by Ella Edon
She stiffened her back and pushed her way into the room.
“Stand up,” she ordered.
With steady grace, the man got to his feet. He wasn’t fast, but moved with a fluid economy of gesture that made her think of the dancers at the opera, or the lithe grace of a cavalryman. He turned to face her.
“You wish to talk?” His voice was grave.
Emilia swallowed hard. He was taller than her by the length of her hand, and his lithe posture made him seem taller still. He looked down his nose at her and she felt reduced.
She tensed her spine, feeling angry, and stared frostily into his eyes.
“I do,” she said.
“I see,” he replied.
His calm disarmed her. Expecting rage and defiance, she had come prepared for a fight. This peaceful equanimity was discomforting.
“You must be aware why you’re here,” she said slowly.
“On the contrary, I am mystified.”
“Very well,” she said, unconvinced. She paced to the wall, then turned, meeting his gaze. He stared back, unruffled.
“You will guess, perhaps, why you’re here, when I tell you my name is Lady Emilia, daughter of Barton Herston, Earl of Mowbray?”
He raised a brow. “I’m pleased to meet you, milady. You did not inform me of that, earlier.”
Emilia swallowed hard. “No matter,” she said sternly. What would her father say? She made her back straighter, trying to pretend she was the Earl of Mowbray, herself. “The matter at hand is, why do you think you are here?”
“No idea,” he said. He looked at her with mild interest. “I trust you will inform me, however…?”
“Wait,” she said, holding her hand up. She saw him raise a brow again, and felt slightly silly.
Letting her hand drop to her side, she paced away again.
“You are aware my father is a man of little patience,” she said carefully.
“I’ve not had the pleasure of the earl’s acquaintance,” he said inscrutably. “I trust he does not bring that impatience to bear on you, milady?”
He sounded concerned, of all things!
Emilia felt a sudden stab of remorse. This man, the Duke of Elsmoor, was so upright. It seemed impossible to believe he was the same man whose unreliability had tormented her father these past months! He was far more in command of himself than she would have been and she started to feel a grudging admiration for it.
Stop it, Emilia. This man is to blame for all your father’s suffering.
“You know perfectly well why you’re here.”
“Why?” he challenged.
Emilia raised a brow. “If I were my prisoner, I would use my manners. You aren’t aware of the danger of your situation, are you?”
“You’re threatening me?”
Emilia felt his incredulity as a scorn. She glared at him. How dare he act as if she was of no consequence, her threats laughable? “I’m not threatening idly,” she said softly, struggling with rage. “My father, the Earl of Mowbray, has many friends. Most of them aren’t the sort of people you’d wish to meet. They might take pleasure in rearranging your fine features.”
“I’m gratified you think they’re fine.”
Emilia felt herself blush.
“I didn’t say that,” she said gruffly. “However, trust me, if you don’t pay the five thousand pounds you owe, my father will make sure the debt is extracted by force.”
“What debt?” His eyes were enormous as he looked at her in utter confusion.
Emilia shut her eyes, fighting for control. “Yes, debt. The cash you owe him, for dues fairly won in cards. And…other things.” She hesitated. What was it, exactly, that her father had said the duke owed him money for? She couldn’t exactly remember. It was something to do with Irish liqueur.
“If I am accused of owing him money, you might at least let me know on what, and from when,” the duke said smoothly.
“Why should I furnish you with that information?” Emilia snapped, feeling her confidence returning. “If I told you, there’d be no telling how you’d try to fool me.”
“Try me,” he said. Was it her imagination, or was there a twist of a smile on his face…? She felt a strange tingle in her belly and looked down at her feet, her face reddening.
“I prefer not to,” she said. “I have no interest in deepening the acquaintance, nor in exchanging lies. My father told me never to trust his grace, the duke.”
“Duke of what?” the man said. He stared at her.
Emilia ran a weary hand down over her face. “Don’t try and act innocent,” she said. “I know perfectly well who you are, and you’re the Duke of Elsmoor.”
“I’m not the Duke of Elsmoor,” the man protested. He was standing up now, about five paces away from her. His fine-boned, haughty face was twisted in shock. “I’m Luke Preston, Lord Westmore... I’m twenty-eight, and I was born in Surrey. You can ask anybody. It’s all true.”
“You’re twenty-eight?” Emilia felt her brows rise in surprise. She had thought him older – somehow his confidence and composure belied his age. He was closer to her own age than she thought.
“Yes,” he said. “Why? How old do I appear to be?” He was smiling again, and she felt irritated.
“None of your business,” she snapped. She saw his brows shoot up and felt a tingle of satisfaction. She rubbed her hands on the skirt of her white figured muslin-gown. They were getting damp.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said carefully. “But I’m not who you think I am. You have the wrong person.”
