Teresa Medeiros (29 page)

“You might try the circus,” Penfeld suggested.

Justin held the paper in front of his face, trying to ignore the alarmed cries, thumps, and howls coming from the second floor. He winced at the tinkling sound of glass shattering.

Penfeld lifted the teapot to pour him a fresh cup of tea.

“One. Two,” Justin counted under his breath.

A door slammed. The valet gazed upward, pouring a
stream of amber over the ivory tablecloth. Footsteps thundered down the stairs accompanied by hysterical sobbing.
Click, click, click
went the shoes across the marble tiles of the foyer, then the front door slammed with a bang that echoed like a gunshot through the waiting house.

“Three,” Justin dourly pronounced, massaging his aching brow with the palm of his hand.

Warm tea trickled into his lap.

“Oh dear, sir. I’m frightfully sorry.” Penfeld snatched up a napkin and mopped his trousers.

The duchess entered the room at full sail, the flounces of her skirt following a good foot behind her. “That was the third maid in as many days. The girl can’t sulk in her bedroom forever. If she refuses to be dressed, I insist you see to her.”

Justin laid down the paper, biting back a groan. Dressing Emily was the last thing his frazzled nerves needed.

His mother droned on. “Your sisters and I have been planning an intimate gathering to introduce your young ward to society, followed by a splendid ball to launch her into the company of the more eligible young men.” She sighed happily. “It will be such a joy having a young girl in the house again, won’t it, dear?”

“A pure delight,” Justin replied grimly.

He rose and slipped from the room before his mother could begin discussing the flower arrangements for Emily’s wedding or sewing the christening gown for her first child.

He smoothed his waistcoat as he climbed the stairs, steeling himself behind his only shield—a cool paternal demeanor. His sharp knock received no answer. He opened the door to find his entire view captured by the charming sight of Emily’s ruffled drawers upended in the window.

She was leaning halfway over the sill, shaking her fist. “Don’t come back either! It’ll take a lot more than a puny creature like you to shove me into one of those bloody contraptions.”

She leaned out farther as a bonneted figure scampered
out of earshot. Her pantaloons hugged the sleek curves of her thighs. Justin wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before striding across the room and catching her by the waistband. He could just see her tumbling out the window in her white drawers and lacy camisole.

She wiggled in his grasp. “I won’t wear it. I won’t. You can’t make me. And if you try, I’ll …” She jabbed the air with a sinister-looking hat pin before realizing who had caught her.

He stepped back, dodging her easily. “You’ll what? Deflate me?”

She straightened, muttering something about “hot air.” A flush dusted her cheekbones. She crossed her arms over her breasts, then folded her hands casually at the juncture of her thighs, finally giving up all attempts at modesty by resting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, already knowing there was. Five feet three inches of problem, exuding a rumpled femininity that would have given a eunuch pause.

She stabbed an accusing finger at the chair. “
That
is the problem.”

Justin picked up the object she indicated and ran his hands over the rigid whalebone. “What is it? A hat of some sort?”

Emily realized he was genuinely perplexed. She’d forgotten how long he’d been away from society. His innocence touched her until she remembered that lush native beauties like Rangimarie would never bother with such contrivances. All he had to do was reach his hands beneath her skirt and—

She jerked it away from him. “It’s a torture device designed to fill out the shape of my rump.”

Justin muttered something under
his
breath, then frowned. “That must be what Mother’s wearing. I thought she had a bird cage under her dress.”

Emily rested the cumbersome form on her hips and
struggled with the tapes. The bustle swayed like a gangly bell. Justin caught her before she crashed into a floor lamp.

“See what I mean?” she pleaded, clutching his arm. “There’s no need for all this fuss. Couldn’t I just wear a skirt like the one I wore in New Zealand?”

As he gazed down into her earnest brown eyes, memories pierced Justin’s heart like beams of fragrant sunlight. Emily frolicking through the waves, her wet skirt plastered to her hips; Emily sitting in the sand, her palms pressed to her naked breasts, her hair ruffled by the morning wind and his stolen caresses.

He gently but firmly extracted his arm from her grasp. “We’re in London now. Not New Zealand.” His reminder was more for himself than for her, but it failed to dull his gnawing hunger.

