Judith Ivory (17 page)

He didn’t know what she was getting at at first, then realized, ah, she’d found his stutter. Which made him smile and stretch, laying his arms out along the back of the coach seat. He liked being known. And that, even angry, she could use the word
good
in reference to a speech impediment. “Very,” he said. He added, “And I’ve done you a favor. If it’s simply
a matter of your reputation, you can kiss that good-bye now. It’s no longer a worry.”

“You take my reputation lightly.”

“I think the Stunnels are nice people. I don’t think it’s in serious trouble.”

“Perhaps we should announce we’re lovers in the House of Lords.”

“Fine with me.” He smiled. It was. He’d be happy to tell every man there how he did it. He was damned amazed that he’d managed it on a chair. He half wanted to grab strangers by their shirtfronts on the street and tell them,
You wouldn’t believe what happened to me
. And with such a fine woman, too.

The fine woman puckered her mouth. For a moment, it seemed Emma was going to say something ugly, something crude: that he could kiss her arse perhaps. Then she seemed to think better of it. For fear he might—and he certainly would love to, which left him smiling more still, a strange feeling. He couldn’t remember when he’d smiled so much in one day—in one year, in fact.

Instead, though, she only screwed up her mouth a notch further, then jerked her eyes away again to look back out the window.

Ah, what faces she could made. His favorite so far was how her pretty, round doll’s cheeks could pull into sarcasm that could nip a chunk out of his ego—an ego he was fully aware could lose a few chunks and not have lost anything important. After a moment, she murmured to the open window, “You had no right.”

Oh, yes, he did. He suggested, “Why don’t you write that down. Put it in my handwriting. Perhaps I’ll chance to read it, think I wrote it: Maybe then I’ll believe you.”

He wasn’t sure how long he could use her misdeeds to run roughshod over her, but the privilege hadn’t expired yet. She threw him a glance, a look of exasperation that quickly turned to dismay. Point taken.

Still, he felt a twinge of guilt. Only a twinge, until he caught sight of her rubber, mud-colored boots, the ugliest shoes he’d ever seen on a woman. He bent, swaying a little with the coach as he picked one up, her foot in it. She had to grab for the hand strap with one hand, the back of the seat with the other to keep her balance.

“These are awful,” he said, holding on to the boot—she tried to take it back. “Can we get you new shoes somewhere?”

“The shoemaker would have to make them. It would take a week.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not to make a pair of shoes, it doesn’t. Not if he dropped what he was doing and just made them. We’ll stop and have him take the measurements.”

She slid down in the seat, bracing her other foot on his seat bench, crossed her arms, and yanked her foot back. Or tried to—he had a good solid grip of gum rubber. She came away with only her bare foot in its stocking, the tips of two toes sticking out. “He has the measurements,” she said. “I have a pair shoes.”

“Can we get them then? I hate these.”

Stuart bent to reach for the other boot. This time it was a little trickier getting her foot, since she knew what was coming, but he caught it and yanked—with her scrambling again to hold on to the opposite seat or be pulled on top of him. He yanked the boot off and, in the same motion, pitched it and its mate out the window of the moving carriage.

“Hey!” She raised up, all but coming at him, then settled onto the edge of her seat, hanging there, gripping the cushion, her back rigid. “Those were Zach’s.”

“I’ll buy you better ones.” He tilted his head. “The dead husband’s?” he asked.

She wasn’t going to answer at first, then bluntly said, “Yes.”

“How long is he dead?”

She frowned briefly. “Ten months.”

He nodded. “Time to let go then. You don’t need his boots.”

“I liked them.”

“You don’t need a man’s boots, Em.”

He was rewarded with a little jolt of recognition across her face.
Em.
People called her this. People she liked. It made his chest warm inside, for here was exactly where he was going, a right step. Notwithstanding, she told him, “They were warm and practical.”

“What you need is warm, practical women’s shoes. Pretty ones. Ones that suit you.”

With great intensity, leaning forward, she told him, “
Those
suited me. You are presumptuous.”

