Cardiff Siblings 01 - Seven Minutes in Devon (10 page)

Every eye in the room had turned to
her—in shock, in awe, in admiration. None seemed inclined to look
away.

Heavens, what had she done? Her entire
body shook from head to toe, but she couldn’t bear to see the
censure she was sure she’d find in Vanessa’s eyes, couldn’t
possibly handle witnessing the dismay David’s expression was sure
to bear. Worst yet, with one simple action she had certainly
destroyed any possibility of making a match at this house party.
She might as well pack her trunk and return to Knightsbridge,
tucking her tail between her legs as she left.

But if she’d already destroyed any
chance she had at securing a husband, she might as well finish the
job at hand.

Taking a calming breath, Emma turned
to Lord Roxburghe, the man who’d so callously wished Morgan had
successfully taken her own life, and stared him through. He had the
gall to stare back at her, without even the slightest hint of shame
coloring his expression. Lady Portia, at least, had the sense to
look down at her lap. She appeared contrite. But Roxburghe’s
supercilious gaze never wavered.

This was hardly the time to back down
from her stance now that she’d taken one. Emma ignored the trembles
that coursed through her body. She straightened her spine and
forced herself not to waver, not to cower in fear of what she was
in the midst of doing.

“
Lady Morgan is a guest of
Lord and Lady Burington, just as we all are.” With more bravado
than she actually felt, Emma passed her gaze along the length of
the table, pausing for a moment on each eye that dared to meet
hers. When she paused upon Mr. Cardiff, she nearly stopped at that
very moment and ran from the dining room, so censorious and
disapproving was his expression. But finally, she moved her gaze on
to the others. “She deserves the same basic courtesies we all do.
She does
not
deserve to have anyone speak ill of her, for any reason
whatsoever.”

The clatter of silver dropping back
against the table was the only sound in the room, aside from a few
scandalized breaths or gasps of shock.

Faintly, Emma felt the back of Lord
Jacob’s hand grazing against her knuckles in warning again, but she
ignored them, despite the impetuousness of her actions. He was
trying to warn her against making a fool of herself, but it was far
too late for that. Or perhaps he was warning her against raising
Lord Roxburghe’s ire. Roxburghe was a peer, after all. Not the sort
of man one ought to go about trying to put in his
place—particularly not if one was the mere daughter of a
knight.

But she couldn’t stop herself if she
tried. Now that she had a full head of steam built up, she had to
let it release. If she didn’t, she might very well stamp her foot
and cry, or dump a tureen of soup over Roxburghe’s head, or
something else equally horrifying. She didn’t do any of those
things, however, because she heard a sniffle coming from the other
end of the table.

That sniffle could only have come from
Morgan.

Vanessa rose and placed a placating
smile upon her lips, clearly trying to stop Emma before she’d gone
too far. “Ladies, why don’t we all excuse ourselves—?”

Blast it all, Vanessa ought to have
tried sooner. She knew how Emma could be when she lost her temper,
far better than anyone else in the world. Vanessa shouldn’t have
let her go as far as she did.

Emma spoke more loudly than she had
been, making certain everyone heard her over her sister’s voice. “I
will not excuse anyone until Lord Roxburghe has apologized to Lady
Morgan for being a vile excuse for a gentleman.”

With a fierceness in her brown eyes he
never imagined she possessed, Miss Hathaway straightened her
shoulders, tossed back her head, crossed her arms over her chest,
and looked as regal and certain of herself as the queen. “We shall
also wait for Lady Portia to apologize to Lady Morgan. I’m prepared
to wait as long as is necessary.”

Aidan could do nothing but gape at
her. He had never felt more conflicted in his life.

On the one hand, he wanted to stand up
and applaud Miss Hathaway for daring to take such a
stand—particularly one in favor of his sister. Yet she was still
the woman he loathed more than anything or anyone else in this
world, the one whom he had cursed for nearly three years, the one
he’d so often depicted in the throes of his revenge whilst using
his pastels.

He preferred to use vellum with his
pastels any time he was creating his vengeance. It left the images
crisper. Clearer. More exact. There was nothing left to the
imagination when he used pastels on vellum.

And right this moment, he wished he
had an easel and some vellum, not to mention his pastels. He wanted
to capture her as she looked just at this moment. She was like an
avenging angel, come to teach the mere mortals such as himself a
lesson they clearly hadn’t learned in the rest of their lives.
Never in his life had he seen such fire coming from what he’d once
thought to be dull, brown eyes.

Here, amidst a room filled with lords
and ladies, men and women with enough power and social standing and
narcissism they could crush her in an instant—more permanently and
readily than Aidan could ever do in real life or on canvas—here,
Miss Hathaway laid aside all thought of self-preservation and
thought only of protecting Morgan.

And he couldn’t catch his
breath.

He hadn’t heard what Lord Roxburghe or
Lady Portia had said about his sister. They were far at the other
end of the table, well away from him and his siblings. Frankly, he
couldn’t imagine what they could have said to elicit such a
response from Miss Hathaway. She’d always seemed so meek before.
Docile, even. He’d never imagined her to care for anyone or
anything but herself and her damned books.

