The Rejected Suitor (4 page)

When the
duchess took her leave, clicking the door closed behind her, Emily fell onto
her bed in a fit of laughter. The very idea of Fennington and her off to Gretna
Green was absurd.

And the
Black Wolf? Mama must have been reading the latest gossip in the Times.
Heavens, most women in England dreamed about eloping with the Wolf. The English
revered the man as much as Wellington himself. No one knew the identity of the
man that had crossed French lines serving as a secret agent for the British
during the war. Rumor had even declared that the Black Wolf had made it into
Napoleon's bedchambers to steal a missive and had barely escaped with his life.

Emily
sank back into her pillows and smiled at the thought of her mama and the Black
Wolf meeting at a masquerade ball. Goodness, the man would probably be old,
fat, and bald. Would not her mama be surprised?

Emily
sat up, her face instantly sobering at the disturbing thought. Old. Fat. Bald.
Three more reasons why she would be the one to choose her husband. There was no
telling what kind of man her brothers would choose for her.

Egypt
pounced onto her bed, and she jumped in surprise. "Ah, did Mama leave you
to guard over me?"

Emily
stroked the cat's snow-white cloak, fingering the scar she had stitched up a
year ago when Egypt had fallen onto a fireplace poker. Before the accident, the
fluffy feline had hissed whenever Emily came into the room, but now Egypt was
her best friend, that was, besides Agatha and Jane Greenwell.

Jane,
only a year younger than Emily's twenty years, had resided at Hemmingly since
the girl's parents died about five years ago. Emily smiled when she thought
about how her friend would react when told about the plans to find Emily a
suitable husband. Needless to say, she would be furious.

Emily
turned suddenly when Egypt began to hiss and arch her spine. "What is it,
sweeting?"

A slight
tap on the window drew Emily's attention where a soft breeze sent the curtains
rippling against the frame.  "Why, 'tis only the wind, Egypt."

"Lady
Emily," a voice called softly. "I say, Lady Emily, are you
awake?"

Egypt
hissed again, and Emily slipped her wary gaze back to the window. That low,
raspy voice belonged to only one man. "Mr. F-Fennington?" Disbelief
hung on the end of his name.

"I
say, Lady Emily, can you hear me?"

Emily
shot from her bed, crossing the floor to peer over her sill. "Good
gracious! Whatever are you doing?"

The
large figure of Mr. James Theodore Fennington clung precariously to the trellis
outside her window. The dark cloaked body looked more like a swinging pendulum
than a man on a mission, especially with that wretched quizzing glass winking
in the glow of a lantern he held in his hand. How daft could the man be? Her brothers
would shoot him on sight! To think she thought of marriage to this idiotic male
was enough to send her into another fit of giggles.

"Mr.
Fennington, do have a care."

"Help,"
the man croaked, grasping for leverage on the ledge as he miraculously clipped
the lantern onto the vine.

The
light gave Emily a clear picture of the situation below, and her expression
stiffened at the sound of an inebriated belch. Shock quickly turned to
annoyance at his stupid feat.

"Mr.
Fennington, you are foxed to the gills! You must leave here at once! The way
you came, if you please."

"I
fear, dear lady, I cannot. Indeed, I may die in the next few moments if I am
not carried into safety. But I would die for just one touch of your delicate
hand."

"Doing
it bit too brown, Mr. Fennington, even for a man in your state." But Emily
knew if she did not think of something quick, the idiot would fall to his
death. With a murmur of disbelief, she bent over the sill, grabbed the swaying
man, and with his help, dragged him into her chambers.

"Good
evening, Lady Emily. Your servant, madam." He bowed, his tall frame
swaying before her, mimicking the uneven cadence of the curtains rapping
against her window.

Emily
stared in openmouthed wonder. A drunkard was standing in the middle of her bedchambers,
acting as if he were meeting her at Prinny's Christmas ball.

"Mr.
Fennington, I daresay, this is the most incredulous thing I have ever been
witness to."

He
simply smiled back . . . swaying.

Emily
reacted with an icy stare that would even set Roderick faltering back a few
feet. Thunder and Zeus, the man was mad. "Mr. Fennington, if you think for
one minute that I would take kindly to your visit, you had better think
twice."