“Of course, you’d say so,” Emilia flashed back. “You want me to let you out. I don’t expect the truth out of you. Not yet.”
He shook his head, and sank back onto the velvet-covered seat. He looked disheartened. Emilia studied him in the quiet. With that fine, wavy hair and that delicately-modeled face, he was easily the most strikingly-handsome fellow she had ever seen in her life. He also knew what suited him – the elegant brown velvet jacket and white shirt with its frothily-knotted cravat made him look every inch the city-gentleman. She was surprised – she hadn’t expected her father’s enemy to be so refined.
“I don’t know what you think is going to happen if you keep me here,” he said after a long moment of silence. “If I scream, somebody will hear me and you will be obliged to let me out of here.”
Emilia tensed. How dare he assume she had acted on some whim of her own! Had he not been listening to anything she’d said?
“My servants are loyal to me. If they heard anything, they would pay it no mind. Everybody knows who you are and why you’re here. And besides, do you think I would put you in the middle of the house? Nobody will hear you scream up here.”
He slumped forward, covering his face with his closed hands. Emilia felt again a softening of her heart towards him. She wasn’t cruel, and the thought of kidnapping anyone didn’t make her happy. She wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t for her father!
He’d be so relieved, if he knew I’d done this for him.
“Look,” Emilia said raggedly, after the silence had stretched beyond the point of sense. “I’m going to go away and leave you to reconsider your situation and your story. I will send you some tea and biscuits – you’re likely hungry and it’s past five o’ clock. Then I will come back. And this time, the truth, please? No funny stories about being somebody else.”
“But I am somebody else,” he protested.
“I don’t believe you,” Emilia said harshly. “I’m leaving now. I urge you to be ready to tell the truth when I return. The faster you comply, the sooner I can let you go.”
With that, she turned and walked out of the room, closing and locking the door after her.
She heard him knock on it from inside, but steeled herself. She walked away, the key in her pocket.
The sooner he tells the truth, she told herself, the sooner I can release him, and the better for all of us.
Chapter Three
Reachi
ng An Agreement
“Dash all of this,” Luke swore. Mistaken for Carrington, of all people!
He sat down heavily on the seat in the corner and covered his eyes with a long-boned hand. What was he supposed to do? His knuckles hurt from knocking on the door, his heart was a wreck from nerves.
“This is utterly insane.”
Here he was, trapped in a small room, kidnapped by a slip of a girl. It made no sense! He knew that, in part, it was his own fault. He had followed her out to the coach.
“Let me out!” he yelled.
He recalled what she had said – that yelling was futile, because nobody could hear him in this part of the house. He shook his head and yelled once more, just for good measure.
“Hey! Anybody there?”
When nobody answered, he sank back into the velvet-cushioned chair, desperate to get out. He smiled wryly to himself.
Here I am, trapped in a fashionable study, warm and dry, with a beautiful woman as my captor. And I’m trying to escape, when most people would think this was a sort of heaven?
He shook his head. Things could certainly be worse. The woman was quite eye-catching; he felt a stab of arousal just thinking of her. He was – at least, he assumed – in no immediate danger. But what was going on?
He was starting to hear things. He could have sworn he heard somebody’s quick footsteps, hurrying past the door.
“Dash it, Luke,” he told himself harshly.
There wasn’t much point in shouting. He had already discovered nobody was going to come. And even if they did, why did he think that anybody in this house would have any mercy on him? The young woman had an accomplice – the big burly fellow who’d carried him upstairs – so who was to say the whole staff wasn’t loyal to her? Of course, they were.
He shifted in the chair, staring out of the window. He had already contemplated it as an escape-route: it was useless. Too high, with lead bars on it and a sash with a lock. He had no way to get out through it.
The room itself was modern, and not unpleasant: it had silk-papered walls – the silk itself decorated with a design of intertwining leaves – large windows, a vast oak desk, a soft and comfortable desk-chair and an Oriental carpet on the floor by the fire. The carpet was cream with red designs, and the fire had a marble surround.
He could cheerily stay there, but for his engagements in the town. He wasn’t here for amusement! Other gentlemen in the town might come up for the Season to while away their days, but he was here to take care of Uncle Ranvier’s business. It was imperative.
“Ranvier’s far from well.”
His Uncle Ranvier – jovial, lively, funny – was bedridden and ill, and had been for a while. It was urgent for somebody to step in and undertake his dealings in his name. And only Luke had the power besides Ranvier himself, to sign things on his uncle’s account.
He couldn’t do any of that, though, if he was locked in here.
“I have to persuade her to let me go.”
