alive? Would he bring his sons here and tell them what a prominent, God-serving man his father had been?

  “Hi, Father,” he whispered. His fingers traced the B-A-N of Bannerman. “I know you must think I’m such a coward. Watching me down here, scrambling between my feelings for one woman and my knowledge that you—you want nothing more than for me to marry Grace Bragg. I know you made that request with your whole heart, Father. I saw it in your eyes.”

  Here, Ernest paused, remembering what Rose had said regarding their father’s mindset when he’d requested this. Truly, he’d been out of his mind at the end, speaking to beings that weren’t there.

  Ernest cleared his throat. “I met this woman, Father. Diana. Diana Harrington. I suppose if you’re as all-seeing as I imagine you to be, now, you know all about her. You know about her kindness. You know how she tore back into her family home to save the maid she’d grown up with. I can’t imagine having that sort of bravery, myself. I imagine if she were in my position now, caught between one woman and another, she would have the bravery to make a choice that I simply am unsure if I’m able to make.”

  Big, fat raindrops began to flatten themselves across his shoulders. He cast his eyes toward the brewing clouds above and sniffed, but didn’t move. For all he cared, he could be drenched. He simply needed to say everything his tongue felt heavy with.

  He had to lay himself bare. And maybe, just maybe, it would destroy him. He imagined himself found the following morning, drenched to the bone, his skeleton lifeless.

  That would certainly get him out of this dreadful situation.

  “Father, I don’t love her,” Ernest whispered, hardly able to hear himself over the rain. “She’s dreadful. She hasn’t a single stitch of empathy in her entire heart. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen even a shred of evidence that she has a heart. She isn’t a good match for me, Father. But I don’t know what to do.”

  Again, thunder rumbled overhead. It was a rare thing for England to get such a storm. He snaked his arms out of his jacket and placed it over his head, beginning to shiver. He felt ridiculous, out there on his knees in the mud.

  “These people, they look at Grace and I with all this hope. Certainly, I know it’s the same sort of hope you had for me, Father. I know that they look to me and Grace to lead them. To be their guiding light in the darkness. But I know that Grace is only with me to prove something to her friends and family. I’ve heard tell, even, that her father—Lord Bragg himself—is quite more wretched than I ever thought. I know you were quite close with him, Father, and I don’t wish any ill will on him. I simply wonder how much we can really know a person in our lives. How close can we actually be?”

  Ernest swallowed. He tried to envision his father, seated next to him on the grass. He remembered a long-ago memory, when Ernest had found a rabbit in the woods. It had been dead perhaps only an hour, its neck mangled by an animal, probably a fox. He wondered why the rabbit had been left in such a manner, and not eaten.

  It had been early spring. His father had helped him cut open the ground and splay the dead rabbit on the chilly soil. They’d prayed together, his father assuring him that the rabbit had gone off to a better place. “Enormous fields of green, and no foxes to ever hunt him,” his father had whispered. “You can be sure that he’s happy up there. He’s looking down on you, and he’s grateful that you decided to give him a proper burial. But now, it’s up to you to do something good in the world, since he cannot be here anymore to do it.”

  Ernest had scowled at his father with the intensity only a small child could muster. “How am I supposed to do the good work of a rabbit, Father?” he’d demanded. “I don’t understand.”

  But his father had just shaken his head. “You’ll know when you see it, son. You have a heart of purity. You must lean on that heart and make sure you never fall astray.”

  Ernest felt his eyes brim with tears. The tears mixed with the raindrops on his cheeks until he could no longer tell which was which.

  “I need strength, Father. I need strength to break this wretched engagement and follow my heart. I need strength to go to Diana and tell her she was worth all this heartache. I need to tell her that everything I’ve ever done has led me to her. It’s only been a bit of time. But this bit of time has felt bigger and louder and brighter than anything else in ages—certainly since you were alive.

  “That said, if I don’t find the strength, Father, then I need the humility to accept my fate. I need to face forward, eyes firm on what I have before me. I have a fine fiancée. I am the envy of nearly every man in London. I hear their whispered words. They covet her. And why shouldn’t they? She’s stunning. She’s intelligent, when she wants to be. And she will make a fine wife and partner—even if we cannot find love for one another.

  “That’s it. Those are my options. Either strength or humility. Somehow, it feels as though I’m standing on the brink of the rest of my life. Like it’s a cliffside, and I’m poised to jump. I shan’t know if I’ll fall into the water, unscathed, or if I’ll tumble into the cliff, break all my bones, perhaps die there, bleeding on the rock. But all I know is, I have to jump. That is only the nature of time.”

  Lightning struck even closer this time. In the distance, Ernest heard his horse whinny. He recognized he’d stayed too long. Again, he swiped his hand across the top of the gravestone, feeling an overwhelming sense of loss. How could he possibly grapple with this alone? His father had been his guiding force forever. He’d been his strength.

  He couldn’t possibly be an earl and a husband and a father, like his father before him. He hadn’t the inner strength.

  Finally, he forced his foot out beneath him and thrust himself up. He shivered and tossed back toward the gate. The rain had grown torrential. The fabric of his suit stuck to his skin, making him feel like he weighed twice as much as he normally did. When he lurched over the horse, he realized he hadn’t enough energy to return to the ball. Instead, he clopped the rest of the way home. When he reached the estate, he dropped the horse at the stables and walked with stiff legs through the rain, back into the foyer.

  Once he stood inside, the butler approached, bleary-eyed and frightened. “Sir. You look rather…”

  But Ernest had already begun to strip off his clothes. He yanked the buttons apart and dropped his shirt to the ground, allowing his muscles to surge out. His biceps glistened from the light of the candles. He felt his stomach muscles, taut and firm above his belt. But, soon, that was off as well. When he reached his study, he wore only his under things. He found the old scratchy blanket his grandmother had made for his father long ago and wrapped it around himself, gazing into the crackling fire. For a strange moment, he wondered if he would be lucky enough to grow ill from this chill, to toss and turn in a fever bed until he found his death.

  Then, he could go on living Diana forever, without altering the course of his life.

  He could love her as a ghost—never ruining the perfect, beautiful emotion between them.

  He heard Rose outside the study approximately an hour after he arrived. Her knuckles rapped at the wood. She must have spotted the light flickering beneath the door. When Ernest didn’t answer, she scoffed, whispering, �
��I know you’re in there.”