To her
surprise, the man took hold of her hand and squeezed. "Knew you were a shy
one, my dear. Precisely why I climbed through the window without a word to you
beforehand. Time is of the essence here, and I beg you to allow me to handle
all the details while we slip away into the night sight unseen."

"Oh,
for the love of the king," Emily uttered, stomping her foot and trying to
pull her hand away from his grip, amazed at the impertinence of the man.
"If you do not believe me, I daresay, my brothers will not take kindly to
your visit either."

"The
devil with your domineering brothers." With one quick move, the man jerked
her into his arms and pressed his wet lips to her neck. "Dearest, lady. I
love you. Love you."

"Mr.
Fennington, I beg you!"

"Ah,
my little cabbage, we will be together soon and you will never have to beg me
for anything."

Little
cabbage? Beg him? Why the insufferable pig! Emily flattened her hands against
his broad chest and pushed, but she was no deterrent to the insistent man and
his roving mouth. "Have a care, sir. My brothers will boil you in oil if
they discover you here. You must take your leave, I implore you!"

"Oil?
Ha!" His strong hands gripped her waist in a tightening embrace, and at
that moment, she wished she had let him fall to the ground.

"Unhand
me, sir . . . before I do something rash!"

"Come
away with me, ma petite."

"Are
you mad?" She grabbed his waistcoat for balance, accidentally grabbing
hold of that stupid quizzing glass. She gave him a swift kick in the shin and
was instantly released.

Curled
on the bed, Egypt hissed loudly. Fennington fell back, stunned, but before he
could say a word, his eyes widened in what Emily could only perceive as sheer
black terror.

Her
heart all but stopped as she slowly turned around.

"Roderick,"
she said, quickly drawing away from her intruder. "Th-this is not what it
seems."

Roderick
stalked across the threshold of her bedchambers, his eyes darkening with fury.
Like a general, he stood feet apart, his voice as hard and cold as the pistol
pointed toward Fennington's belly. "Do believe we can do better than oil, do
you not think so, gentlemen?" he replied, glancing over his shoulder.

Fennington
stood like a prisoner awaiting his execution as three more sets of feet thudded
across the floor. Clayton and Marcus, still wearing their shiny Hessians, and
Stephen barefoot
,
looking
as if he had been interrupted from his bath, clad only in a pair of
fawn-colored breeches, crossed their arms over well-muscled torsos, daring
Fennington to make a move.

"Oil
might be too good for the man," Clayton replied, circling the now
pale-faced intruder. Marcus's broad shoulders blocked the doorway.

Emily
took in the overwhelming sight and swallowed hard.

Fennington
staggered back. "G-gentlemen, I am unarmed."

"That,"
Roderick ground out, "is the only thing that saves me from pulling the
trigger, you conniving dolt."

Emily
watched in horror as Roderick drew the pistol higher. "Roderick,
please!"

Roderick's
steely gaze turned on her. "Stay out of this."

She
stiffened. She had no wish to further Mr. Fennington's design on her, but her
amorous intruder had turned a ghastly white and his knees were knocking like
billiard balls. This was dreadful. She opened her mouth, intending to save the
fool when to her surprise, the strapping man fainted dead at her feet.

Roderick
shot her a disgusting look. "What have you to say for yourself, Emily
Anne?"

Emily's
head shot up from Fennington's limp form only to meet four pairs of hard,
glaring eyes, but for some insane reason, she almost let out a hysterical giggle.
What could she say? It was as if she were at Drury Lane watching a comedy of
manners. The entire evening was absurd.

However,
Roderick's next words sent her into a pure panic. "You think this amusing?
Perhaps we should send you to the wilds up north to live with Great Uncle
Cathaven."

Emily's
eyes rounded in shock. "You would not dare?"

Uncle
Cathaven was an old, eccentric man who lived like a hermit in a worn-down
castle in the most desolate part of Scotland. He refused to talk to anyone but
his housekeeper and butler and only when he deemed it absolutely necessary—like
once a year when it was time for his bath. She shivered at the thought. Not
even Stephen could abide the man. But she must proceed to Hemmingly. It was her
only chance of freedom.

