The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke (21 page)

Emma dressed with care and drank two cups of unsweetened tea. She was determined to give Adrian and his younger brother the privacy of a reunion. She had to agree that Cedric’s timing was rather off, but then again there may have been some emergency at Scarfield to prompt his inopportune visit. Although Adrian asserted that his father’s illness was a ploy, perhaps there had been more truth to it than he allowed. It seemed unlikely that Lord Cedric had interrupted his brother’s honeymoon morning out of malice. Indeed, as Adrian had not been in communication with the duke, one could only attribute Cedric’s appearance to coincidence. Emma had certainly not dared to insist he invite his father to their wedding, considering the ill feelings Adrian bore him.

Only twenty minutes later she was summoned by her husband to the anteroom to be introduced to his brother. Lord Cedric was a well-built man of average height, who seemed understandably embarrassed at having come at such an awkward time. In fact, he gave Emma the distinct impression how relieved he was that his older brother had married a lady of quality. She dared not speculate on the sort of bride he had expected.

As the sister of the most notorious aristocratic family in London, she appreciated his relief. Indeed, their meeting went pleasantly enough. Lord Cedric stressed the importance of Adrian’s return to Scarfield. On this point Emma could not disagree, even if she was content to leave the decision on when this would take place to Adrian himself.

All in all, her first introduction to his family went well. It was only as Cedric was making his leave, congratulating husband and wife once again on their marriage, that his parting comment to his brother hit an unpleasant note.

“Serena will be surprised to learn of your marriage, Adrian. She asks about you often.”

Even then Emma might have merely taken note of the female name for future use. Its owner could have been an old family housekeeper, a local spinster, or even Adrian’s aunt.

But then Adrian asked, “Serena? Is she still there? She has not married?”

His inflection caught her ear, a combination of fondness, curiosity, and family history.

“No,” Cedric said, his gloves in hand. “She isn’t married yet. By the way, be careful when you travel home. The roads that surround the village have been haunted by robbers in recent years.”

“At Scarfield?” Adrian asked. “I don’t remember a single crime in the past.”

Cedric grasped his hand. “Times have changed. Perhaps your return will help, Adrian. I do believe we need a man of your experience.”

Chapter Eighteen

Emma dreaded bidding her academy adieu and had anticipated tears of regret as that moment arrived. Adrian promised her repeatedly that they would either return to London or would remove her school to a Berkshire location before spring ended. In the meantime, Charlotte, Miss Peppertree, and her sister-in-law Eloise had taken command. She reassured herself that she had left her girls in capable hands.

What she had not foreseen was the impact her whirlwind romance would have upon the academy’s reputation. She had forgotten the basic motivation of the parents who sent their daughters to her in the first place—a marriage of merit.

She descended from her husband’s carriage the day after her wedding to discover the street entirely clogged with unfamiliar vehicles, a congestion that one would typically expect at one of her brother Grayson’s elaborate soirées. “Something must be wrong,” she called back to Adrian, who stood looking up and down the street in confusion.

“I hope no one’s died during the night,” he said unhelpfully.

The possibility sent her flying up the steps of Heath’s town house and straight into the arms of her brother himself. “What has happened?” she said in alarm.

He shook his head. Voices drifted from the drawing room; servants marched back and forth with silver trays of tea and fresh muffins. To her great relief she could not see anyone, Heath included, wearing a black armband, nor were there any ominous hangings from the windows to indicate a relative had passed away.

Indeed, there seemed to be some inexplicable excitement in the air—an excitement that apparently prompted her brother to make an escape. Heath kissed her on the cheek, then said, “Congratulations, Duchess. See that they’re all gone when I come back. I’ll be at the club if Adrian wishes to see me.”

Emma stared after him in perplexity. “I’m not a duchess yet. I’m—”

“Oh, Emma, thank goodness you have come. I cannot endure this for another minute. My nerves are frayed. This is fun, but so unnerving.”

She turned to behold her bedraggled cousin Charlotte leaning against one of the hallway columns. Or was she hiding behind it?

She peeled off her gloves. “What on earth is going on?”

“I’ve been fending them off since seven o’clock this morning,” Charlotte said in an exhausted voice. “How was your wedding night, by the way?”

“None of your affair, my dear, but thank you for asking. Who have you been fending off?”

Charlotte gave her a dazed look. “All I know is that since your wedding, every debutante’s mother and father appears to be consumed with the hope of marrying off their daughter to a duke. It seems you have set a standard, Emma. The haut ton is determined to learn your secrets.”

Her secrets.

She stared back through the hall, laughter bubbling inside her. There he stood, her duke’s son, her husband, if you please, looking handsomely perplexed at being separated from her. Bless the man. He truly possessed no sense of his own importance, and even if he had, Emma suspected he would neither care nor use it to advantage.