Fine. Perhaps she was right; perhaps he simply didn’t like another man’s shoes on her, though he truly thought it bizarre that she should be marching around in her dead husband’s boots, boots that didn’t even fit. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t argue. In fact, he rather liked seeing yet again how little confusion there was between them as to who he was. Presumptuous. Arrogant. Certainly. Not his most sterling qualities, but not ones he would deny either. Nor even ones she was necessarily against. He suspected, in fact, she rather liked these qualities on occasion.

At which point, he felt a smile trying to break through again and had to turn to stare out the window himself for fear of offending her with it: amazed by how pleasant their sitting here together was, all things considered.

He would rather she’d have been overwhelmed by him—how nice her awe had been at the bank—but since she wasn’t, he’d just have a good time at her expense. As good-naturedly as possible and to good purpose: Best she understood their relationship from the start. He wasn’t taking a hard time off her—and she was a woman who could give it in trump. He’d allow no leeway; he didn’t dare, God help him. And, while he counted on her help with his uncle, he also
fully intended to make the worst gossip her friends could manufacture about her and himself the absolute truth.

She’d caused him all manner of grief, tricked him, stolen from him, and she wasn’t even sorry, not really. She was only angry she hadn’t gotten away with it. No, turnabout was fair play. She could just get used to losing for a while, the crafty little wench.

Then he glanced at her and thought, crafty little wench indeed. There was nothing conniving or manufactured about her sweet, small mouth. It had tasted better than anything he could remember in recent history. It simply was.
She
simply was. Butterscotch sweet. Sweet-lipped, warm-mouthed, round-hipped, soft-thighed. Emma.
Em.
“M” for mine. He was feeling
so
possessive, which he knew was all wrong, that she would never tolerate it, that he had to fix himself, figure the feeling out, do better with it. Because, Em-Emma-M was like something from another planet. Venus. A place better than here. Better than any latitude and longitude he’d yet to know.

And he felt he’d begun the adventure of a lifetime by more or less capturing her, taking her prisoner, taking her back as a specimen to examine more carefully. Here, gentleman, I give you the most luscious, inventive female I have yet to come across….

The carriage clattered through the countryside, straining toward its usual pace. The interesting sheep farmer—with her surprising knowledge of London, confidence games, and double entry bookkeeping—sat glumly back, its passenger, as far away from him as she could get. While Stuart dozed off and on quite contentedly, slitting his eyes open only enough to steal sleepy glimpses of his prize: his new reluctant partner temporarily in her stocking feet, two toes sticking out of one stocking, the tips of three from the other. Cherub toes. So pink and precious he wanted to lick them, eat them, then use the tattered threads of her stockings afterward to clean his teeth.

Left to his own devices, he would have devoured her on the spot.

Oh, gentlemen, will you
look
at her! How symmetrically round. How beautiful. How smart. How fearless and strong. And with such a good heart, such a stalwart sense of justice!

How could any man possibly resist her? Why wasn’t there a line a mile long of men trailing after her? He didn’t know. He only knew he was positively thrilled with his own perspicacity. Mine. You are mine for two weeks, Emma Hotchkiss. As reluctant as you may be, it is thus by agreement between us. Mine. And these two weeks, for a dozen reasons, are the best thing I’ve negotiated for myself in England, since I explained, insisted, and fought my way back into my viscountcy itself.

“Pork pie?” he ventured, holding one of the parcels out.

She shook her head.

He hated to see it. He relished every curve of her, every soft nook and cranny of her body. “I wish you’d eat,” he said, then realized he should have stated the opposite.

She refused the food, he was certain, just to do the reverse of his will.

I
T
was dark by the time the carriage turned down the long front lane to Castle Dunord, entering between its long lines of poplars at either side. Dunord. Emma opened her eyes on the sight of its lit turrets in the distance, its attic windows of servants’ quarters lighting the night, awaiting the master of the house.