Avoiding
the hardened glares sent her way, she dropped her gaze, catching sight of Mr.
Fennington's blue eyes squinting up at her. Why, the bamboozler was acting!
Well, if he could do it, so could she.

"Did
you hear me, Emily Anne?" Roderick growled.

Emily
looked up. Oh, she heard every single word. Her brothers were going to marry
her to some suitable fop by year's end. Over her dead body! She gave Roderick
one last look and threw her hand to her head, swaying like the girls she had
seen in a squeeze at one of Lady Cherwood's balls. She added a groan for
emphasis. Men hated that. Especially the males standing before her, their eyes
turning wide with fear. What a ninny she had been. She should have tried this
days ago.

"Em?"
Frowning, Roderick moved toward her, stuffing his pistol into Clayton's hands.
"Em? I meant only . . . Em?"

Inwardly
smiling, Emily gave a light gasp, sending the males encircling her like four
mothers to a cub. With another angelic groan, she snapped her eyes closed, and
for the first time in her life, faked a swoon, dropping both her body and
Fennington's monstrous quizzing glass into Roderick's open hands.

Chapter Three

A
n early morning walk on the grounds
of Hemmingly Hall was exactly what Emily needed to calm her mind from her
brothers' bothersome plans. It took a bit of begging and three long days, but
she was finally here. She spied Agatha Appleby’s familiar redbrick mansion with
its neatly trimmed evergreens lining the graveled drive and smiled.

Taking
in the cool, crisp air, she raised her face to the puffs of clouds overhead,
allowing herself a much-needed sigh. It was good to be back with Agatha. Here
she could think clearly without her overbearing siblings vexing her at every
turn.

She felt
as if a great weight had been taken off her shoulders when she had arrived at
Hemmingly the previous evening. Exhausted, she had retired to her bedchambers
and no sooner had slipped into bed than Agatha had entered with a tray of hot
chocolate and biscuits. Eventually Emily poured out her problems to the older
woman.

Smiling
as she made her way into the hall, Emily recalled Agatha's vehemence on her
behalf and felt a growing confidence in her bosom. Agatha would let her stay as
long as she wished.

Feeling
better than she had in weeks, Emily headed toward Hemmingly's library to search
for a new novel from the Minerva Press that Jane mentioned had been added to
Agatha's extensive book collection.

Emily,
an unconscious grin still tipping the corners of her lips, opened her
Wordsworth book that she had taken on her morning stroll and was so engrossed
in one of the poems that when she turned the corner, she failed to notice the
man withdrawing from the library.

She
slammed into the tall figure with the elegance of an intoxicated dandy. With a
horrified gasp, she bounced backward and fell onto the marble floor with a
thud. Behind her a salmon-colored porcelain vase crashed to the floor,
shattering into infinite pieces. Heat engulfed her.

She
blinked and caught sight of a pair of shiny Hessian boots a foot away. How
utterly humiliating. With a groan, she pushed her raised skirts back over her
ankles and lifted her gaze slowly, knowing instantly that this was no ordinary
guest. It was strange that Agatha had not mentioned any other person staying at
Hemmingly. Unless—

Her eyes
immediately clung to a pair of athletic-looking legs encased in buckskin
breeches. She vaguely heard a male voice, but her ears were roaring with the
inevitable. Shock thickened her tongue as she raised her gaze higher only to
meet with a waistcoat of burgundy followed by a neat white cravat and a pair of
wide shoulders wrapped up in a perfectly fitted brown coat. Dark brown hair
tilted toward her, but it was when a pair of familiar amber eyes stared back at
her that her blood froze.

"Do
beg your pardon, Lady Emily. Are you hurt?"

The
sound of her name on Mr. Jared Ashton's lips cut into her heart like a
guillotine. No, he was Lord Stonebridge now. She stared numbly at the tanned
hand reaching out to her and stiffened.

His
voice was deeper than she recalled, more controlled, and much to her dismay, it
sounded as if the man were truly concerned about her welfare. He appeared
larger than she remembered. This man was no longer the long-legged boy that had
stolen her heart. No indeed.

 Before
she could rise, a steely grip took hold of her elbows, whisking her to a
standing position, as if she were a mere feather.