He escaped her disappointed gaze by moving to the bed. A charming array of clothing had been laid out by the poor departed maid.

He caressed the softness of a silk stocking between thumb and forefinger. “You’ve been barricaded up here for three days. If I allow you to leave off this bustle thing, will you join us downstairs?”

Emily glared at the heap of feminine garments. “I’ll not wear the gloves. They’re ridiculous.”

He rolled his eyes. “Very well. Forget the gloves.” He tossed the stocking over her shoulder and turned away. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Now, that’s a switch, isn’t it?”

Justin stopped, his broad shoulders rigid. His exhaled breath echoed through the room. He left, pulling the door shut behind him with such pained gentleness that Emily knew he itched to slam it out of its frame.

Justin waited for Emily at the foot of the stairs. He had never seen so many people trying to look inconspicuous while milling around the foyer. Two maids dusted the tripod base of an occasional table while an underfootman
polished the tinkling glass prisms dangling from a fringed lampshade. Their gazes kept wandering to the top of the stairs, craving a glimpse of the severe little creature who had dared to slap their master.

The long-case clock chimed the hour. Justin drummed his fingers on the banister. One of the husbands had parked himself on the bench of the cloak stand and was puffing away on a long-stemmed pipe. Justin wondered if even his sisters could tell them apart. They all had the same tepid brown hair and wore tweed jackets in lieu of more formal garments that might suggest they were going to leave the house in search of other pursuits—such as gainful employment. He supposed this one was Herbert, spouse of Millicent. His bushy eyebrows were in desperate need of a combing.

Justin suppressed a sigh as Edith and his mother strolled arm in arm from the drawing room, their heads inclined as if enjoying a profound conversation, something he knew to be impossible. The last thing Emily needed was an audience. She might take one look at their rabid faces and shy back to her room like a frightened doe.

His fears melted as an enchanting vision appeared on the landing above, taking his breath away. This girl bore no resemblance to the stern creature who had marched into the house. Her white dimity frock belled around her ankles, revealing a tantalizing hint of ruffled crinoline and kid slippers. Justin had chosen the short frock himself to remind him Emily was little more than a child. A blue velvet sash hugged her slender waist and a matching bow tamed her curls. The warmth of a new and unexpected emotion flowed through Justin’s veins—pride.

Emily’s fingers were poised lightly on the banister. Her lips curved in a smile so sweet it made him feel he was the only man in the room—or the universe.

Her smile never wavered as she hooked one leg over the banister, giving the entire foyer a healthy peek at the starched layers of her petticoats. The duchess gasped.

Cries of alarm rang out as she threw both arms in the air and shot down the polished banister like a ruffled cannonball. At the last possible second Justin stepped out of the way.

She crashed in a disgruntled heap, her dress sprawled all the way up to the little pink rosettes on her garters. When both his mother and the footman started forward, Justin waved them back.

Emily glared up at him through the curl flopped over her eyes. “You might have caught me.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, afraid to do so much as smile. “You might have descended the staircase in a more conventional manner.”

Groaning, she rubbed her bottom with both hands. Justin swallowed an offer of assistance. It was only too easy to remember the feel of her plush rear cupped in his palms.

“Perhaps you should reconsider that bustle,” he said coolly, offering her a hand.

“Perhaps they shouldn’t wax the banister quite so often. I thought I was going to sail clear across the Channel to Paris.”

He pulled her to her feet. He had forgotten how fragile her small, warm hand felt in his own. He jerked his own hand away as if she had scorched him. “Breakfast is waiting for you in the dining room. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.” He gave her a crisp bow and fled toward the study.

His mother’s chiding tones rang after him. “I don’t know what’s gotten into that boy. You’d have thought I never taught him any manners at all.”

Justin was spared Emily’s murmured reply by the hastily erected barrier of the study door. He strode through the dusty gloom to the towering
secrétaire
and slammed open one of the doors. The glass panes rattled. Curse the girl! He would be damned if she would blunder into his life and create utter chaos yet again. Eyeing his father’s well-aged Scotch with distaste, he pulled out the rum bottle he
had stashed behind a leather-bound edition of
The Pickwick Papers
and uncorked it. Tipping it all the way back, he took a deep swig.

