The Duke's Dilemma (3 page)

She could see a stand of birch trees at the far end of the meadow, their leaves fluttering in the breeze like a great flock of silver butterflies, and, beyond them, the crystal waters of a small lake sparkled in the early morning sun. Like a child released from a tedious schoolroom, Emily gave a joyous cry, picked up her skirts and ran pell-mell across the open meadow toward the inviting scene.

Minutes later, warm-cheeked and breathless, she stood on the edge of the lake. For the first time since she’d boarded the London coach in her tiny village in the Cotswolds two months earlier, she felt at peace with the world.

With a deep breath of the cool morning air, she spread wide her arms and reveled in the blessed silence of this lovely spot. None of the rude noises of the city here. No carriages bumping over cobblestones, no vendors hawking their wares, no babble of voices nor clatter of horses’ hooves along congested streets. Just the sighing of the breeze through the trees and now and then the mournful bleating of a lamb for its ewe mother.

The bleating grew more insistent, and Emily looked about her to discover the source. It was immediately evident. At a nearby spot where the bank stood level with the lakeshore, a lamb that looked to be but a few days old stood withers deep in the water. From the skid marks at the lake’s edge, it was obvious the tiny creature had lost its footing while trying to drink and slid into the lake and now was too frozen with fear to try for dry land on its own.

Emily worked her way to within a few feet of the mired lamb, but it was too far out in the water for her to reach it. She tried coaxing it to come to her; but with every
word she uttered its eyes grew wilder, its bleating louder.

Finally, in desperation, she removed her boots and stockings, knotted her skirt between her legs above her knees and waded in after it. She had just managed to get her arms around the noisy, dripping creature when she heard the sound of hoof beats and, looking up, found she had an audience. One glimpse of the black-haired man astride the midnight black horse, and her heart nearly stopped. “The duke,” she gasped, clutching the noisy, wriggling lamb to her chest.

Then she looked again. This man might have shockingly similar facial features and coloring, but he was a far cry from the fastidious Duke of Montford. With his blue-black hair wildly windblown and his rugged jawline darkly shadowed by a day’s growth of beard, he looked more like a highwayman than a titled aristocrat. Tight fitting black trousers, mud-covered boots and a wide-sleeved homespun shirt open at the throat completed the thatch-gallows look of the handsome stranger.

He leaned forward in the saddle until he was almost directly above her. “The sights one sees on an early morning ride,” he remarked with a chuckle—further proof he was anyone but the Duke of Montford. Emily was certain
that
stiff-necked peer of the realm would never be guilty of anything as undignified as chuckling.

She took a closer look and found another striking difference between the two men. Unlike the chilling disdain she’d seen in the duke’s pale eyes, the eyes staring down at her fairly sparked with laughter.

“I suppose you must have a reason for bathing that lamb,” he said, surveying her with obvious skepticism, “but I cannot, at the moment, think what it might be.”

Emily was not in the mood for idle banter—especially from this scruffy example of local manhood. Her feet and legs were turning blue with the cold, her stomach rumbled with hunger, and the smell of wet wool was beginning to make her feel decidedly queasy. “I am not bathing him, you looby,” she stated indignantly. “I am rescuing him. He fell in the water and could not get out by himself.”

“Looby?” One black eyebrow shot upward. “You have an incautious tongue, miss. I cannot remember when anyone has dared address me so before.”

Emily raised an eyebrow of her own. “Well how do you expect me to address you, sir, when you sit warm and dry on your fine horse and leave a lady to stand in freezing water? Anyone but a looby would have offered me assistance the moment he rode up.”

The stranger’s hearty laugh shattered the stillness of the morning. “I beg your pardon, ma’ am. My wits must have temporarily gone begging. I was not aware I was in the presence of a
lady
. But then one so seldom finds a
lady
unescorted and knee deep in a lake at this hour of the morning.” So saying, he leaned even farther forward in the saddle, grasped Emily around the waist and hauled her, lamb and all, onto the bank with the same ease as another man might lift a feather.

Emily set the lamb on its feet, watched it scamper away, and hastily untied her skirts, aware a bold, silver gaze had fastened on her bare legs, then traveled upward to where the bodice of her hand-me-down dress strained across her bosom. A strange, shivery sensation slithered through her. No man had ever before looked at her in such an assessing fashion; whoever this rakish fellow might be, be was certainly no gentleman.