Mine, she thought.

He’s mine.

“Oh, Emma, thank heavens,” Eloise exclaimed behind her. “Close the door, would you? The girls have not been able to absorb one passage of Italian poetry what with the knocker tatting at every second. Did you have a nice…er, evening?”

Emma smiled at her sensible sister-in-law. “Very nice, thank you. Have you managed to introduce Dante?”

“Barely,” Eloise replied. “I do wish you’d warned me that your marriage would cause such a stir. I’d have spirited the girls off to the country for a day. All this excitement does rattle the nerves.”

Emma stumbled over a hillock of boxes and traveling trunks that had not been in the hall a few minutes ago. “To whom does this excessive amount of luggage belong?” she asked in consternation.

The deadly quiet that met this question gripped her heart with dread. She peered down for a closer look at the gilt monogram embossed upon one worn leather trunk, whispering “Oh, no—”

The owner herself descended the stairs just as Emma straightened. “I’m ready, darlings. Hasn’t Odham got my luggage loaded yet?”

Emma and Adrian shared a look of horrified amusement. “Are you going on a journey, Lady Dalrymple?” he inquired politely. “If so, I shall be happy to have my footmen—”

“—load my baggage onto your carriage?” Hermia breezed past him, blowing him a distracted kiss. “You are such a sweet young man. Odham and I shall settle ourselves in while you and Emma make your farewells. You do not mind if I claim one of the windows for myself? Traveling over country roads does give these ancient bones a shock.”

She glided toward the door on a carpet of oblivion, pausing to send a distracted wave in the direction of her niece, Julia, who had ventured forth from the drawing room to investigate the commotion.

Emma turned to Julia. “Is Hermia returning to her country estate?” she asked hopefully.

Julia hesitated. “Didn’t she tell you? She’s decided that she and Odham should accompany you to the duke’s estate.”

“Why?” Adrian asked.

Julia exhaled quietly. “It appears that she feels a certain responsibility toward you and Emma, Adrian. Because she…brought you together, one might say.”

“She won’t keep us together by accompanying us on our honeymoon,” he said bluntly.

Emma shook her head. “She isn’t coming with us?”

“I’m afraid so,” Julia replied. “At least she’ll have Odham to keep her company.”

“Odham?” Adrian said, almost dropping his black silk hat. “Anyone else?”

Julia shook her head in sympathy. “Hamm offered to go, but it was decided he wouldn’t fit in the carriage.”

“But we’re married,” Adrian said with a forced smile. “We don’t need a chaperone.” He looked at Emma. “Do we?”

“We do owe her an enormous debt,” she whispered in resignation.

“I realize that,” he said, “but couldn’t our repayment have waited until a later time?”

Julia lowered her gaze. “It seems she is doing this as a favor to
you,
Adrian. She believes she can act as a peacemaker between you and your father. They were friends once.”

“What a kindly thought,” Emma murmured as Adrian took her arm and guided her to the door. “How generous of her.”

A crowd of spectators had collected on the pavement to witness the duke’s heir bear his Boscastle bride off to the countryside. One herring-vendor remarked that their leave-taking reminded her of the legend of Pluto bearing Proserpina to his internal realm. A young male sprat-seller retorted that she was old enough to remember Roman times.

Harriet ran out of the house and tossed a beribboned laurel wreath at the carriage. Hamm the footman shouted a warning to the coachman to beware of highwaymen on country roads. The coachman tipped his low-crowned hat to the crowd and cracked his whip at the six muscular horses straining in their polished harnesses.

The horses charged forward with Hermia waving from her window to the throng in the street. Emma’s gaze was drawn to a cloaked woman who stood alone on the corner.

Lady Clipstone. She sniffed, pretending not to notice. It would be spiteful and quite beneath her station to acknowledge her rival’s interest. But then Hermia poked her head out the window and chortled:

“Do move out of the way, Alice, dear. The duchess is coming through!”

Emma pulled down the curtains with a gasp of embarrassment. “That’s entirely vulgar of you.” She settled back in her seat. Soon the peeling of church bells and the rumble of city traffic fell away. “Even if she did deserve it.”

On the second day of their journey, they took the Windsor Road for another five miles past Camberly, then veered toward a windswept downs. Soon afterward a subtle fog enveloped them. By late afternoon, the coachman had slowed their progress to a crawl, and he could be heard muttering dire warnings through his heavy wool muffler about the dangers of traveling in the mist.

Adrian had felt his mood darken with every mile they ventured closer to Scarfield. He thought he had forgotten all the old insults. He’d tried to forget.

