A Highland Duchess (14 page)

Last night she’d wanted to be the Emma of her youth, and yet this morning she’d transcended that person and become someone entirely different. She wanted to stretch, to fall back on the bed, stare up at the ceiling and marvel about the sheer deliciousness of how she felt for a few hours.

Emma sat up, her feet dangling over the edge of the mattress. Naked, she sat in Ian’s room and wondered how she could have gone from wanting to be a pattern biscuit to being an exotic creation—a cake steeped in brandy and saved for special occasions.

She smiled at herself and walked into the bathing chamber. All prisoners were not cared for with such regard, but she was fortunate to have found herself a gentleman jailer. In addition to providing such luxurious accommodations, there was also a new toothbrush, some tooth powder, washcloths, and towels that felt so soft as to be clouds and not towels at all.

Naked, she surveyed herself in the mirror. The curve of her shoulders, the shape of her breasts, all these things were familiar to her, as uniquely her as her memories. She’d had a bruise once, on her left arm, an ugly thing that had spread from elbow to shoulder. A mark left by Anthony. There, on her right breast, she’d had a bruise as well, one that Anthony made during one of his entertainments. She’d screamed that night, and he’d been pleased at the show she provided his guests.

To Anthony, she’d been a vessel, nothing more.

To Ian, she’d been a participant in passion.

What she’d experienced with Ian was nothing like the games Anthony played, and as far from that debauchery as the sun was from a candle’s light.

After taking care of her morning ablutions, she returned to the bedroom. On top of the bureau was the brush the young maid had placed there yesterday. She sat on the edge of the bed, still naked, and began to brush her hair. This brush was heavier than the one she’d used the night before. Silver backed, it looked to be an heirloom, and she couldn’t help but wonder to whom it belonged. Ian’s mother? Or his sister?

He’d caused it to be brought here, she knew that well enough. Just as she knew that the items in the bathroom had been placed there at his request. She was being surfeited with kindness and regard from the same man who’d ravished her only hours earlier.

No, not ravished.

She finished brushing her hair and sat in the sunlight. Today she’d return to Chavensworth, not an errand she wanted to perform. After that she’d have to return home. Perhaps only hours from now. Regardless of how strange and delightful this interlude, she would have to return to her true life and her real existence.

She was not simply Emma Harding. As much as she might wish it, she was someone else.

When the door opened, she didn’t move to cover herself. Somehow, she’d known he would come to her, an answer to boredom’s prayer.

She smiled in welcome when Ian entered and closed the door.

“We need to leave for Chavensworth,” she said, making no move to cover herself.

“Not now,” he said, his gaze turning to the window. Morning lit the sky, light seeping in between the closed curtains. “You’re not going anywhere for hours.” He looked at her, daring her to question him, to defy his lust, to deny that hers matched his.

In moments his clothes were flung over the bedroom floor, his enthusiasm and haste causing her to laugh in a way she hadn’t laughed in years.

In answer, she held out her arms to him.

Chapter 12

T
hey left for Chavensworth immediately after luncheon, the distance to Anthony’s ancestral home short enough that they could return to London by end of day. As they pulled away from the square, she glanced at Ian.

“Are you not going to blindfold me?”

He only sent her a look, and she smothered her smile.

The closer they came to the great house, the more Emma regretted returning. She could have sent a maid or footman with detailed instructions as to the mirror’s location. But it was all too possible that the new Duke of Herridge’s staff would not admit a maid or footman. They could not, however, bar the Duchess of Herridge from the door.

The new Duke of Herridge, Anthony’s cousin, was not in residence. He, like Anthony, preferred to live in London. Would he use Chavensworth as a place to hold his revels? Thankfully, that was none of her concern.

For most of the journey, Ian had been reading, a paper he explained he needed to review before writing an introduction. Something to do with the effects of decaying flesh. She’d been grateful when he didn’t go into more detail.

The air was heavy but there was no storm on the horizon. Perhaps emotion rendered the atmosphere so still.

She and Anthony had been married in London, at Anthony’s request. She’d only seen Chavensworth a week later. The sheer size of the house amazed her, as did the Italianesque architecture and beauty of the structure. Over the years, however, she’d ceased recognizing its beauty, only remembering the events within its walls.

Today was no different. As they topped the rise, Chavensworth visible at last, Emma felt herself tightening, the fluttery feeling deep inside her stomach increasing until she thought she was going to be sick. Intellectually, she knew Anthony was dead. Emotionally, he lingered on, coupled with memories of Chavensworth. This journey was a test. If she could return to Chavensworth, she could do almost anything.

“Emma?”

She glanced across the carriage. On Ian’s face was a look of concern. They had barely spoken since London, more her inclination than his. She didn’t know quite how to address a man who was little more than a stranger to her. Yet she’d lain in his arms, and he knew her more intimately than any man had, even Anthony.

With Anthony, she’d done her duty, docile and receptive. With Ian, she’d been a participant in the act of love.

Perhaps that’s why she felt so shy with him now. The person she’d been last night and this morning was not the same person she was now. Had the change been precipitated by the donning of her mourning dress?

The Duchess of Herridge had returned. The Ice Queen lived again.

For all her resolve to remain decorous now, she didn’t regret having been Emma for a little while. At least once in her life she’d been wild and unrestrained, not because of fear or drugs, but because she’d wanted someone. She’d desired him.

“We’re almost there,” she said, extending one finger toward Chavensworth, gratified to see that her hand did not shake. Her trembling was inside and not visible.

“I’ve seen it before,” he said.

