Desired by a Lord (Regency Unlaced 5) (4 page)

She had spent the morning doing her best to ignore Whitney as he sat behind his desk, wearing another perfectly tailored superfine, dark blue today, his white linen also immaculate. He had spent the morning concentrating on some papers he had spread out on the desk in front of him, and was obviously totally oblivious to her presence in the room with him. She had even begun to relax a little, to believe the two of them could work together in companionable harmony.

Until he questioned her about her gown and she had turned too quickly.

She had designed and made the gown herself after a particularly cutting remark from Edmund. He had been displeased with the amount of ankle and leg she was revealing each time she climbed the stepladder. On that occasion, according to Edmund, she had attracted the lascivious attention of the youngest Wilton boy while the two of them were working on the Wilton library. The unfairness of that criticism was added to by the fact Emily climbing the stepladder, had only come about because Edmund had considered himself too old to do the task himself anymore, and insisted Emily must do it in future.

The gown she was wearing today was the result of Edmund’s censure. A full-skirted day dress, but with the added benefit of the skirt being split and then sewn together on either side, and so allowing her greater freedom of movement when she had to go up or down a ladder. She still showed the occasional glimpse of ankle or leg, but not to a scandalous degree.

What had disturbed Emily the most about Whitney’s comment was the knowledge he must have studied her closely enough during the course of the morning to have taken note of the style of her gown, when she had been positive he was totally engrossed in his own work.

She kept her lashes lowered. “I believe, with your permission, I will take a short break from working now, my lor—Whitney?” she corrected awkwardly. “A walk outside in the fresh air would be pleasant after so many hours spent indoors.” And might help to cool her in both body and thought.

He frowned. “Do not be deceived by the sun shining. This is Yorkshire, and the wind is quite cold.”

She gave a dismissive smile. “I am not afraid of a little cold.” Her five years of marriage to Edmund, with no money to squander on such frivolities as extra coal, even during the cold winter months, had helped to build that immunity.

“Would you like me to accompany you and point out the places of interest in the garden?” Whitney offered.

As Emily’s sole purpose for going outside was to cool down from the discomfort of this gentleman’s effect upon her… “No, thank you.” She smiled to take the sting out of her refusal. “I shall enjoy exploring on my own.”

Xander had made the offer only out of politeness, but now he found himself irritated by Emily’s refusal.

Which was as good a reason as any to distance himself from this woman, aware as he was that he had almost kissed her a few minutes ago. “Very well.” He nodded tersely. “I will be out riding about the estate this afternoon.” He had just made that decision. “You will take care when using the ladder in my absence.”

Her eyes widened before she lowered her lashes. “Yes, my lord.”

Xander’s gaze narrowed as he searched for mockery in her expression. He could not see any, but that did not mean there was none. He was learning that Emily Marsden could be surprisingly dry of humor when she wished to be. “Try not to get lost during your walk.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Oh yes, her acquiescence and her continued use of the term “my lord” after he had clearly instructed her not to do so proved this woman was indeed mocking him. Surprisingly Xander found he enjoyed the experience rather than feeling annoyed by it. “There will be no more tea and biscuits for dinner in your bedchamber either. You will dine downstairs with me in the evenings in future.”

Her gaze rose sharply. “That would hardly be appropriate, my—Whitney,” she substituted quickly as Xander’s scowl darkened. “I am not a guest, and am perfectly content to take my meals with the other servants.”

Emily had been placed in something of a dilemma the evening before. Neither fish nor fowl—servant nor guest—she had been unsure of her eating arrangements. Too tired last night to care, and relieved she was being allowed to stay, even on a trial basis, she had made do with the tea and biscuits in her bedchamber for dinner.

“I do not recall asking if you were
content
with the arrangement,” Whitney drawled. “Only stating that in future, you will dine with me in the evenings. Dinner is served at eight o’clock. I expect you downstairs in the green salon at least fifteen minutes before that time.” He nodded abruptly before striding purposefully from the room.