But the familiar landmarks stood in the fog like old ghosts waiting to greet him.

They had mocked him when he had left. They would probably still be standing when he died and turned to dust.

An abandoned abbey.

The ancient beechwoods where he used to hide for days at a time until his father’s estate manager would find him.

The mysterious burial mounds of his prehistoric ancestors.

He sat forward without warning and thumped his fist on the roof. “Make a detour at the next bridge,” he instructed the coachman. “Go left around the oak grove, or we shall be wandering in the mist forever.”

Emma slept through his decision as did Odham. Only Hermia roused to question his judgment, drawing her cloak around her sturdy shoulders. “A detour, Adrian?” she asked with a frown. “In this fog? I hope you don’t lead us into a lake.”

He sank back against the seat, thinking of Scarfield and all it represented. His fond gaze slid to his sleeping wife. “I hope I don’t lead us into something worse.”

Adrian’s voice awakened Emma from an enjoyable dream. “We’ve a choice of continuing and arriving before nightfall, or going back to Ye Olde Bed of Fleas until your English weather improves.”

She glanced up, lost in the wicked warmth of his eyes. “You’re as born to the clime as I am. Why does it have to be
my
weather?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s because you’re a woman and subject to the same unpredictable moods as the weather.”

She gathered her blanket around her shoulders. “Perhaps
you
might have predicted a more direct route. Perhaps you might even have consulted a map.”

“We aren’t lost,” he said with a dour smile.

She gazed past him to what little she could see through the window. Twisted trees wrapped in mist. Gray drifts of shadows like a congregation of spirits.

“We’re approaching Buxton Bridge as we speak,” he said, taking her hand. “It has five stone arches, and every spring, a village maiden is chosen—”

The carriage ground to a sudden halt. Emma looked up, feeling Adrian’s hand tighten over hers. It was deadly quiet outside except for the whickering of the six horses and the rhythmic flow of the river through the stony bed below. The coach’s undersprings creaked as the men on the box jumped to the roadside.

“We’ve stopped,” she said, sitting up.

The Earl of Odham opened his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Queer place to take a rest,” Hermia said quietly. “One always remembers the myths about monsters who reside under these old bridges.”

Adrian looked up slowly. He frowned at Odham. “Keep them inside.”

Emma met Adrian’s gaze. She had seen him slide his hand inside his coat. “Do be careful,” she said in an anxious voice. “Not all monsters are myths.”

He smiled, then turned to the door. Emma gave a start as it opened unexpectedly. Bones, Adrian’s valet, stood against the fog. He was unsuccessfully trying to hide his master’s sword behind his back. Emma understood the message behind her husband’s faint nod of acknowledgment. He meant to confront whoever had stopped the coach in this isolated place should he need to.

“They’ve taken the coachman and footman onto the bridge, my lord,” Bones whispered hastily. “They did not notice me on the back. They were waiting at the other side.”

“How many?” Adrian asked, stepping down onto the road.

“Three, I saw.”

“Then they are outnumbered.” His calm voice seemed unnatural to Emma. Did the man not understand the danger? Oh, fool she was. Of course he understood, and he almost looked as if he relished what would come.

“Stay behind the carriage, Bones, unless I call you. By no means leave my wife unprotected.”

“Yes, my lord.” In the blink of an eye Bones looked less a London valet than a soldier who had witnessed the brutalities of life. “The coachman and his man were disarmed before they could cry for help,” he added in an undertone.

Adrian walked several paces from the carriage, pausing to take his bearings. He knew this place, this bridge. Even in a thick fog he remembered the bridle path that cut through the trees, the myriad places a person could hide.

As far as he could tell, there were only two mounted men on the bridge. Which meant the third whom Bones had mentioned was—his blood boiled over. Where was the bastard hiding?

He swiveled around and stared at the coach. It sat like a tempting jewel on the secluded track. Damn his impatience. Damn his insistence on a detour. Damn him for not taking Cedric’s warning about the perils of Scarfield’s roads to heart.

If anyone so much as approached Emma and her companions, he would not live to see the following day. And his dainty-mannered wife would know without a doubt that her efforts to civilize Adrian had been in vain.

So be it.

England was no more civilized than the most heathen land he had defended. Men were men, subject to the same temptations and greed the world over no matter how one disguised it.

In the damp haze, he unharnessed one of the coach’s six horses and vaulted onto her back. The mare sensed his urgency, pricked her ears, and quickened her pace. He raised his sword, the artfully crafted Persian scimitar that he had been given for protecting a harem. A wolf’s head had been engraved upon the enameled silver hilt. He had accepted the gift, thinking he would never use it in England. Or anywhere for that matter.