Even though it was impossibly difficult to do so, she forced her gaze to his face. Had he attended one of Anthony’s infamous entertainments, and she’d not recognized him? During those gatherings, the men had all been naked, their faces sometimes covered with grotesque masks of animals—horses, bulls, goats.

Dear God, please do not let him have been there.

“This is a well-traveled road,” he said. “I use it when I travel by carriage instead of train.”

“Then you’ve never been a guest at Chavensworth?” she asked, feeling as if her heart paused to hear his response.

His answer, when it came, was in a soft, and almost kind, voice.

“No, Emma,” he said. “I have never been a guest at Chavensworth. Your husband and I did not travel in the same circles.”

“You can consider that commendable, Ian,” she said, relief making her almost dizzy. “I did not care for most of the people in Anthony’s circle.”

Did he know what had gone on at Chavensworth? She glanced away, concentrating on the view outside the window, a view that did not encompass the great house, only the passing countryside. All the land for miles around Chavensworth belonged to the Duke of Herridge’s estate. Anthony had been quite wealthy but only in property. Her inheritance had provided the income for his debaucheries. An irony that she’d always fully appreciated.

“What is she like? Lady Sarah?” she asked, desperate to change the tenor of her thoughts. She could not bear her memories.

“Unlike what you might think Anthony’s daughter to be,” he said, not questioning her sudden change of subject. Did he know how difficult this was? It seemed he did from his intent look. “Stubborn, amusing, very much the chatelaine of her home. She’s extremely loyal. If she thought you posed any harm to those she cared about, Sarah would likely take a claymore to you.”

“I should very much like to meet her one day,” she said, surprised to find that it was true. She’d never cared to meet Anthony’s daughter, thinking that Sarah must be somewhat like her father. Now she wanted to know what kind of woman inspired such friendship that Ian was willing to steal for her.

“I think you would like her,” he said.

“But would she like me?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, but when he did, his words brought a blush to her cheek. “I think she would, very much, Emma. But then, I think anyone who got to know you would like you. The trouble is, I doubt you allow many people to do so.”

She hadn’t a response to that, simply because his words were too close to the truth. She’d found, in the last few years, that it was easier to keep her own counsel than to attempt a friendship.

The men and women who came to Chavensworth were not people with whom she wished to be acquainted.

“I shall miss you,” she said, not expecting to say the words.

He put his papers down on the seat beside him, giving her all his attention. The directness of his look was a little disconcerting but she didn’t glance away.

“You’re to be married,” he said.

“As are you.”

Neither of them made a response. The passion they’d shared was here in this carriage, not in the form of a memory but alive and real, growing each passing moment.

“I envy Lady Sarah,” she said. “To have such a friend as you. Is that what she is to you?” Implicit in her question was yet another—is she anything more?

“Her husband, Douglas, is one of my closest friends,” he said. “I’ve not known her long but I think to count her among them.”

She nodded.

“I shall miss you as well, Emma,” he said.

For a moment she wished he would expound upon his feelings, tell her something that she might be able to recall for weeks and months to come. As it was, she would forever remember the exact tone of his voice when he said those words.

She turned her head and directed her attention to the approach to Chavensworth. The last time she had been here was on the occasion of Anthony’s death, funeral, and interment. There had been no necessity to return after that.

Thankfully, the new Duke of Herridge had kept Williams on when he’d assumed control of Chavensworth. The majordomo greeted her now, his bald head ringed by a tuft of white hair, his stocky figure immaculately attired in the Duke of Herridge livery.

Despite what had happened at Chavensworth, the man was utterly proper. Did he cling to all his rules and regulations in order to make some sense of his life? Did the proprieties soothe him in some way?

Perhaps one day she would ask him. Or perhaps she never would, clinging to the proprieties herself.

“Your Grace,” he said, unable to control his surprise. “It is good to see you again. Are you well?” He stepped forward, then caught himself and remained the proper distance from her.

She’d not seen the man for eighteen months, but in the intervening time he’d not changed. Had it not been for Ian’s presence beside her, it might have been one of those innumerable occasions when she’d been summoned to Chavensworth. A pawn in one of Anthony’s games or simply a fly to his spider.

Emma smiled at him. “I am,” she said. “But I need your assistance.” She glanced behind her to where Ian stood. “My friend and I need your assistance.”

Williams looked at Ian and bowed. No doubt he was curious, but one did not question a duchess, even a widowed duchess, so he remained silent.

“How may I assist you, Your Grace?”

“I left behind a mirror, Williams. A hand mirror. Would you have any objection if I look for it in the Duke’s Suite?”

“Someone asked about a mirror just yesterday, Your Grace.”

Surprised, Emma exchanged a glance with Ian. “What did you tell him?”

“He stated that he was from your uncle, Your Grace. I explained that I would not divulge any information without Your Grace’s permission. Nor was I about to give him anything that belonged to you. Or allow him access to any of the ducal apartments.”

She blinked several times. “Thank you for your loyalty, Williams.”

Williams bowed again. “Would you prefer for me to fetch it for you, Your Grace? Or to summon the housekeeper? Mrs. Turner is still with us.”

That would be the best solution, would it not? But she didn’t want to meet with Mrs. Turner, not having seen the woman since the day of Anthony’s funeral. They shared a terrible secret, and Emma would be content if she never saw the housekeeper again.

“I’d like to look for myself, if it would be all right. If you think His Grace would not object.”

Williams bowed once more.

“His Grace is not in residence, Your Grace. He has not been since . . . ”

She supplied the words so that he would not be uncomfortable. “Since acquiring the title,” she said.