The Heir and the Spare (5 page)

“It is a great pleasure to see you again, Miss Highhart,” he said, kissing her hand.

“Do call me Emilia,” she said softly. It was only when the other women gasped that she realized what she had done—suggested an intimacy with him. Scandalous as it may be, she could not bring herself to regret it. Not when he smiled at her like that.

“Thank you, Emilia.” He spoke as if savoring her name. “And you must call me Phillip. I hear you are new to London.”

“Just a few weeks. Not very long at all.”

“Just one week and already you are a sensation,” he murmured. “And have you had the opportunity to see the beauty of the English countryside?”

“No, not yet, although I am eager to see it.”

“You must visit my estate, Cliveden. It is perfect this time of year.”

Lady Palmerston, who had been unusually quiet this afternoon, cleared her throat. Loudly. Phillip took the hint.

“And your aunt, as well. Naturally.”

“Quite right, Huntley. As her chaperone I am not to let her alone with the likes of you.”

“As her chaperone, you are not to leave her alone with any man, is that not right?” His expression was so innocent as he uttered those words that Emilia had to bite her tongue to keep from asking about his reputation then and there. Really, how could he say such a thing if it was true that he had ruined all those innocent young girls?

Emilia shifted her gaze from Phillip to the other women. It seemed from their expressions that they were thinking the same thing as she.

“Emilia, it has been a delight to call on you. Will you be attending the Maclesfield Ball this evening?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Emilia replied, after seeing Lady Palmerston nod yes.

“Then I shall see you this evening. You must save a waltz for me.”

“I’ll save two dances for you,” she replied flirtatiously. He kissed her hand once more before he took his leave.

Suitably scandalized for one afternoon, their other guests left in a flurry of gossip.

“Groves!” Lady Palmerston shouted. At her command, he appeared in the drawing room. “My niece and I wish for a fresh pot of tea. Emilia, my dear, what did you think?” she questioned.

“I’ve never had a morning like it.”

“You do realize the scandal that has taken place in my drawing room.”

Emilia raised her eyebrow, as she had seen her aunt do on numerous occasions. Lady Palmerston chuckled. “This morning marks the first time that Lord Huntley has called on a proper young lady. Quite the social coup. And giving him leave to use your given name! Good Lord, girl, you might as well marry him as no one else will compete with him.”

“There were only a few others present. None of the other gentlemen stayed after he had arrived,” Emilia said, although it suited her just fine if she was to marry him. After their kiss, there could be no one else for her.

“Ha! Those women were the biggest gossips of the ton! I can assure you that half of London already knows.”

“I didn’t realize.”

“They will be watching you now, more than ever. Be careful. He is rather attractive, I’ll grant him that. He can be quite charming, as well. But other than that, he doesn’t possess much to recommend him.”

Devon
Kensington leaned against a pillar in a dark corner at the edge of the ballroom. His lean, muscular frame was clad in the stark black and white of evening dress. He idly ran his fingertips over the scar just above his right eye. He took a sip of champagne and allowed his eyes to take in the sights of the ball. To anyone who cared to notice, he looked like a rake waiting for his latest assignation.

At least, that was his hope. That redhead had captivated him from the first moment. Ever since, she had haunted his every thought. Her laugh, her blue eyes, her kiss. The risk he was taking tonight to see her again was beyond absurd.

But he needed to kiss her again, and he needed to apologize to her for the way he had fled a few nights ago. Regret gnawed at him as much as desire. And so he had found out from George that the Maclesfield Ball was an enormous event, and that everyone who was anyone was sure to be there. Her. And Phillip, his twin. He was taking the chance that no one would notice that Phillip might not, at times, be quite himself.

He was also taking the chance that no one truly believed in ghosts. Devon had never given a thought to explaining his mysterious and sudden disappearance five years previous. But Phillip had, and Phillip had told the world that his twin had perished at sea. Phillip didn’t even make up a dignified way of dying, either—no, he told everyone that Devon had gotten drunk and fallen overboard. But that was brotherly love for you.

In fact, the irony of Devon’s settling in Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, had not been lost on him. But he had begun working at Diamond Shipping Company, and the months flew by. The old Devon slipped away. The one who hated his brother, the one who felt hurt and tortured by his father, the one nobody ever saw for himself, but simply as the lesser half of a pair. The spare to Phillip’s heir.

He took another sip of champagne as if to wash away thoughts of the past. He saw not faces or figures, but simply hair. He was looking for her dark red hair. He spotted someone—was it her? No, she was too tall. His gaze continued to roam, eventually, inevitably, unfortunately, settling upon his twin.

Devon retreated one step farther into the shadows, but he could not look away, and so he took two steps forward. The sight before his eyes made him feel as if he had been kicked by a horse—there was a sharp pain in his gut, a momentary inability to breathe, a horrid, helpless feeling. And then there was his old, familiar rage.

Phillip was leading
her
, hand in hand, to the dance floor. Her hair was pulled away from her face, showing an expression that might have made him ridiculously pleased had it been directed at him. She looked besotted.

And it occurred to Devon then that she might be no different than the rest of the world. There were those who never bothered to distinguish between the twins; there were those who did find one difference between them, and that was Phillip’s eventual title. Everyone knew that there was one reason that American women traveled to England, and it was for a titled husband.

He started to walk away from his refuge, intent on making his way through the crowds on his way out, not giving a damn who saw him. And then he was interrupted.

“Running away again?” George observed.

“I’m not in the mood,” Devon responded, walking past his friend.

“There is no reason why you can’t be here. As yourself,” George remarked, following.

“Really?” Devon asked, pausing and folding his arms over his chest. “Because I can think of three.”

“Enlighten me,” George stated.