But clearly she cared for Morgan, and
that left Aidan with quite the conundrum.

Damnation.

He wanted to stand beside her. Right
this moment, he wanted to kiss her so deeply and so thoroughly she
would tremble in his arms, and not stop kissing her until she
agreed to never pick up a bloody book again. He wanted things he
had no business wanting, because he’d as good as burned her at the
stake in his artwork for three years without feeling even the
tiniest inkling of remorse.

So he stayed where he sat, unable to
do more than close his jaw and stare, memorizing every detail of
her form.

The room remained silent. Everyone
stared at the daring miss, then turned to either Roxburghe and Lady
Portia, or to Aidan, Niall, and Morgan, as if trying to gauge their
reactions in order to facilitate their own.

Roxburghe’s eyes flashed with fury,
his leer turning fully upon Miss Hathaway, a dangerous sign if ever
Aidan had seen one. “I am the Earl of Roxburghe,” he spat in her
direction, standing to tower over them all. His hands clenched into
fists at his sides.

Aidan turned to Niall, trying to
determine what his brother would do. Now that Miss Hathaway had
brought their treatment of Morgan to light, the two of them would
have to ensure Morgan’s honor was protected. Niall gave him a
slight nod—not nearly enough for Aidan to know what he
intended.

“
And Lady Morgan is the
sister of the Earl of Trenowyth,” Miss Hathaway countered. She
lifted an eyebrow as though in challenge.

This was not going well. Not at all.
Aidan started to push back from his seat so he could call the
bastard out, but he was apparently too slow.

“
You’ll apologize to both
Lady Morgan
and
Miss Hathaway, or you’ll answer to me at dawn.” The voice
rumbled, deep and dark. A vicious threat hung in the air after the
pronouncement, one which made all of Aidan’s imaginings over the
last three years seem like child’s play. Aidan could do nothing but
gawk at the ladies’ unlikely defender.

Lord Jacob Deering did not rise, did
not look up, did not make any outward sign that he’d been the one
to issue the challenge. But there could be no doubt it was him from
the manner in which Miss Hathaway flinched at his side and looked
down at him. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head,
but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t stop him from doing a damned
thing.

David stirred from the head of the
table. “I’m sure there will be no call for that,” he murmured
softly, but everyone in the room was bound to have heard him. They
could have heard a single grain of rice falling to a china plate,
it was so silent.

“
If there is,” Niall put
in, “I’ll be the one Roxburghe will answer to.”

“
You may be my second,”
Lord Jacob said in an offhanded manner which only served to leave
Aidan seething, inexplicably, in his seat.

It made no sense. Why was he so angry
with this man? Jacob Deering was not the one at fault here. He did
not deserve to feel the brunt of Aidan’s rage. He was trying, as
was Miss Hathaway, to protect Morgan’s honor.

And then it struck him—would have
bowled him over, were he not still seated at the table. They were
taking from him the one thing he’d allowed himself to assume as his
responsibility these last several years. They were taking upon
their shoulders the protection of Morgan.

It left him feeling unmanned. Useless.
What was he, after all, if he did not have his sister to guard and
protect and coddle as if his very life depended upon it?

An artist whose work no one would ever
wish to purchase.

A younger son of a peer with no
direction in life.

A wastrel.

Nothing.

His head felt suddenly heavy, and he
dipped it down so his chin rested upon his chest. A sheen of sweat
covered him. How had he let his life become what it was?

Lost within the dark thoughts of his
own mind, Aidan felt as though he was watching the scene unfold
around him—not as a participant, but as though he were somehow
floating among them.

Eventually, Lady Portia gave a tearful
apology and rushed from the room, her face red and splotchy. Lord
Roxburghe grudgingly offered a few words to Morgan and then to Miss
Hathaway. As one, the ladies rose and then filed out of the dining
room, with Morgan firmly ensconced between Miss Hathaway and Miss
Weston.

When they left, it was the first time
since the incident started that Aidan had dared chance a look at
his sister. She didn’t appear flustered in the slightest. On the
contrary, she seemed almost…whimsically happy. That couldn’t be,
could it? What in God’s name could possibly have made her so damned
happy in what had just taken place?

After the last of the ladies had gone,
the footmen came through with glasses of port, settling them before
the gentlemen.

Roxburghe downed his in a single swill
and then quit the room. That seemed an excellent idea, all things
considered. It seemed even more so when David turned to Sir Henry
Irvine, the deuced bore, and asked him about the hounds he’d been
breeding, as if nothing out of the realm of the ordinary had just
occurred.

“
Just had a new litter a
few weeks ago,” the baronet responded jovially. “Four females and
two males.”

That was all the inducement Aidan
required. He swallowed the last of his port and pushed back from
the table. “If you’ll excuse me,” he muttered. Before anyone could
stop him, Aidan barreled through the doors of the dining room and
made his way out to the park.

If he was going to sort out what had
just happened, he needed air. He needed space.

Had he thoroughly misjudged Miss
Hathaway? And Morgan? And if he had…now what?