The Heir and the Spare (13 page)

But before he could turn away from the window, one of the girls in the garden caught his attention. She wandered away from the group and bent over to smell some roses. From the distance he admired the shape of her backside. She lowered her parasol, neglectfully letting it fall to the ground. She untied the ribbons securing her bonnet and removed it. Her red hair shone like a copper coin in the sunlight.

He wished she would remove her hairpins, one by one, letting them fall to the ground as with her bonnet and parasol. He wanted to see that lush red hair tumble down her back.

He owed her an explanation. But until then . . . Devon watched as his twin strolled over to her.

It should be me,
he thought.
I should be the one to pluck a pink rose and hand it to her, to take her by the hand and lead her on a stroll through the gardens.

Phillip, for some reason, turned and looked back at the house.

Their eyes met.

Devon smiled broadly and waved. Phillip scowled.

Sometimes nothing pleased Devon more than irritating his brother.

Emilia was admiring the roses, plump bursts of pink and red on overflowing bushes, when Phillip strolled over to her.

“A young lady without her bonnet and parasol? You’ll get freckles,” he said. She had always hated comments suggesting that she should fear freckles. “In fact,” he continued, peering at her, “you already have a few. I understand that lemon juice will erase them.” She especially hated when people suggested that she go to great lengths to remove them.

She also discovered that she hated when a man tried to compromise her and then, the following morning, talked to her of freckles.

“I don’t really care one way or another,” she replied lightly. Then she paused.

“Phillip, I must ask you something about last night,” she blurted out as they walked. She wanted to ask him why he had changed his clothes and sneaked in through the back door. Why he had suddenly detailed their meeting and kiss, when he had previously seemed to forget about it. And above all, why had he seemed about to compromise her, when all he had to do was ask her to marry him? She would probably say yes, wouldn’t she?

“It looks like the others are eager to depart for our picnic. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

The path to the ruins of the old castle was narrow and winding, shaded by the forest. Phillip walked ahead, leading the way, with Parkhurst ambling by his side. The other guests fell into pairs.

Annabelle fell into step with Emilia.

“Emilia, George and I kissed last night, really kissed,” Annabelle said in a hushed voice. “He said he couldn’t wait any longer. And you were right—there are no words to describe being thoroughly kissed.”

“That’s wonderful, Annabelle! And you understand my frustration and confusion with Phillip.”

“Completely.”

“So with George, did anything else happen?”

“No. He said he would save the rest for our wedding night.”

“The rest?”

“Apparently there’s more. When I find out what it is, you can be sure I shall tell you every detail,” Annabelle promised.

“Good. What exactly happens on a wedding night is one of the great unsolved mysteries in the life of a young girl.”

“Oh, I know. I tried asking my mother, and she wouldn’t tell me. And then I tried to bribe the housemaids, but they just grinned and promised I would learn one day.”

“When I tried to pry information from my governess, she pretended to be deaf. And novels are not very enlightening either.”

“At least not the ones we are permitted to read,” Annabelle muttered.

“Oh, look! There is the old castle,” Emilia exclaimed.

“What is left of it,” Annabelle replied.

To say the castle was in ruins was an understatement. Only the footprint of the old building remained. The walls were low in some places, high in others, and completely destroyed in some parts. Every remaining stone was covered in soft green moss. The grass grew tall and mingled with wildflowers and weeds. Trees had taken root and grown tall and strong in what must have been the banquet hall. Four stone steps remained of what must have been a central staircase.

Footmen had been sent ahead with all the supplies for the picnic, and most of the guests chose to lunch first. Annabelle and Emilia, however, convinced Phillip and George to explore the castle straightaway. George took Annabelle by the hand, and pretended to give her a lecture on the ancient architecture, to which she pretended to listen. Emilia could see the discreet caresses they gave each other. They were in love.

Phillip leaned against a crumbling stone wall while gazing at the land in the distance through what was once a window. Shouldn’t he spare a glance for her?

She touched her fingers to her lips, thinking of kisses. She thought of her resolution to kiss him once more. Just once. Even though her feelings for him were as tangled as the grasses and wildflowers, she wanted something to happen. She wanted what Annabelle had with her fiancé. She wanted to make the most of this moment, to make it something more than the soft hum of bees, the flutter of birdsong, and the gentle breeze. More than just another frustrating moment with Phillip.

Her heart started pounding—or so she thought. She saw Phillip snap to attention at the sound, and she realized it was the thundering of horse hooves. She looked around but the rider was out of sight.

Phillip smiled at her and leaned against the stone wall.

Rather than stand there with her bonnet dangling from her fingertips, she took one step in his direction, and then another. Emilia’s skirts rustled and swished around her ankles as she crossed the distance between them and came to stand before him.

One kiss. One last chance.

Phillip didn’t have to see him to know that the rider in the forest was his damned twin. Devon was, and had always been, the bane of his existence. Phillip was, and always had been, the heir, and was treated as such. Except for all of the times their father would say, “Why do you not ask your brother to help you?” Or “Your brother would never make such a mistake.” As if the old man had wished the younger son had been first.

But this was his moment to catch a bride. A rich bride. One who would provide the funds to restore their estate to its rightful glory. And then his father would see that Phillip was the better one. The best of the two. He would not ruin this chance with his anger at his brother.

The chit was standing before him, chattering about the spectacular view, the beauty of nature, or something of the sort. He wasn’t really listening. He wasn’t even thinking. In his experience, there was only one way to silence a woman. He looked down at her face. She was pretty enough. He placed his hand on her waist.

He shut his eyes and leaned in to brush his lips against hers. Her lips parted, easily letting him in. He had the fleeting thought that she should not know to do that, that someone had kissed her before, and that that someone might have been his twin. He banished the thought. He kept kissing her, and nothing would make him stop until they were well and thoroughly caught.