An image rose unbidden to his mind—Emily sailing off the banister and drifting across the English Channel, her starched petticoats swollen like the skin of a hot-air balloon.

He choked, spewing rum. Tears stung his eyes and seared his nostrils. He sank into a chair and clutched his aching sides as the laughter he’d been holding back rolled out in silent waves.

Justin spent the morning barricaded in the study, refusing to even look up from the Winthrop Shipping reports until Penfeld interrupted him for tea and sandwiches.

He took a sip of tea, then frowned. A frilly object was curled at the bottom of the cup. He crooked his pinkie and fished it out. Tea dripped from dainty pink rosettes.

“Penfeld,” he said, pulling off his spectacles and glowering at the valet from beneath his brows. “May I ask what this is?”

Penfeld looked up from cutting the sandwiches into flawless squares. A flush blistered his cheeks. “Good Lord, sir. I believe it’s a woman’s garter.”

“Would you care to explain how it got into my tea?”

“I haven’t a clue.” Penfeld lifted the lid off the teapot and peeped into it as if afraid an entire trousseau of women’s underwear might leap out at him.

A timid knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” Justin barked.

A gardener crept in, holding a rake at arm’s length with such trepidation that Justin expected to see a snake twirled around its prongs. It was not a serpent, but a rumpled crinoline that dangled in his face. “Sorry to trouble ye, master, but I found this stuffed into one of the flower pots in the shed. Shall I burn it?”

Justin’s face was grim as he plucked the crinoline off the rake. “No, Will. I’ll take care of it.”

Breathing a sigh of relief to be rid of the offensive thing, the gardener left. Justin smoothed the rich linen over his palms. The pure, sweet fragrance of vanilla wafted to his nostrils.

He shook his head ruefully. “If Emily keeps shedding garments at this alarming rate, she’ll be naked by nightfall.” Groaning at his own words, he dropped his face into the soft folds of the garment. “Where is she?” he growled.

They found Emily wandering the gilt cavern of the ballroom, her hands tucked at the small of her back. A sparkling wall of French doors fronted the long room. Justin hovered behind the translucent panel of a lace curtain, his hunger to watch her smothering his flare of guilt for spying on her so blatantly.

“Looks a bit out of pocket, doesn’t she?” Penfeld said.

Justin gave a noncommittal grunt. She did look tiny beneath the vaulted ceiling. How did she feel in this strange house, surrounded by strangers? he wondered. He remembered how desolate his own childhood had been. The enormous house had seemed a maze of endless doors, dusty corners, and gloomy attics. Every table and chair had rested on carved talons or claws, and he’d been half afraid to sit for fear they’d lurch into motion and carry him off. His mother and sisters had whispered their own language while his father remained safely cordoned behind the unrelenting oak of his study door. Just as he had done today.

“She might be bored, sir. Perhaps if you spent some time with her …?”

Justin dug his fingers into the curtain, unable to hide his horror at that suggestion. He didn’t trust himself enough to eat breakfast with her. How long would it take before he reached over to correct a wayward curl? Smooth a puckered ruffle? Lick the sugary muffin crumbs from her lips?

As they watched, Emily stood on tiptoe to run her curious fingers over the medallioned wall. Without the crinoline her skirt clung to the curve of her hips. He almost grinned to see her bare toes peeping out from beneath it. Gracie would be fortunate not to find one of her slippers floating in the soup tonight.

She cast the double doors at the end of the ballroom a furtive glance. What was she going to do now? Justin wondered. Peel off her dress and frolic like a wanton nymph beneath the gasoliers? His throat tightened.

Emily flung out her arms and spun around. The dimity skirt ballooned around her ankles. She danced in silence, but Justin heard another melody, marked by the stamp of Maori feet, beguiling in its wailing simplicity. He wanted to march in there and take her in his arms. To sweep her around the room until the swells and hollows of their bodies made music like the bow and strings of a finely tuned violin.

Groaning back his despair, he caught Penfeld by his starched lapels and shoved him against the nearest wall. An Oriental vase rattled in protest. “Take her, Penfeld. Take her out for the afternoon. She’s your charge. Amuse her.”