She picked up her boots and stockings and stared him defiantly in the face. “If you will be so good as to turn your head, sir, I shall finish dressing,” she said peevishly.

“As you wish, ma’ am.” He shrugged his powerful shoulders negligently. “But I wonder to what avail. I have already seen what you have to offer.”

Emily gasped, too shocked at this man’s effrontery to think of a ready answer. She quickly pulled on her stockings and boots and stalked away without another look in his direction. Moments later, to her disgust, she heard him ride up behind her. “You are heading in the wrong direction unless you mean to go to the manor house,” he said conversationally.

Emily plodded ahead. “Not that it is any of your concern, sir, but that is exactly where I mean to go.”

“You are not from the village then? How odd! You certainly have the look of a country woman.”

“And you, sir, look amazingly like the Duke of Montford, which only proves how deceiving appearances can be.”

“You know the duke?” He cantered forward and turned his horse to block her path.

” I do not
know
him, but I have seen him.”

“And you can easily tell us apart? Now that is truly remarkable. I have been told we look enough alike to be twins.”

“Hardly!” Emily took in his disreputable appearance. “Although I suppose, by some accident of birth, you could be a shirttail relation of sorts.”

He grinned. “As a matter of fact, the duke and I did have the same father.”

Emily stared at him mouth agape. This rogue was one of the former duke’s by-blows. No wonder he looked so much like the present duke. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Forgive me,” she said stiffly. “My remark was most unseemly. Whatever else your shortcomings might be, you cannot be held to blame for the manner of your birth.”

His grin widened, displaying a multitude of strong white teeth. “Truer words were never spoken, Miss…”

“Miss Emily Haliburton,” she said automatically, still mortified at the thought of unwittingly casting aspersions on the unfortunate fellow’s lineage. “And you were right in your supposition. I am a country woman. From the Cotswolds, to be precise. I am just at Brynhaven for a fortnight. The duke is hosting a house party.”

“So I’d heard.” He hesitated. “Of course, I only know the fellow by reputation, but rumor has it he is shopping for a wife.” He stopped short. “Never say you are one of the five…?”

Emily laughed. “A mudhen amidst the swans? Not likely, sir.”

“More like a plump little country sparrow, I should say.” His pale eyes raked her with a measuring gaze that noticeably quickened her already erratic heartbeat. “So then, Miss Emily Haliburton, late of the Cotswolds, how come you to be one of the duke’s guests?”

“I am not a guest—merely a companion to my cousin, Lady Lucinda Hargrave, which explains why I am, as you pointed out, unescorted. A companion scarcely needs a companion, does she? Besides,” she added lamely, “I am no green girl straight from the schoolroom.”

“I can see that,” he agreed so readily Emily felt certain she must have suddenly developed a full measure of crow’s feet and wrinkles.

He cocked his head thoughtfully. “I take it Lady Lucinda is one of the five beauties vying for the duke’s hand.”

“That is correct,” Emily said, cautiously circling the restless black stallion to make her way down the bank of the ha-ha. “I am here to offer the poor child what support I can.”

“Poor child? One would think your cousin had been sentenced to Tyburn,” he said, sounding a bit taken aback. “From what I’ve heard, Montford has the title and wealth to make him the catch of the season.”

“If one is looking for a
parti
so high in the instep he comes close to tripping over his own nose each time he puts one foot in front of the other,” Emily acceded sourly. “It was inevitable that Lucinda should come to the attention of the duke; she is the most beautiful girl to make her come-out this season, but she is entirely too gentle and sensitive to endure life with such a such a man.”

“Which translates into ‘the chit is a bit of a slow-top’ unless I miss my guess.” The stranger’s lips curled in a nasty smile. “So naturally, as companion to Lady Lucinda, the sharp-tongued Miss Emily Haliburton is expected to supply the brains which the lovely dimwit needs to trap the hapless duke into marriage. How could such a combination fail? I’ve been told the high flyers of the
ton
are a perverted lot. A
ménage à trois
may be just the thing to whet the appetite of a
roué
like Montford.”