Emilia felt nothing but waves of confusion rollicking through her, followed by waves of revulsion. Phillip’s tongue jabbed and darted into her mouth. This was not the passionate, perfect tangle of their previous kiss. He didn’t even pull her close, like before. He just held her waist with one hand, keeping her body away from his, and with his other hand he fondled and squeezed her breast. It hurt, unlike before. All the while he twisted his tongue in her mouth, almost violently. She choked and wretched her body away, nearly stumbling.

In her confusion, one thought pushed through all the rest.
By God, whom had she kissed before?
Her fingers flew to her lips, as if there was a clue there.

He leaned in to attempt another kiss from her.

“Get away from me, you scoundrel!” She pushed him away, or tried to. Emilia only ended up stumbling herself, and fell to the ground. Scowling, she refused Phillip’s offered hand and stood up on her own.

“Emilia!” Annabelle called out, from the other side of the ruins. She and George rushed over. “What happened?” she demanded.

Emilia glared at Phillip, noting that he looked rather like a naughty schoolboy caught at a prank, but was too pleased with his mischief to fear the punishment. She wanted to slap him.

“Well, Emilia, it looks like we’ve been caught. I suppose we should inform your chaperone that we are to be married,” Phillip stated. It was done, he thought. He had dreaded this moment, getting engaged, but now that it was done, the thought of her fortune and his father’s pride made him giddy with delight.

“I think not,” Emilia responded. Her voice was firm, but hoarse.

“But I just compromised you,” he replied.

And with that, she did slap him.

Emilia turned and ran, tripping over her skirts before remembering to pick them up. She thought about how ladies were not supposed to run, and not supposed to expose their ankles, and definitely not supposed to kiss gentlemen who were not their husbands, under any circumstances. Now she knew why. She swore she would behave from now on.

She heard Annabelle calling out after her, but she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stop until she got farther away.

“What did you do to her?” George Winsworth growled in rage and disgust at his cousin.

“Nothing she didn’t want,” Phillip replied, casually brushing a bit of dirt off his jacket.

“I am not going to inform anyone of what just happened, as it is clear that she does not wish it. I trust you will maintain your silence as well,” George said stonily. “You will act like a gentleman for once in your life. You will apologize to Miss Highhart—privately. And you will not breathe a word of this to anyone. Not even your foolish friend, Parkhurst.”

“I will marry her,” Phillip said. “That will solve everything.” Especically his financial problems.

“She clearly doesn’t want you.” George couldn’t look at him any longer; he walked away to find the ladies and to ensure Emilia was all right.

Neither of the men noticed Lady Palmerston on the other side of the wall. She had heard everything.

Emilia finally stopped at a low wall on the other side of the ruins and sat down upon it. She tried to concentrate on breathing normally, but could only wonder at how one kiss could be so perfect and another could turn a girl’s world perfectly upside down.

“What just happened?” Annabelle asked, sitting beside her.

“Oh, Annabelle. It was just awful. When we kissed before it was so utterly perfect and magical and tender and passionate all at the same time. But just now”—Emilia shuddered—“it was . . . I don’t know who I kissed before but it wasn’t Phillip. And what if he tells everyone and I am forced to marry him? I will die a shriveled-up spinster before I marry him. But that is all beside the point. Annabelle,
who did I kiss before
?”

“Was it really that bad? You seemed so in love with him.”

“I might have been in love with someone that looks just like him, but does not kiss just like him. And now, I can’t love whoever that may be either, for he left me in this horrendous situation.”

“It was just one kiss. Perhaps he was not in top form today.”

“Even if that is the case, I will not marry him. Oh, what if he tells?”

“Do not worry about that,” George said as he returned. He knelt before Emilia to look her in the eye. “Are you all right?”

Annabelle, seated beside her new friend, beamed at her fiancé. The way he looked at Emilia with such genuine concern made her fall more in love with him. She mentally revised her earlier statement that perfect gentlemen were dull. Perfect gentlemen were a treasure.

“I will be fine, so long as I do not have to marry him,” Emilia answered.

“I cautioned him, strongly, not to say a word about what just happened,” George said.

“Do you think he will keep quiet?”

“I will do what I can to ensure it. And even if he does talk, and even though his actions were in keeping with his reputation, it’s our word against his. Three to one.”

Marksmith answered the summons to the library and found two young ladies and their chaperones seated, with flushed complexions and grim expressions on their faces.

“Tea, please,” Lady Palmerston said. “And make it strong.”

As he closed the door behind him, Marksmith heard her bark, “Out with it, Emilia.” He told a nearby footman to fetch a tea tray while he stood outside the door, shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation.

He heard of a passionate kiss in the library at the Carrington Ball in London, bestowed by a man he presumed to be Phillip.

He heard her relate her frustration and confusion due to Phillip’s behavior: bland at times, passionate at others. Sometimes he made her heart beat wildly, other times he did not. He heard of a very horrid kiss this afternoon, and the strangest encounter in the library the previous evening.

He heard her apologize profusely for allowing a gentleman to take such liberties with her, on two separate occasions. He heard her swear that they were two different men, and yet was that even possible?

The answer was immediately apparent to Marksmith. He waited through a moment of silence as the two matrons arrived at the same conclusion.

“He had a twin,” Lady Palmerston stated. “But he’s dead.”

“What?” Emilia exclaimed.

“Had?”
Annabelle asked.

“It happened five years ago,” Lady Stillmore added. “He was on board a ship for America, and apparently he fell overboard. They never found the body. All so very tragic.”

“Hmmph. Tragedy indeed,” Lady Palmerston retorted. “I wager that he is not dead at all.”

“Might I remind you, Lady Palmerston, that we attended the memorial service,” Lady Stillmore replied.

“So? There was no body.”