Emily’s breath left her in a relieved hiss once she was alone, at the same time as she was consumed with dismay at the thought of dining with Whitney every evening. She possessed only five gowns, and although she had brought all of them with her, they were not all suitable for formal dining. Two of them were in mourning colors of gray and purple. The other three were day dresses in equally uninteresting colors: Edmund had not liked her to wear anything that drew attention to her or her appearance.

The purple gown would do to wear for dinner this evening, but her wardrobe really was not sufficient for her to dine with Lord Whitney every evening. She would make a point of telling him so this evening.

Besides, it really would not do. It was disturbing enough she was expected to spend every day of the next week in Whitney’s study with him.

Aware of him in a way she could not remember being with any other gentleman.

Chapter 4

She strolls about the gardens of Whitney Park as if she owns them. Touching this or that late blossom, even pausing to remove her glove and run her bare fingers through the fountain in the center of the rose garden. The roses have mostly gone now, but she finds one still in bloom and bends to smell its perfume.

Happiness radiates from her smile and the pleasurable glow in her eyes.

She, who has nothing but the scandal of murder in her past.

I watched her this morning, in what looked to be Lord Whitney’s study. The two of them were there alone together. He working at his desk. Mrs. Marsden climbing up and down a ladder, supposedly collecting books, but drawing attention to herself each time she did so.

I observed Lord Whitney’s gaze following her several times when he believed she was unaware of it.

Of course she was aware of it. A woman such as she is always aware of a man’s admiration. No doubt she deliberately set out to tempt Lord Whitney by her actions. To flaunt herself. In the same way she flaunted herself before Edmund Marsden in order to secure him in marriage. A man so many years older than she, he might almost have been her grandfather.

Lord Whitney is neither old nor grandfatherly. Indeed, he is a fine specimen of a gentleman. Far too aristocratic for the likes of one such as Emily Marsden.

Pride is a sin, and there is no doubting she possesses it in abundance.

This too I have learned from diligent observation.

Just as I know the only way to deal with unwarranted pride in a woman is to beat it out of her.

Chapter 5

“Your walk in the garden does not seem to have had the desired effect?”

Emily raised her lackluster gaze from the barely touched bowl of soup on the table in front of her.

She and Whitney were dining in what appeared to be a smaller family dining room, the table nevertheless big enough to seat twelve people comfortably. Only the two places had been set this evening, Whitney’s at the head of the table, with Emily seated to his left. The elderly butler, whom she had met upon her arrival yesterday, stood at attention beside the sideboard from where he was serving their meal.

As might be expected, Whitney looked magnificent in his evening attire, further adding to Emily’s misery, dressed as she was in one of her two mourning gowns, pale purple this time.

“Mrs. Marsden…?”

“I… No,” she answered Whitney dully. “In fact, I have a headache, so perhaps it might be best if I excuse myself—”

“Leave us, Clarke,” Xander dismissed distractedly, barely aware as the elderly man left the room, his concerned gaze fixed on the pale face of Emily Marsden. “Emily?” he prompted again.

Those dark green eyes filled with tears. “I… Please excuse me.” She pushed her chair back noisily to rise abruptly to her feet before turning and hurrying toward the door.

Xander moved across the room quickly enough to clasp hold of her arm before she could open the door and leave. He turned her to face him. “Tell me what has happened,” he encouraged gently. “Was it… Did my behavior this morning upset you?”

She blinked up at him. “This morning?”

He nodded. “I behaved inappropriately.”

“Oh. That. No.” Her brow smoothed, indicating it was not the reason for her emotional misery this evening. “Please do not give it another thought. You are not the first gentleman to behave inappropriately in my presence.”

Somehow, Xander did not find that reassuring. “Nevertheless, something is very wrong with you this evening.”

Her gaze no longer met his. “I told you, I have a headache.”

“Caused by…?”

“Headaches are not usually caused by anything. They just are.”