“Why, you insufferable…” Emily sputtered, struggling to keep her temper under control and her skirts in place while she climbed over the low fence at the bottom of the ha-ha. She scrambled up the far bank, made a few quick repairs to her collapsing hairdo and looked back to find her tormenter watching her every move.

“How dare you address me as if I were one of the tavern doxies with whom your kind associates,” she panted.

“My kind!” The handsome devil let out a howl of laughter. “And what would a prim little country puss like you know about
my kind
?”

To that insolent question, Emily could think of nothing sufficient to express her outrage.

Under the circumstances, the only prudent move appeared to be immediate retreat. She had already stalked past the Grecian statuary and well into the parterre garden when it occurred to her that for a baseborn ruffian, this annoying fellow she had just traded wits with had had a rather amazing command of English.

T
he duke had still not made an appearance when Lady Hargrave, Lady Lucinda, and Emily joined the others for breakfast in the cheerful green and white morning room at five minutes before the hour of twelve noon. Lady Sudsley, however, made a point of informing them that their interim host, Mr. Rankin, had advised her
personally
that his grace had arrived at Brynhaven, but would not join his guests until dinner that evening.

Lucinda was pale as a ghost. She had complained of a headache and begged to be allowed to remain in bed, but Lady Hargrave would have none of that.

Emily sympathized with her cousin. She had a headache of her own—one that had started with the worrisome thought that very few low born fellows had the vocabularies of Oxford professors and had accelerated with her discovery that the tapes securing the back of her kerseymere gown had split open during her climb over the fence. No wonder that leering oaf, whoever he might be, had had such a smug expression on his face when she’ d reached the other side of the ditch. He must have gotten an eyeful of “what she had to offer” from his vantage point atop that devil horse of his.

Lady Hargrave seemed entirely oblivious of the megrims suffered by the two young women accompanying her. She was much too eager to assess the “competition” already enjoying the lavish breakfast laid out on the sideboard to consider anything else.

“Thank goodness I thought to have Madame Fanchon make up this French-green morning dress for me,” she whispered, when the guests looked up from their plates to cast critical eyes on the newcomers. She fluffed the neck ruffle of the fashionable creation which hugged her portly figure like a celadon sausage casing. “First impressions are so important.”

Emily assumed it must be the four other anxious mamas she was endeavoring to impress since the duke had chosen to forego the privilege of viewing their daughters in all their morning finery.

Mr. Rankin, who had leapt to his feet the moment they entered the room, stepped forward to introduce them to the assembled guests, including three passably pretty young blond ladies, Lady Sudsley s daughter (a ravishing redhead), four of London ‘s most dashing young Corinthians who looked enough alike to be brothers , and Percival Seymour Tremayne, the Earl of Chillingham. Emily had heard that the earl was heir presumptive to the Duke of Montford’ s title and estates until such time as the duke produced a son of his own.

The earl appeared to be no more than twenty, with a thin, anxious-looking face, ears that protruded from the sides of his head like door knobs, and an oversized Adam’s apple which seemed to have a life of its own. He was a true pink of the
ton
, with collar points that stabbed his cheekbones, gleaming tasseled Hessians and a cutaway coat and breeches in remarkably vivid shade of rose. With his thatch of unruly straw-colored hair and attenuated physique, the heir presumptive closely resembled an upended broom with a pink handle, and Emily was hard put to keep from laughing when she saw his goggle-eyed reaction to her lovely cousin—until she caught Lucinda’s blushing response.

Emily took another look at the gawky earl.
Could this unlikely Galahad be the knight who would rescue the fair Lucinda from the dragon duke?
Miracles had come wrapped in stranger packages than this, she told herself, and filed her observations away for future reference.

Breakfast completed, Mr. Rankin announced that the duke had instructed him to conduct a tour of Brynhaven for any of his guests who were interested. Lady Hargrave declined as her knees were still tender from her abortive curtsy, but she immediately pushed Lucinda forward. “Good way to see what will be yours one day,” she hissed, and since Lucinda had a death grip on Emily’s hand, the two found themselves part of the group of eager young ladies gathered around Mr. Rankin. Lady Sudsley and the other mothers followed close behind, with the male members of the party bringing up the rear—all except the Earl of Chillingham, who declared his intention of taking the tour even though he “knew the manor house as well as the back of his hand”…and promptly attached himself to Lucinda’s side with all the fervor of a honey bee hovering over the perfect flower. Lucinda, whose hitherto pale cheeks had miraculously regained their usual healthy glow, cast him a shy smile, and the earl’s Adam’s apple took such a leap, Emily was not the least surprised his precisely tied cravat ended up slightly askew.