She had never entered the hallowed grounds at night. The woods on either side were hushed, the carriage tack—mostly its single bell—ringing clearly over the quiet sweep of snow. With the castle hardly more than a distant shadow on the horizon, the coach veered from the main drive onto the side lane that ran along the lake of the parklands. They were swinging around to approach the grand old house from the rear. By moonlight, she saw for the first time the estate’s rear fountains set into formal gardens full of shadowy hedges—the new viscount’s gardeners had pruned the overgrowth into much as she might have imagined its former glory. Over the tops of the gardens, a small, distant building sat by the lake, a hazy full moon and a cloudy sky reflecting in the clean glass, every panel in place, of its roof—presumably the famous orangery that in past generations, so the myth went, provided
citrus for the entire village at Christmas, a time when
noblesse oblige
was the castle’s relationship to its tenants and economic dependents. The vehicle circled, then slowed, as it came through a small fruit orchard of some sort, rows of small symmetrical trees that stood bare and leafless, asleep for the winter, awaiting spring.

When the carriage pulled to a stop, the horses halted without a complaint, seeming at last tired enough to stop racing. Their harness bell gave one last
clink
, and all was quiet but for the slight creak of springs as footmen and driver dismounted and the easy sweep of wind beyond the window glass. Emma lay sideways on the coach seat, cozy, warm, and a little fuddled—unsure how long she’d been asleep. In the dark on the seat opposite her there was some small, indistinguishable movement, then the coach door opened and the chill of a winter night blew gently in.

Before Emma could properly explain that she was awake, strong arms were moving her around, scooting toward the open doorway.

She muttered, “Um—I’m awake. I, ah, can walk.”

“I threw your shoes away, and it’s snowing.” Stuart, his voice low and as soft as the winter night, spoke near her ear.

Her boots. Right. She nodded, too fuzzy to work up her annoyance again. She let him pull her arm up and around his shoulder. “What time is it?” she asked.

“Just after nine.” He was backlit by his house, bent halfway into the vehicle, half-out, one knee up where his foot was on the step. Behind him, more and more lights lit up the ground floor of the massive house—people inside taking note of their arrival.

The sureness of his grasp on her was a little startling as he drew her across the carriage seat, then another surprise: She’d been lying beneath his fur-lined coat. The reason she was so snug was that she was cocooned in light, silky-soft chinchilla. The viscount’s dark figure bent over her, tucking
the coat around her an instant longer, then his arms came fully under her, and he lifted her up.

She felt herself hauled against his warm chest, as if she were nothing, then lifted as he backed from the carriage, taking them both out into the night air. It was cold, much colder than the day, and indeed lightly snowing again. In this rather undignified manner, carried like a child, Emma bumped up the rear walk of Dunord, in time to the soft rhythm of the long stride of the lord of the manor himself. The house hulked between trees, an angular mountain of architecture so towering she couldn’t see its skyline, so vast its walls didn’t stop as much as were swallowed up by forest lands at either end.

Quickly, servants joined them. Maids in little ruffled hats paraded out into the cold behind a housekeeper, underbutlers in tailcoats followed the butler of the house down the walk. Some took over bags from gloved footmen. Others waited in the lit doorway—the place was crawling with servants—shielding their eyes, squinting out toward the dark. There was a faint but noticeable tension as the entourage greeted its arriving employer: a willingness to please coupled with an uncertainty in people’s voices, postures, in their offers and solicitousness. The staff knew there were too many of them, while each wanted to seem necessary.

A canopy appeared over Emma’s and Stuart’s heads, protecting them from wind and snow as they went up the walk. Polite inquiries fluttered about them as profuse as the downy flakes in the air.

Were they hungry? Were there others coming? Did his lordship’s business go well? Would his lordship care to handle the visiting cards left while he was gone, two from gentlemen of London? The cards and the post were on the tray in the library. One of the undergardeners broke his leg
…. There were other household matters.
Did his lordship wish to review them tonight or should they wait till morning?
Then
awkwardly, or awkward for Emma at least,
Should someone open up a fresh apartment for the lady?