“Untrue. Headaches are invariably caused by something. Or someone.” His gaze sharpened as he saw Emily flinch.

She had not looked well when she joined him in the green salon before dinner; her face was pale, those shadows beneath her eyes seeming darker, her hair pulled back even more tightly than usual in that unbecoming bun. That alone was surely enough to give her a headache. Her gown did not help her appearance, being of a particularly insipid shade of purple. A color that clashed horribly with her red hair and gave her ivory skin a pasty appearance.

Xander could have excused all those things if he had thought she looked remotely happy or refreshed from her walk this afternoon. Instead, she looked thoroughly miserable.

“Has one of my household staff done or said something they should not?” He persisted in getting to the bottom of this marked change in Emily’s demeanor. At least yesterday and this morning, she’d had some spirit about her. This evening, she just looked defeated. As if she had taken one blow too many.

She frowned her puzzlement. “Such as what?”

“Never mind.” Her reaction told him this was not the explanation either. He would not have put it past Clarke, at least, to have expressed his opinion of Xander and his place as master of Whitney Park and the Whitney Library. Obviously, he had misjudged the man. “Come and sit back at the table. You will perhaps feel better if you try to eat something.”

She swallowed. “I do not think that I can.”

“You are here in my employ. I am responsible for your well-being. As such, I cannot allow you to leave until I at least know what has upset you,” he stated firmly.

She gave a shake of her head. “I have told you, it is nothing more than a headache.”

“Did your mother never tell you it is wrong to tell lies?” Xander prompted conversationally as he guided Emily toward the table, pulling back her chair and seeing her seated before resuming his own seat next to her.

She looked slightly dazed to find herself there. “I told you, both my parents are dead.”

“Mine also.” Xander nodded. “But I remember my mother once telling me that I was disappointing myself when I attempted to lie to her. That I should receive less of a punishment by telling the truth of what I had done than if I was caught out in a lie.”

“P-punishment?” she repeated shakily, eyes very wide.

It was telling, Xander believed, that she had picked that one word out of his statement. “Were you happy in your marriage to Marsden?”

Emily could not keep up with Whitney’s sudden changes of subject. First he tried to badger her into telling him why she had a headache, then he called her a liar when she did answer him, now he seemed to be implying… “My marriage was no better or worse than any other marriage,” she said sharply.

“That is not what I asked.”

“My marriage was arranged for me. By my aunt.” Her Aunt Celia, her mother’s sister, had taken Emily in when there were no other relatives to do so—or rather, none that
would
do so. When Edmund Marsden made an offer for Emily, her aunt had accepted on her behalf. When Emily raised objections, she was told she should be grateful for having received even one offer of marriage. Nor would her aunt hear of her refusing it.

“You still have not answered my question,” Whitney stated evenly. “Were you happy being Marsden’s wife?”

As it turned out, Edmund had not required a wife but an assistant, a maid, and a housekeeper. Emily had performed all those tasks without complaint. “I was…content.”

“There is that word again!” Whitney snapped in disgust.

“Yes.” She sounded defensive. She might not have known any of the highs or lows of being in love, but she had been valued, if only as an assistant, a maid, and a housekeeper. “From the little I have observed of other marriages, contentment is underrated.” And she resented Whitney’s obvious derision for the state.

“Better.” He nodded his approval.

“Better…?”

A slight smile curved his lips. “You have more color in your cheeks, and the light of battle is back in your demeanor.”

Emily’s eyes widened. “You deliberately set out to annoy me?”

That smile became a chuckle. “And I obviously succeeded.”

Color warmed her cheeks. “It was underhanded of you.”

“But effective,” he drawled unapologetically. “Now tell me what was bothering you when you came downstairs to dinner this evening.”

Emily had briefly forgotten her troubles during this spirited part of the conversation, and she now felt the weight of them all the more heavily because of it.

She had to have imagined it, of course. Could not really have seen that face—the face that had haunted her day and night for weeks now—while out in the garden this afternoon.

Which in turn made her fear for her own mental health.