License to Kiss Page 5

  He was far too beautiful and she had no sense in his presence. With just a glance, he had the power to cut through her defenses and weaken her resolve. It was deplorable that he should use his allure for something so underhanded.

  Leaning in, he brushed his soft lips across hers. “If I discover you have left this room, then I shall employ more creative methods to confine you.”

  Emily blinked. Only Stephen could make a threat sound so enticing. “I feel it only fair to warn you, I am not a woman who is easily constrained.”

  He smiled. “We shall see.”

  With long, even strides, Stephen made his way down to the stables, grateful to be out in the crisp open air. His groomsman was just cinching Pharaoh’s saddle.

  “He’s ready for you, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Robert.”

  He sucked in a deep breath. The fresh air went a long way in restoring his mood and he pushed Pharaoh as far as the beast was willing.

  He struggled to keep his thoughts focused on Miss Westgate. But despite his best efforts, his thoughts kept circling back to Emily. What was it about that woman that rendered him so damned daft in her presence?

  She was only a woman—and a maid, no less. Why did she have such a hold on him?

  Indeed, he could scarcely close his eyes without imagining her naked body beneath him, his lips trailing across her petal-pink skin. Her breasts would be creamy and fit perfectly in his palm. He would squeeze them gently, testing their weight, and her eyes would flutter closed as she moaned softly.

  When he returned to the house, Keating was already waiting for him, brushing out his black dinner jacket.

  “How long do we have before the dinner bell is rung?”

  “A quarter of an hour, my lord.”

  “Have Mr. Grant and Miss Blanche arrived yet?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Keating replied.

  Grant and Stephen had been friends since childhood, when Stephen had fished Grant out of the pond near the Durham family seat. He was only one year Stephen’s junior and from a respectable family. Miss Blanche was his sister. She was elegant and accomplished and would be a valuable friend to Miss Westgate.

  Ten minutes later, he was dressed and downstairs. He found Miss Westgate and Miss Pearce in the parlor, happily engaged in a game of cards. Grant sat in the chair opposite Miss Westgate and Stephen’s mother sat opposite Miss Pearce. Miss Westgate laughed as she slapped a card down on the table.

  “I have finally won!” She looked to Grant, then to Miss Pearce, expectantly. “Will you not congratulate me?”

  “Madam, I bow to your superior skills,” Grant said.

  “Forgive my tardiness,” Stephen interrupted, drawing everyone’s attention to him. “Grant,” he greeted. “It’s good to see you, old friend.” He glanced around the room. “Has your sister not come?”

  “She is home tending to a cold, though she sends her apologies for spoiling your dinner party. Without her I fear we are woefully uneven.”

  “I am sorry to hear she is ill.” Miss Pearce patted her untidy mound of curls. “Though I am pleased she did not come and infect us all. There are some who insist on going out into society, though they are sniffling and coughing something horrid. ‘Tis not well done. Not at all.” She paused and squinted at Grant. “Are you feeling quite well, Mr. Grant?”

  “You have no cause for concern, Miss Pearce. I avoid my sister at all costs. Though we reside in the same house, it’s quite possible I have not seen her in a fortnight. I daresay, I should not know her if I saw her on the street.”

  Miss Westgate laughed, tsking at Grant in flirtatious disapproval. “Now, Mr. Grant, you are unkind. When you speak so earnestly, Miss Pearce is likely to believe you.”

  “Pay him no heed,” Mother said. “He is beyond reform.”

  “Incorrigible,” Stephen muttered.

  Mr. Hawkins entered the room. “Dinner is served, your ladyship.”

  His mother turned to everyone. “Shall we go through?”

  “Oh, yes, I am famished,” Miss Westgate said, rising. She smiled at Grant, who was offering his arm. “May I make free to call you The Incorrigible Mr. Grant? It rather becomes you.”

  “You may call me whatever you wish,” Grant replied. “I am your servant, ma’am.”