Stuart ignored all but the last, at which he laughed drily, then answered, “Alas, yes,” with the tone of a rebuffed swain. Emma was relieved to hear the answer and—she sighed deeply to herself—reluctantly flattered.

Up the last step into the portico, just as the trip inside might have ended with her still clinging to some bit of dignity, a loud screech from the trees off to one side—like the scream of a child being murdered—pierced the night. Stuart was setting her down across his threshold, and she jerked, grabbed his neck, and all but hung there. He held on to her, fully up against him this time, as they entered his house and the door closed, but she didn’t care.

“
What
was that?” she asked, her blood chilled. She had never heard such a sound.

“Peacocks. We have about fifty that live on the grounds, mostly in the trees.”

Peacocks? She let out a breath of relief, frowning. Peacocks of all things. Though, come to think of it, how appropriate. The man who dressed like a Russian tsar kept a flock of ostentatious birds. She couldn’t remember if peacocks had ever been a part of the castle’s history or if they qualified as one of the new viscount’s “improvements.”

In his bright hall, the light, warm weight of his coat lifted from her shoulders. A servant folded it over his arm. She followed along in the little entourage, her bare feet on soft carpet—silky-soft under her toes. She walked across an intricate pattern of vivid colors—a rounded tree that rose to a point, at its base two birds, all in shades of greens and blues, salmons and navy, tans, beige, beautifully woven. The colors had a sheen as she walked, changing color, the same place going from pastel to deep, rich tones, depending on the angle.

Servants went ahead, lights throughout the house glowing. Emma glanced at Stuart’s face as they paraded down the length of a modest receiving hall. The planes of his face grew
less sharp in the surrounding gaslight. She couldn’t help but smile a little to herself, though, at the expression on his face, at his almost familiar stoicism: resignation as he attended to the matters of his complex household, made more complex still by her presence.

He directed someone to get down to her house, line up care for her sheep, cat, chickens, any creature or duty in need of attention. Questions came at him. How long had he been gone? she couldn’t help but wonder. In any event, he answered the list of queries with rattles of lists back, the last of which was, “Yes, dinner. The apartments opposite mine. Yes, Mrs. Hotchkiss will be staying several days. Bring dinner to my sitting room, something to eat that is English. And baths for two.”

A housemaid became confused, thinking for a moment that the master of the house was saying to bring both baths to his sitting room.

Stuart laughed again, then glanced at Emma over his shoulder, tilting his head at her, almost playfully. She realized, in the pause, that by withholding his answer for a second he was teasing her. Stuart teased without smiling.

Which, for some reason, made her smile back—she was getting used to his curiously dry humor. Plus his answer, the second on the subject, said they understood each other.

“Alas, no,” he said.

Emma breathed out relief. Even if she had begun by making a fairly miserable mess of the man-woman portion of their relationship, he was apparently willing to pick up where she dictated, with little more than a bit of torment over the fact that, having known him hardly half an hour, she’d somehow managed to—

No, better not to dwell on it.

The peacock outside screamed again, a distant, haunting call that was much more charming when heard, and understood for what it was, from the warmth and security of a house full of light, convenience, and safety.

Safe. She felt safe. Somewhere down the hill, her sheep would be attended to—by strangers, but by strangers who appeared to be accountable and motivated to please. Her sheep would receive hay or sugarbeets on the days when snow covered the grass. Weakening animals would be taken into the barn. The cat would find milk in its bowl. Perhaps her bread, her sewing, the small things she did for the village would indeed even continue. Her life, as she knew it, would be put in limbo for two weeks, but Stuart clearly intended that it would be there for her to go back to.

Good. Two weeks, then he and she would be done with each other. Though the details of their arrangement didn’t suit her precisely, the whole would work. In fact, despite herself, she found Stuart’s home, his life, him, all rather engagingly…new: interesting to witness. The fortnight to come was certainly going to be a holiday from her usual existence.