It was his only hope. He had no idea why he was here – the family name meant nothing to him; he’d never seen her father, or if he had, he didn’t remember. It was certainly not on account of him that he was here.
He clutched at his hair with his fingers. He was desperate to escape.
“Sir?” a voice called out from the other side of the door.
“Hello!” Luke yelled, running to the door. “I’m here! Come in!”
He realized he was babbling, and sat down heavily on the chair. The door opened. A long, thin face, surrounded by glossy chestnut hair, peered round the door.
“Sir!” the girl said. She was carrying a tray. “Mistress’s orders. Tea and scones.”
“Oh!” Luke grinned, elated. “Thank you!”
She had promised him something to eat, and at least she had delivered on that!
It was only when the bemused-looking maidservant had closed the door quietly and locked it again that he realized that, firstly, he was going into transports of delight about something he usually took for granted; and secondly, that while the woman had been placing the tray, pouring the tea, and arranging the cup in the saucer, he had ample opportunity to run through the door.
“Luke,” he muttered to himself ruefully. “You might be a good hand at bridge, but you’re a complete numbskull in many ways.”
He sighed. He really was a fool. He’d gotten himself captured, and now he hadn’t the faintest idea how to escape.
He smelled the tea. It was rich brown in color, and had the delicate aroma of the finest Ceylon imports. He sipped it, letting the flavor roll round his mouth with appreciation. He was something of a connoisseur with these things. The biscuits were fine, too – rich, buttery shortbread. He bit into one experimentally and smiled.
“If I’m going to be a captive, at very least I can expect to be fed like a king.”
He couldn’t quite believe how calm he was being about all this. He knew, also, that the calm was somewhat shallow – if he stopped for a minute to think of all the business he had to deal with in the “outside world,” both his uncle’s and his own – he would go crazy.
“All I can do is throw myself on the tender mercy of Lady Emilia.”
He felt a grin lift his mouth at the corners. The thought of Emilia was a pleasant one. He had noticed right from the first, that she was extremely attractive, with a full bust, trim waist and luscious, kissable lips. He felt his body throb with excitement thinking of her. He was here with her and he’d already spent more than half an hour alone in her company, unchaperoned. That was more closeness than he’d had to any other woman of his entire acquaintance, family not counted.
She was, he thought, also touched in the wits. Why else would she have brought him here on some wild pretext, and have locked him up alone, bringing him delicious biscuits and tea?
Whoever could put a person in such a completely preposterous, bizarre situation was clearly unstable. But not dangerous, he reasoned.
A knock sounded at the door. Luke jumped, almost spilling his tea. It must be the maid, again.
“Damn it!” he shouted. “Come in, then! You might as well take the tray.”
“Hello?” Emilia’s head appeared.
Luke went pale.
“Sorry,” he stammered. “Sorry, milady. I thought it was the maid. Can you forgive me?”
Emilia raised a brow. “You must be a fellow of the worst sort of manners, if you speak to your servants in such a way. I will ask June to come and fetch the tray later. I had thought to talk to you about your situation…?”
“Yes,” Luke pleaded. “Please. I can’t stay here.”
He saw her frown. She was lovely! Even with a frown wrinkling her brow, big eyes blank, she was the most attractive creature he had ever seen. He didn’t know if he wanted to plunder her sweet lips with kisses or escape this place.
“You have decided, then, to tell me the truth?”
“Yes!” Luke protested fervently. “Yes. I’ll tell you whatever you wish to hear. Just let me out of here. Please? I need to help my uncle.”
He saw a faint glimmer of warmth in her eyes, and felt his heart leap. He’d managed to get through to her, on some level!
“I want to make things easier for both of us,” she said softly. She walked across the room and he thought, for one heart-stopping moment, that she might sit down beside him. He was surprised by the depth of his chagrin when she settled herself on the wooden stool.
“What do you accuse me of?” Luke asked her.
He saw her close her eyes, expression pained. “Please?” she said gently. “It would be easier for us both if you just co-operate?”
“I am co-operating!” Luke yelled. Suddenly, it was all too much for him. He got to his feet and paced toward the window, anguish mixing with rage.
“I don’t know what you’re doing, or what you hope to gain,” he began desperately. “I don’t even rightly know who you are, or where this place is. All I know is who I am, and where I am earl of, and I kno
w I have never so much as seen your father!” He shook his head, feeling his rage abruptly evaporate. “I don’t even know why I’m bothering. Why should you believe me, anyway? I have no way of proving anything.”
He leaned back against the wall, suddenly wearied. He studied her where she sat, hand cupping her chin, staring back at him. Her eyes were frightened and confused, and he felt instant remorse.
“Sorry,” he began. “I thought…”