"Pray,
forgive my clumsiness. I have not hurt you, have I?"

Her
blood tingled from his touch. "I'm f-fine."

But she
was not fine at all. Shock had paralyzed her. He was supposed to be in India.
Agatha had mentioned that very fact in a letter posted only two months ago. Why
was he here? Now of all times?

The
scent of soap from his morning bath filled her senses, reminding her of the
last time she saw him, the last time she rested her head against that broad
chest when he had promised to come to Elbourne Hall and claim her as his own.
But he had not come. He had broken her heart, and now she felt as if a thousand
pins were pressing into it.

"I
cannot say the pleasure is mine, Lord Stonebridge," she said stiffly,
lifting her gaze to meet his.

He
seemed to ignore her jibe and continued his lame apology. "I missed you
coming around the corner. You startled me." He watched her intently, as if
waiting for her to answer.

He
finally broke through the unbearable silence, ripping her composure in two.
"How long has it been, Lady Emily?"

How
long? The man must be mad? Did he not hear her rebuff? "How long?"
she asked tartly, inwardly shaking with fury. How long does it take a heart to
heal? Did he believe for one minute she had forgotten? Did he believe she had
pined for him all these years?

"Let
me see . . ." She tapped a stiff finger against her chin. "How long
since you broke your promise? Tricked a naïve young girl into dreams of a
future? Made her see the true meaning of cad? Hmmm, how long ago was that, pray
tell?"

"I
had obligations," he said harshly, his eyes turning swiftly to anger.
"You were . . . young."

"Young?"
she snapped, ignoring the thin layer of ice wrapping around her heart.
"You were a coward. Could you not have written once? Or were you too
afraid to tell me the truth? Perhaps it was my father you were afraid of?"

A muscle
jumped in his jaw. "One, I am not a coward. Two, I wrote. And three, fear
is not a quality I have ever admired." He paused. "Situations
occurred that altered my plans."

Emily
stared, dumbfounded. Oh, why had not Agatha told her that he was staying at
Hemmingly? She would have rather remained with Uncle Cathaven up north than
have had to endure this torture. Of course, dear Agatha had no inkling of her
attachment to Jared, so why should the older lady even care to offer the information
that her long-departed nephew was making an unexpected trip to Hemmingly?

"You're
bleeding," he said, grabbing her hand.

She
jerked away from his touch. His closeness was like a magnet, pulling her to
him, but she needed to keep her distance, needed to think. Needed to keep away.

"I
have no designs on you, my lady." His mocking smile only angered her
further. "Only look at your finger. I daresay, it is bleeding."

She dropped
her gaze to her hand. A bead of blood fell from her pinky finger to the floor.
At that precise moment something in her chest tightened painfully. Seeing this
man again crumbled the armor she had erected so carefully around herself for
the past three years. It galled her that one look, one word, from Lord
Stonebridge tumbled her back into a blithering fool of emotions.

"Don't
ever touch me again." Her words were a bare whisper, but he immediately
dropped his hand to his side. Head held high, she gave him one last glare and
spun on her heels to leave. But a viselike grip wrapped around her arm, holding
her in place.

"Emily,
stop this nonsense. We are adults now, not a pair of cow-eyed youths. We need
to put the past behind us."

She
whirled around to glare at him. Cow-eyed youths? Was that what he thought of
their relationship? "I asked you not to touch me, my lord," she
countered icily.

"You've
changed, little one." His short bark of laughter held no amusement as he
released his hold on her.

Of
course she had changed. She was no longer an innocent girl who believed in love
at first sight, and he was no longer her knight in shining armor. The thought
brought a lump to her throat, making her all the more determined to choose her
own future. She fought her swirling emotions trying to calm herself. "As I
see it, Agatha and Jane have no reason to believe we have had any past history
except being mere acquaintances. I, for one, would like to keep it that
way."

His dark
eyes sharpened like the points on the end of a quill. "I, too, have no
wish to dredge up the past, Emily."

Her gaze
met his in a battle of wills, and she fought the need to ask him why he had
done this to her. Why had he made such a fool of her? Why had he made her fall
in love with him and then vanish with another woman, without a word? He had
never written to her. Never.

"So
we are agreed, then?" she asked.