The peacock-master of the household continued to lead the way, while Emma followed barefoot on carpet after carpet of such softness and beautiful colors, she found herself mesmerized by what was under her feet. As they began up a curving staircase as wide as the main street in the village, she was aware that Stuart dropped things—his gloves, his scarf, his hat, a carriage blanket (he’d given his coat over to her, it seemed, taking the blanket for himself, wearing it all to way into the house), while his man, a maid, and a butler caught or picked up the items.

When at the top of the stairs his frock coat dropped, she jerked her head up. He was unbuttoning his vest as he went down a walkway—closed doors to one side, a momentous drop down into his reception hall over a banister to the other. As they moved along this upper floor, a smell, distinctively sweet and warm, seemed to come out and greet them. As if candles or oils, exotically spiced, burned somewhere.

Stuart himself lifted his nose in acknowledgment, then gave a snort of laughter. “Hiyam is here?” he asked someone.

“Yes, sir. Sorry not to mention. She and Aminah arrived two days ago.”

Emma watched the first look of genuine pleasure, home-coming, pass across Stuart’s face. “Good.” He glanced at her as he sniffed the air again. “I can always smell Hiyam’s arrival. Tonight, oranges, I think,” he said, then paused, as if trying to distinguish. “And cinnamon and cardamom, if I’m not mistaken.” He glanced at Emma. “Hiyam is my self-appointed minister of candles and incense when she visits. She’s never happy till my house smells like a mosque.”

“Relatives?”

“No.” He blinked, at a loss for a split second, then handed his vest over, beginning at the knot of his cravat. He wasn’t going to explain.

“Who are they?”

“They have become my wards. They live in London, where I’m supposed to be. They have apparently taken it upon themselves to hurry me up.”

“Unusual names.”

“Turkish.” He stopped at a door, opened it, then turned to her. “My apartments,” he said and indicated inside the rooms with a nod. With his long, white-sleeved arm, he pointed toward a door across, catercorner along the walkway. “Your rooms are there.”

Emma glanced behind her. The corridor bent; their doors more or less faced each other.

Stuart stood just inside his own doorway, his cravat falling loose in his fingers as he continued—in a tone not unlike that he used with his housemaids. “A bath will be up shortly. May I count on seeing you in an hour?” He wrestled the button of his collar, while again making a backward nod of his head, toward inside where he stood. “Here. I’d like to begin tonight, if you have no objection. After you’ve freshened up, we’ll discuss what we’ll be doing and what we’ll need over dinner, if that is all right.”

His manner said he wasn’t asking her leave for anything. He was telling her to be there. In his sitting room. Just outside his bedroom. She could see a large bed through a far doorway, a bed draped and hung in unexpectedly bright colors: orange, saffron, cinnamon, ruby, as light as saree silks, contrasting with velvet pillows, many, and the sparkle of beaded fringe. Hardly a typical English gentleman’s bedroom. Not that she was curious about it.

“In an hour then?” He was asking only for acknowledgment.

“Um, no. Do you mind if we have our meal downstairs.”

“Yes, I do. It’s inconvenient.”

She bit her lip, nonplussed. Don’t quibble, she told herself. He was being nice enough. And a bath. Oh, a bath sounded divine right now. With hot water, she would be willing to bet. She could scarcely bend her mind beyond the idea of clean, warm water, once it occurred to her. A bath, food, then an hour to give him the gist of the game, and she’d be ready for sleep. She was ready already; exhausted. Agree, she told herself.

While she shook her head no.

He startled. “Why, for godssake?” He lifted his chin as his collar came loose in his hand. He undid one more button, then stopped, standing straight and tall in his doorway, staring at her.

The servants, she realized, had faded away. As he and she stood alone, something changed between them. Downstairs, she could hear thunks of wood, a stove being stoked; warm water indeed on its way. Behind her the door to what would be her apartments clicked open. Someone, a woman, an upstairs maid perhaps, went in, moving about, even humming lightly.

His staff attacked the tasks they were given with energy. He was used to people who didn’t flout him, who didn’t wait to please.