“First of all, I don’t want to. Second, the nasty business about that duel is still unresolved, and I intend to keep it that way. And third, I did not return to England to rejoin society. I am simply visiting my dying father.”

“It is my understanding that your father is retired in the country. Certainly he has not established his deathbed in the Maclesfield ballroom. The question is then, why are you here at all?”

Devon’s gaze betrayed him. George followed his line of sight, which led right to Phillip and the redhead girl.

“I see,” George said after a moment. “The betting books at the club already contain at least a dozen wagers about them. Whether Phillip will marry her or ruin her. Whether she fell into his arms deliberately, all in an effort to land a duke, or whether she is just very clumsy.”

“And what have you placed your money on?” Devon asked.

“I’m debating between marriage or ruination. But it depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you leave this corner or not,” George said, before excusing himself to find his fiancée.

Within fifteen minutes of Emilia’s arrival at the ball, her dance card was full, except for two dances she had saved for Phillip. She would have kept her dance card free, but her aunt had said she had been scandalous enough for one day.

And so she danced, counting
one two three, one two three
in her head, with a smile pasted on her face. Every so often she would have a strange feeling that someone was watching her—something would flutter in her stomach, distract her, and cause her to stumble slightly, or step on toes, which her dance partners politely pretended not to notice. Save for the stumbling part of it, the feeling wasn’t altogether unpleasant. She knew, just knew, that Phillip was near. While dancing with Roxbury, the complete rake who was an excellent dancer, she felt secure enough in her steps to think.

Naturally, she thought about Phillip. Or rather, his reputation. She couldn’t reconcile it with his kiss that was so passionate yet tender, illicit yet so right. And his kiss had affected her so that she might not have stopped there had he not fled. It was a sobering thought—that she might have traveled three thousand miles for a London season, only to offer up her virtue to a man who had a habit of taking that and leaving the girl.

“I have a reputation to maintain,” Roxbury murmured with a grin. “At least pretend to be paying attention to me.”

Emilia looked up at him and delivered her most dazzling smile.

“Much better,” Roxbury said. “Now are you going to tell me what you were thinking about?”

“No,” Emilia replied lightly, “for, I, too, have a reputation to maintain.”

At the conclusion of the waltz, he escorted Emilia to her aunt, who was deep in conversation with the Alcourt women. Emilia joined the debate upon whether Mr. Robin-son was going to propose to Miss Maribelle. She did not even notice that Phillip had joined their party until the other women fell silent. Only then did she turn to see him smiling slightly at her. Funny, she thought, that she hadn’t noticed him so nearby.

“Good evening, Emilia,” he said. “Lady Palmerston, may I have this waltz with your niece?”

“I suppose,” she grumbled.

Though Emilia would rather Phillip had asked
her
to dance, she was happy to be near him. The opening strains of a waltz sounded from the orchestra. He placed his hand lightly in the center of her back. She wished it were lower. He held her other hand just as gently, and she wished he held it more firmly, and she really wished that he would pull her closer. In the absence of any physical intimacy, she decided to talk to him. She couldn’t ask him straight out about all the tales her aunt had told her. But she could ask around the subject.

“My aunt tells me you have spent some time in Italy,” she said.

He looked at her queerly for a mere second; she might not have noticed if she hadn’t been watching him so closely. “Yes,” he replied, “a beautiful country.”

“I’ve always wanted to go, particularly to see the great works of art. My father had a book with reproductions that I enjoyed looking at, but I would so love to see the real thing.”

“I find the lot of it rather dull, and some of it is not appropriate for a young lady’s eyes.”

“Making it all the more intriguing,” she said, barely concealing her irritation. Since when did he care about what was appropriate for young ladies?

“Perhaps once you are married your husband will take you there on your honeymoon,” he murmured.

That did sound romantic. It almost sounded as if he were entertaining the thought of proposing. Did one propose in the midst of a waltz? Probably not. He did not say anything further. Emilia did not speak either, for she was too busy noticing the steady thump of her heart, and counting
one two three, one two three . . .

. . . One two three, one two ouch.
She had been dancing all evening now, her feet were starting to hurt, and she was starting to stumble with more frequency. She had danced with lords and mere misters, with old men and young men. She hadn’t seen Phillip since their dance earlier, though she had looked. At this point, her feet hurt so badly, she wasn’t sure she would accept another dance with him if he offered.

She gave a sheepish smile to her partner after having just stepped on his toes. The dandy looked horrified for a moment, no doubt thinking of the scuff marks, but he managed a polite smile. She hoped desperately that the dance would be over soon, as his perfume was making her light-headed. Together they turned, and that was when she saw Phillip cutting through the crowd in her direction.

“May I cut in?” It was worded as a question, but not delivered as such.

The dandy took one look and fled. Emilia took one step into Phillip’s arms. He placed on hand on her lower back— a few more inches lower would have been grounds for a marriage proposal. He held her other hand as if he would never let go. And there was something in the way he looked at her—as if savoring and memorizing every inch of her— that heightened each and every one of her senses, leaving no capacity for other, more rational thought.

“I owe you an apology for the other night,” he said quietly.

“Oh, so you do remember,” she replied, looking into his eyes.

“What happened was not something that a man forgets.”

Her heart skipped a beat. Or ten. She really couldn’t count at the moment.

“I’m glad to hear you say it, for you had led me to believe otherwise. You are quite an actor, Phillip.”

His grasp on her hand tightened, and his mouth straightened into a firm line.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps people only see what they wish to see,” he said with a slight lift of his eyebrow.

“Do you think I wished to forget that kiss had happened?” she asked.

“Do you?”

“My memory pays no heed to my wishes,” she confessed.

“It was wrong of me to take advantage of you in that manner. I apologize.”

“And what if I don’t want your apology?” she asked, feeling her throat tighten. That was the last thing she wanted.