He
nodded silently, his expression tight.

"Very
good," she continued, her heart thudding. "When we meet upon further
occasion, which we will since you are Agatha's nephew and I am to be staying
here indefinitely . . ."

"Indefinitely?"
He raised an inquisitive brow as if he could only hope her stay was of short
duration.

She
boldly met his gaze. "Yes, indefinitely, and as such, I will remind you
that I have not given you leave to use my Christian name. I am Lady Emily to
you, and I always will be."

The
corner of his lip twisted upward. "Direct hit, my dear. I daresay, we
might have won the war quicker if we had you firing the cannons at
Waterloo."

Emily
felt her cheeks warm. The insolence of that man. How dare he!

Feeling
there was nothing more to say, she pivoted on her heels and started down the hall,
her slippers thwacking the marble hallway with every angry step. She would have
made a dignified exit if her feet had not met the water spill trailing along
the hall from the cracked vase, but the next thing she knew, her legs lifted
out from under her and she hit the floor with an undignified plop.

She was
more embarrassed than hurt since it was the second time she fell that day.
However, when the sound of clamoring footsteps closed in behind her, she
flinched at the thought of the man touching her again and raised her hand in
warning. "I will be quite all right. Just stay away."

The
clack of heels stopped abruptly, and she could feel Jared's withering glare
burning into her back. His presence had shaken her more than she wanted to
admit. Heavy footsteps retreated down the hallway, followed by a curse. Tears
of frustration filled her eyes. He meant nothing to her now. Nothing at all.

She took
a deep, consoling breath and started to rise only to be startled by a loud
bark. Heart thumping, she raised her blurry gaze and immediately locked eyes on
a colossal brown ball of fur racing toward her as if she were a piece of raw
meat for the taking.

The
scream died in her throat. She whipped her hands to her face, curling into a
ball, and waited for the bite. She waited for the end of it all when something
slimy pressed against her face. Letting out a squeak of protest, she stiffened
while the hot, pungent breath of the massive dog almost made her swoon.

"Nigel!"

The
shouted command came from behind, and the creature gave one last lick to her
face, whimpered in her ear, and pulled away. With a shaking breath, Emily dared
to look up, realizing that it was Jared who had given the firm order for the
dog to retreat. As for the enemy, Nigel had moved away from her, taking a grand
seat in the small alcove of the hallway where a knee-high statue of some Greek
goddess watched the scene with glaring eyes.

Except
for the earl's command, she had never heard the man approach. "Nigel is
your dog?" she asked, looking up.

To her
dread, the corner of those beautiful golden eyes crinkled with amusement, and
he nodded. "Brilliant creature. However, Nigel can be a bit overbearing sometimes,
and even a bit playful with the ladies when I'm not around to supervise."

"Playful?
Your dog came at me as if I were a huge bone!" She loved dogs, but that
beast was a menace.

The
earl's mouth twitched upward as his gaze roved slowly over her person.
"Must be that scent you're wearing. Nigel rather enjoys the smell of rose
water and lavender." The smile in his eyes grew. "Adores the ladies
who wear it, too."

She
avoided his steadfast gaze, but there was almost an inexplicable note of
tenderness in his voice that unnerved her, and she slapped a hand to her skirt.
"Well, I daresay, as long as Nigel roams the halls of Hemmingly, I will
make a point of wearing nothing at all then."

Too
late, she realized her mistake.

Jared's
deep laugh rumbled down the hall. "I do not believe that would be a
deterrent for anyone, Lady Emily. You might receive more than dogs licking at
your face."

His
meaning was quite clear, and she clamped her mouth shut. There was nothing she
could say that would save her dignity, so she said nothing at all. Needing to
separate herself from this disagreeable man as soon as possible, she pushed to
stand, but before she could protest, he reached beneath her arms and gently
pulled her upward . . . again.

Except
this time she stumbled into his chest, and his warm breath pressed upon her
cheek, doing silly things to her stomach. The heat of his firm fingers lingered
on her skin, and her heart skidded to a halt. Horrified at her body's
treacherous behavior, she stepped back, her slipper crunching against the
broken vase. "You sh-should teach that dog of yours some manners."

"Nigel
would never hurt you."