“We shall begin the tour in the domed entrance hall,” Mr. Rankin said and proceeded to give a brief history of the house and the seven eccentric dukes of Montford who had preceded the present holder of the title. Emily was intrigued by both the colorful stories and the wry humor with which Mr. Rankin related them, but she could see he was drawing nothing but yawns from the rest of the group.

From there, he led them through the vast ballroom with its banks of crystal teardrop chandeliers and rows of cheval mirrors extending the to ceiling, then into the duchess’s private salon, also known as the gold salon, since the walls were covered with pale green satin embossed with paper-thin gold leaf foil in a floral motif.

Lady Sudsley plopped her ample frame onto the nearest Hepplewhite chair and announced that she was perfectly content to forego the balance of the tour and spend the next hour in this delightful room. The other ladies immediately decided to join her, and from the avaricious looks cast on the delicate
objets d’art
with which the room abounded, it was obvious to Emily that each was laying plans for the day when her daughter would be the next duchess to claim ownership of the salon and its priceless contents. For the first time, she found herself feeling a little sorry for the high and mighty Duke of Montford. With all his wealth and power, he would never know the kind of unquestioning devotion her sweet-natured mother had lavished on her impractical father.

Their next stop was the duke’s library—an impressive collection of first editions that made Emily’s mouth water just gazing at them. From there, they moved on to the games room, where they lost several members of the party to the billiard table—all except the besotted young earl, who remained glued to Lucinda’s side while Mr. Rankin and the remaining members of his tour examined the manor’s many other salons, including the green salon, the blue salon, the Grecian salon and the pretentious Chinese salon, which the last duchess had furnished with a plethora of authentic Fourteenth Century red lacquer furniture and exquisite hand painted screens depicting the development of the arts during the Ming Dynasty.

Lucinda pronounced this replica of the emperor’s throne room “very pretty and cozy,” and the earl fervently agreed, declaring it his favorite room at Brynhaven. Then, since Lucinda complained she was exhausted from the strenuous tour, he tucked her slender arm into his and led her through a convenient set of French windows to a bench in the Duchess’s rose garden. Emily watched them go with her blessing. With twenty-four guests and two hundred servants roaming about the house and grounds, she could see no impropriety in two starry-eyed young people sitting together in the spring sunshine.

“You are obviously a patient woman, Miss Haliburton, as well as one with a forgiving disposition.” Mr. Rankin ‘s dark eyes twinkled behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. “It is all too apparent I have bored the rest of our little group to flinders.”

“I cannot imagine why,” Emily declared. “I found both your discourse and your delivery quite fascinating.”

“Why thank you, Miss Haliburton.” An appreciative smile brightened Mr. Rankin ‘s thin face. “Would I be assuming too much then to hope you might wish to see more of the house?”

Emily stared at him, dumbfounded. “Surely, sir, you cannot mean you would conduct a tour just for me.”

“I cannot think of anything I would rather do,” he said earnestly. “The perceptive questions you’ve asked have shown you to be a highly intelligent young woman—something I rarely meet in my line of work.” He studied her closely. “You would not by any chance be related to the noted scholar, Sir Farley Haliburton, would you?”

“He was my papa,” Emily said, flushing with pleasure. “You know his work?”

“The duke and I have followed his research with great interest. In fact, two of his publications are in the library of the duke’s London townhouse.” He frowned. “But you referred to your father in the past tense. Could it be that the academic world has lost one of its most devoted researchers of ancient myths and legends?”

“Papa died three months ago,” Emily managed in a choked voice. She looked away, avoiding Mr. Rankin ‘s perceptive gaze, lest he see the sudden tears misting her eyes.

“My deepest sympathy, Miss Haliburton,” he said gravely. “We are all the poorer for his passing.” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “With your permission, I will forego showing you the kitchens, the bakery and the orangery, unless you particularly wish to see them.”