  Dinner was dull and overdrawn as was the conversation. With the gentlemen outnumbered by one, the topic naturally strayed to lace (yet again) and fashion plates before inevitably landing on marriage—or, at least, the implication of it.

  Miss Westgate took a sip of her wine. “Your home is perfection, Lady Durham. May I commend you on your impeccable eye for color? I hope you will have time to counsel me when I set about furnishing my own home.”

  “You are very kind,” Mother said. “I would be happy to assist you with anything you may require.”

  Miss Westgate turned her attention to Stephen. “Speaking of undertaking such tasks. Do you plan on establishing your own home in London, my lord?”

  Of a sudden, he was on the spot. He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “I imagine I will. Eventually.”

  “Eventually?” Miss Pearce scoffed. “You are well past the age in which a man should strike out on his own.”

  Christ, this was all he needed. Miss Pearce was clearly a woman who spoke her mind freely and without fear of reprisal. Members of his own class would never have called him out so abominably. Her manners were coarse and lacking in civility.

  Miss Westgate interceded on his behalf. “But of course you’ve been occupied with more important matters of late. We were saddened to hear of your father’s ill health. Has he much improved since last summer?”

  Stephen cleared his throat again and rubbed his chest, where a strange sort of pressure was beginning to build. In the end, it was his mother who responded.

  “Dr. Locke fears improvement is not possible. We keep him comfortable, but there’s little else we can do.”

  “It’s a shame he doesn’t have his wits about him,” Miss Pearce said between bites. “He could clear up a great deal of idle gossip and speculation.”

  Confusion lit in his mother’s eyes. “Gossip?” She looked to Stephen. “What gossip?”

  In the months since the rumors had surfaced, his mother had removed herself from society entirely, devoting every spare moment to the Earl’s care. It was regrettable, but it had shielded her from the ugly mistruths being told about her husband and only son.

  “Oh.” Miss Westgate appeared horrified by her slip. “Please excuse my presumption. I thought you knew—”

  Instinctually, Stephen opened his mouth, considering how to respond, when Grant cut in—“It’s some trifling matter regarding the estate, my lady. Nothing of consequence. Certainly nothing that should trouble you.”

  His mother hesitated a moment before taking a sip of her wine. “Well, that is certainly a comfort.”

  After dinner, the women went through to the parlor, leaving Stephen and Grant to their port and cigars. Absent the women, their conversation strayed to more personal matters.

  “Out with it, old chap. Something is amiss.”

  “That plain, is it?” Stephen stared into his glass.

  “I am well acquainted with your various moods. One might say I’m an expert on the subject.”

  Stephen pushed out a heavy breath. “Do you remember my time Scotland?”

  “When you nearly had your wing blown to bits? Yes, I do believe I recall hearing of the event,” he replied sarcastically.

  “When I was shot, a maid—Evelyn’s maid—transported me to hospital.” He paused and took in a breath of cigar. “While I was mad on laudanum, it appears I took advantage of the girl’s vulnerabilities.”

  Grant laughed and clapped his empty glass on the table. “You see, it’s exactly as I always say. There is no sense in running from scandal. It will find it’s intended target regardless one’s best efforts to avoid it.”

  “She is with child,” Stephen finished flatly. “She turne
d up this morning to inform me.”

  Grant sobered. “Fuck.”

  “Precisely.”

  Grant stood abruptly to refill his port. “Does it not strike you as odd that the maid chose today, of all days available to her, to inform you of her condition?”

  He waited for Grant to return to his seat before replying. “An unfortunate coincidence.”

  Grant took a swallow of his port and shook his head. “On the very day you receive the woman you intend to offer for? That is no mere coincidence, my friend. This maid means to blackmail you.”

  Stephen squinted at Grant. “How exactly?”

  “Clearly, she plans to relieve your intended of her ignorance.”

  Stephen said nothing, but continued to gaze into his port. Perhaps Grant was right. What did he truly know of Emily’s character? He had been unconscious for most of their time together in Scotland. She could make any claim she wished and he would have no real way to refute it.

  “Stephen, my man, women are unscrupulous. They will go to whatever lengths necessary to secure their own comfort. I dare say there is no child at all. Only after everything is settled will she reveal she has most conveniently miscarried. Oldest trick in the book.”

  Grant had a compelling point. But was Emily capable of such vicious duplicity? What proof was there that a child was imminent? Perhaps she was a woman looking to seek her fortune where she could. Had she not already asked him for money?

  “Perhaps you are right,” Stephen said.

  “Indeed, I am. Females are devious creatures.” Grant took another swallow of his port. “You may rely upon that.”

  Emily was devouring her eggs and toast when there was a sharp knock on the door. Stephen? Her heart lurched.

  She dropped her toast and straightened, but when no one came bursting into the room, she knew it couldn’t have been Stephen. Knocking was far too polite for his tastes. The last time he’d visited, he had not bothered to knock at all.

  “Come in,” Emily called.

  The door opened to reveal Bess and an older, finely dressed gentleman Emily had never set eyes on before.

  “The surgeon is here to see you.”

  Emily stood and brushed the crumbs from the skirts of her new pale yellow morning gown. “I apologize, there must have been a mistake. I am perfectly well and have no need of a doctor.”

  “My services have not been employed for your benefit, miss, but rather for Lord Devon’s. He wishes for me to confirm or refute your claim.”

  Reflexively, she placed a hand on the slight swell just below her navel. “My claim?”

  “Your condition, Miss Michaelson.”

  He didn’t believe her. Stephen was of a mind that she was lying to him. Why else would he send for a doctor to confirm or refute her condition?

  She had a mind to turn the doctor away. A woman was the best authority on the subject of her own body, after all. And she certainly had nothing to prove to this man.

  But the path she must tread was narrow. With the new life inside her, she could not allow pride to guide her. That was no longer an indulgence she could afford. She needed Stephen’s assistance and if she must suffer through a thousand petty humiliations to get it, then that’s what she would do.

  Emily nodded, halting Bess before she could duck out of the room. “Please stay, Bess. I should like a witness for the sake of decency.”

  “Yes, miss,” Bess said, consigning herself to a corner of the room where she was likely to be out of the way.

  The doctor began his examination with a series of questions regarding her courses, the state of her countenance and her sleep patterns. Then he commenced with the physical examination, which was blessedly short in duration. Kneeling in front of her, he felt her stomach, pressing on the little bump, feeling around for heaven knew what.

  When the examination was complete, he rose with his mouth drawn into a frown—but one of deep concentration rather than displeasure. He cleared his throat. “I can confirm your suspicions, miss. You are indeed with child. Four months gone, I would say.”

  He reached into the leather bag he’d brought with him and pulled out a small bottle filled with a mysterious red liquid. He handed it to her. “Half in the morning and the rest in the evening. There will be some discomfort, but not overly. If you bleed too readily, send for me at once.”

  With that perplexing statement, he restored his instruments to his leather bag and prepared to leave. Emily halted him, holding the tonic up. “What is this you have given me?”

  “A remedy for your condition,” he answered plainly.

  She drew her brows together. “What manner of remedy?”

  “It is a concoction of my own making that will cause you to miscarry safety.”

  She stared down at the bottle. He wished to poison her. Her child. She glanced back up into the old man’s eyes, which seemed colder now that she realized his intentions. “Did Lord Devon request this tonic?”

  “He would like a conclusion to this predicament without delay, as should you.” He lifted his bag and opened the door. “A dose of that and you will be well on your way to freedom. Good day to you.”

  With that last declaration, he left the room. Emily turned to Bess, who was still standing in the corner. They were not friends. Indeed, Emily had no friends here. But Bess had shown Emily kindness—a smile here and curtsey there—where Mrs. Porter had only offered scorn and suspicion.

  “Freedom.” Her hand fell to her stomach protectively. “As though my babe were nothing more than a hindrance to be discarded.”