Emily shook her head, still too moved by this stranger’s sympathy to trust her voice.

“And I doubt you would find the shops which headquarter the carpenters, painters, roofers, and masons of much interest. Suffice it to say, it takes a small army of such people to maintain a place this size.” He pulled a thin gold watch from his vest pocket. “I have an appointment with the duke in one hour, so we shall have to put off the stables until another day. Do you ride, Miss Haliburton?”

“I rode a great deal in the Cotswolds. The squire whose land adjoined my father ‘s was happy to have someone take his nags for a gallop.” Emily managed a smile. “But I haven’ t ridden in the two months I’ve spent in London.”

“Ah! Then we shall have to do something about that.” He offered her his arm. “But in the meantime, we have just enough time to see one of Brynhaven ‘s most interesting rooms—the family portrait gallery. Unfortunately it is located in another wing of the house, but if you have no objections to a bit of a walk.”

“I don’t mind a walk in the least.”

“Capital! Then if you would care to take my arm, Miss Haliburton, we shall wend our way through the labyrinthine halls of Brynhaven and hopefully become better acquainted in the process.”

Emily couldn’t remember when she’d met anyone as kind or as easy to converse with as the duke’s mild-mannered man-of-affairs. One thing led to another and before they reached their destination, she found herself telling him about the disquisition on ancient Mesopotamian legends which her father had been working on at his death. She was in the process of confessing her intention to complete it for publication in his name when the footman who accompanied them opened the door to the vast, hall-like gallery. The words froze on her tongue when she found herself staring at a life-sized portrait of the first Duke of Montford.

“Handsome fellow,” Mr. Rankin remarked. “And the present duke looks exactly like him. In fact, as you’ll see as we progress from one generation to another, all the Dukes of Montford bear a striking resemblance to one another.”

Emily nodded. The frenzied thumping of her heart made speech impossible. She had recognized a similarity between the present Duke of Montford and her morning’s tormenter, but this portrait made her realize just how similar the two of them were. Her heart skipped a beat.
If indeed there were two of them!

The inscrutable silver eyes staring down at her from the wall of the gallery looked frighteningly familiar, as did the raven hair and sensuous mouth, the powerful shoulders and lean hips. Except for his ninth century costume, this haughty aristocrat who had originated the Montford dynasty could easily have been the mysterious stranger she’d encountered on her morning walk.

She closed her eyes and willed her heart to stop its thunderous pounding. But her mind flooded with memories—of a rich, cultured voice and strong, tapered fingers grasping her about the waist. And something else she hadn’t registered at the time A heavy, gold signet ring on the third finger of the stranger ‘s left hand.

She opened her eyes and stared in horror at the heavy gold signet ring on the third finger of the left hand of the first Duke of Montford.

Emily dressed for her first—and possibly last—dinner at Brynhaven with special care—as special as a limited wardrobe of ill-fitting, hand-me-down gowns would allow, that is. None of them were actually suitable for a paid companion, but Lady Hargrave had waved Emily’s objections aside, declaring she would have to make do, as family finances were at too low tide to worry about outfitting someone with no social status and no hope of gaining any.

The dress Emily chose was a cream-colored silk with long sleeves to which Maggie Hawkes had added a burgundy overskirt. The color combination and fabric were more suited to December than May and the
décolletage
, which had been modest on Lucinda’ s diminutive bosom barely managed to cover Emily’s more generous endowments. The only thing to be said for Lucinda’s cast-offs was that they were of a more recent vintage than the threadbare garments she herself had brought from the West Country.

All things considered, Emily had fervently prayed she would not be expected to dine with the invited guests, but Mr. Rankin had insisted she was expected to join the duke’s table. Interpreting her reluctance as dismay at being thrust into a level of society far above the one she normally moved in, he had assured her, “You have no need to be nervous, Miss Haliburton. I shall instruct the housekeeper to seat you next to me so we may continue this fascinating discussion on Mesopotamian legends.”

Now, waiting for her aunt and cousin to complete their toilettes, she found herself hoping that Mr. Rankin would not be put in an embarrassing situation by befriending her if the handsome brigand she’d crossed swords with that morning did indeed turn out to be the Duke of Montford playing at being one of the common folk.