  She felt numb, too astonished to think straight. How could he be so cruel?

  Bess stepped forward. “There is talk in the servant’s quarters that Lord Devon will soon be wed.”

  Emily sat on the edge of the bed. So that was it, then. He was to be married and wished to avoid any embarrassments. She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. The man she’d known in Scotland never would have cast her and her child away so callously. How could she have been so mistaken about his character?

  “I offered to leave and never bother him again,” Emily said in a daze. “But he insisted I stay. Perhaps this had been his plan all along. To keep me here until he could remedy the situation and then toss me away.”

  Of course, he would not want a bastard child weighing on his conscience. Emily had told Stephen she would disappear, but perhaps he was worried the child would show up years from now, demanding money.

  Bess shook her head. “Lord Devon is not such a man. I have only known him to be good and fair.”

  In Emily’s experience, men cared nothing for the consequences of their own actions. Members of the aristocracy even less so. No, his actions were born of pure self-interest. Weeks ago, she wouldn’t have thought so, but now she was sure of it.

  “Who is he to marry?”

  As Lady Evelyn’s lady’s maid, Emily knew of all the prominent families. Often, she knew far more of their affairs than even her mistress. Servants lived for gossip and intrigue—as much, if not more, than their betters.

  “Miss Daphne Westgate,” she said. “Though a formal announcement has yet to be made. She is here now, at Durham House , visiting with her companion, Miss Pearce.”

  “They are here, right this moment?” Emily blinked.

  They must be the guests Mrs. Porter had mentioned when Emily first arrived. It was now clear why he wanted Emily and her child dispatched as quickly as possible. His mind was clearly occupied with richer prospects.

  Her mind wandered to the woman Stephen would soon marry. She did not know Miss Daphne Westgate at all. Perhaps she had only recently come out.

  “How long will they stay?” Emily asked.

  “They’ll be staying on through the end of the week, until after the Tisdale masquerade on Saturday evening.”

  “Oh, I see,” Emily said. Bess gathered up Emily’s tray and moved to leave. Emily halted her. “Can I ask you to turn a blind eye while I go down and take a walk in the garden?
I vow not to escape.”

  “I wish I could, miss, but someone would be bound to see you and I would be dismissed directly. I have a younger brother and sister to think of. I’m sorry, miss.”

  Emily shook her head. “No, I am sorry. I should not have pressed you.”

  “Good day,” Bess said, leaving Emily alone.

  It was late evening before the door opened again. The fire was burning low, and she’d just crawled out from beneath the furlined throw blanket to add more logs to the fire, when she heard the hinges creak. She turned to see Stephen standing in the doorway.

  Despite her best efforts, her heart leapt when she saw him. He wore a blue striped waistcoat and matching jacket, black breeches and a pair of polished Hessians. His hair was combed back, away from his face. He was the model of poised, aristocratic refinement. And she detested him.

  “My lord.” She smiled tightly. “Foregoing knocking all together now?”

  No response. Lovely.

  With huff, she said, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Dr. Locke has confirmed your suspicions. You are four months gone, it would seem.”

  She stiffened, the humiliation of Dr. Locke’s visit still fresh in her mind. “Perhaps you would also like to inform me that snow is cold and water is wet.” She glanced down at her hands. “I have not taken the draught, if that is what you wish to know. Nor am I likely to. So you can walk right back out that door and leave me to my own company.”

  He placed the books he had been holding on the round inlaid table beside the fire. “I brought you these. I didn’t know what you’d prefer, so I selected a bit of everything.”

  Gold lettering on the spines revealed the books to be Pride and Prejudice, Shakespeare, Byron and a few books on the history of agriculture. She could read well, but rarely employed it to leisure. As a rule, from sunup to sundown she had countless chores to tend to, even while she was living with her aunt. There was never time to read for the pure pleasure of it.

  And if by some miracle there was time, she read only one book. The stories of which were as familiar to her as her own thoughts—a collection of folk tales by the brother’s Grimm, given to her by her uncle.