
How to Woo a Spinster --- a Daughtry family prequel
Still unmarried at twenty-eight, Lady Emmaline Daughtry has resigned herself to spinsterhood. Then Captain John Alistair arrives at her door---the very image of the perfect lover of her most private dreams. But can a man with a secret and a woman who's never known love find happiness when they least expect to?
Lady Emmaline Daughtry sat in the gardens of Ashurst Hall on one of the first bright days of spring, completely and entirely alone.
It was her twenty-eighth birthday.
On her lap was the letter that had arrived in the morning post from her nieces, Lydia and Nicole. In order to keep to one sheet, thus saving on the postage, Lydia had written her rather formal, excruciatingly correct wishes in her finest copperplate. Nicole, being Nicole, had scribbled her good wishes upside-down between Lydia's lines, her usual exuberance evident in both her atrocious spelling and her latest affectation of marking all her i's with small hearts.
The twins were back with their mother, the thrice-widowed Helen Daughtry, at their small estate of Willowbrook, as Helen was once again between husbands and had remembered that she had daughters to fuss over in her own fashion.
That would change in a few weeks, when Helen went tripping off to London for the Season, and Lydia and Nicole were once again shuttled back to Ashurst Hall "to bear their dearest spinster aunt their Comfort and Presence, as you must be So Devastatingly Lonely isolated in the back of beyond." Or so Helen's last letter, all but pinned to the twins' luggage, had stated so cruelly. But all under the guise of being caring and compassionate.
Lady Emmaline knew her late brother's widow could be a kind person, in her own way.
She simply wasn't a kind person frequently In that way, Helen had fit very well with the Daughtry family, who seemed to belong to another age, the more rough and tumble---and most definitely profane---age of two decades past.
Marital fidelity was a joke to them, kindness considered a weakness and selfishness a near art form. Or else today's Society had simply learned to hide their failings and vices better...
Her morals had, however, been the only way her sister-in-law resembled the Daughtrys. Helen always said she'd married the wrong brother when she'd wed the second son, but even that marriage had been quite above her social station. Yet, ever resourceful, she'd made do with a husband who had tired of her within a few months, and built her own life, her own circle of London friends.
When Emmaline's brother Geoffrey had died, Helen had tricked herself out in crushingly expensive widow's weeds, impatiently waited out a full month of mourning and then deposited her son, Rafael, and the twins on the doorstep of Ashurst Hall and returned to London and those friends. Over the years, the children had spent more time at Ashurst Hall than on their own estate, until Rafe had left to serve with Wellington.
Emmaline had been as thrilled by these additions to the family as her only surviving brother had been appalled---which may have been one of the reasons Emmaline had been so delighted. After all, it wasn't as if there was any love lost between Charlton and herself.
Charlton and Geoffrey were so very much older than Emmaline, and males to her female, so it was not surprising that the three had never been especially close. And Emmaline could have accepted that. But Emmaline's mother had departed this earth the same day her only daughter was born, and for that, Charlton and Geoffrey would never forgive her. Even their father, the Duke of Ashurst, had been no more than occasionally aware of his daughter's existence.
Not that he'd much cared for his sons, either.
Emmaline always thought his children would have garnered more affection from their sire if they could run on four legs, go up on point when they spotted the fox and then lay at his feet at the banquet whilst he celebrated his latest glorious kill.
And then Geoffrey had died, and their father had looked around and noticed that, by Jupiter, he was in danger of being outnumbered by petticoats.
Charlton's wife was enough to have twittering about Ashurst Hall, complaining that he came to dinner in his hunting clothes, or tossing fierce looks at him when he belched or scratched satisfyingly whenever the spirit moved him. It was time to marry off the one he could get rid of, by Jupiter!
So Emmaline had been hauled off to London upon the occasion of her eighteenth birthday, where she was put under the supposedly watchful eye of Helen Daughtry. Which is the same as to say Emmaline was left to her own devices while Helen flirted outrageously with any man who happened to look at Emmaline in a matrimonial way.
Not that Emmaline hadn't had her chances during the Seasons she'd suffered through under Helen's haphazard chaperonage. There had been at least a few gentlemen who hadn't taken one look at Helen's d6colletage and deserted Emmaline as if she'd just told them she had contracted the plague. There had been Sir William Masterson, a widower with six children under the age of ten. He'd made no bones that he was looking for a woman to ride herd on his... well, on his herd. Lord Phillipson had loved her;
Emmaline had been very aware of that fact from the way he had all but drooled on her shoe tops, but as his breath would fell an ox at ten paces, she'd felt she had to decline his proposal.
There had been no third Season, as her father had died, and Emmaline had insisted on a full year of mourning (Helen had actually laughed when she'd heard that, which was, in fact, as she headed out the door on her way to London less than two hours after the duke had been put to bed for his eternal rest in the family mausoleum).
Charlton, now the thirteenth duke, had given Emmaline one more chance the following Season, sending her off with a warning that an only passably pretty woman of three and twenty shouldn't be so damned choosy and she'd better find some fool who'd come up to scratch because was done through the nose for gowns and gloves and other fripperies.
The Season hadn't gone well. Emmaline sometimes wondered if she had deliberately sabotaged herself and her matrimonial hopes simply to spite the new duke.
On the event of her twenty-fourth birthday, Charlton's gift to her had been a half dozen white, embroidered spinster caps and the information that, while he and his sons George and Harold (their mama having succumbed to a putrid cold three years previously) would be going to London for the Season, she was to remain at home.
Emmaline hadn't protested. Indeed, at the time, she had been rather relieved. After all, in her many Seasons in London she had met, danced and spoken with nearly every eligible bachelor not risking his life on the Peninsula, and none of them had excited her in the least. She could find little attraction in men who cared more for the cut of their evening jacket than they did the notion that Bonaparte might somehow best Wellington and they'd all be speaking French. How on earth was she supposed to take any of these men seriously when none of them had been any better than her brother and nephews, some of them actually worse?
But now the war was at last over and Bonaparte was on his way to a deserved exile, and the world could welcome home all its fine, brave soldiers... who to a man would surely be on the lookout for ladies much younger than Lady Emmaline.
No, she was destined to remain forever on this estate, sitting in this same garden, season after season, year after year, birthday after birthday, waiting for her perfect lover who would never arrive. How she had tired of watching Charlton eat with his fingers at the dinner table, hearing George and Harold brag about their latest bouts of drinking and gambling, wretches that they were, not to mention listening in some fear to her brother threaten to send her off to their great-aunt in Scotland because he was weary of looking at her.
Yes, having Rafael and Lydia and Nicole so often in residence these past years had been Emmaline's main comfort, and she missed them sorely.
She did not miss Charlton or his sons, who had left her alone without a kind word about her birthday, most probably because they'd forgotten the date. No, they'd gone off five days ago to play with George's newest toy, a yacht he had won at the gaming tables. As if any of them knew the first thing about steering a boat, or whatever it was one did with a boat.
Would it be terrible of her to hope that all three of them spent most of their voyage hanging over the side, sick as dogs and casting up their suppers into the Channel?
Emmaline sighed, folding up the letter from her nieces as she tried to shake off her depressing thoughts. She wished her good friend Charlotte Seavers, who lived in Rose Cottage with her parents, right next door to Ashurst Hall, could share her birthday with her, but her mother was still not quite well. But, no, Emmaline wouldn't think about that particular sadness tonight, either.
Cook had promised her a special treat for supper, and she really should go change out of her simple sprigged muslin gown and into something more festive. She didn't wish to disappoint the servants, who she knew had been busily polishing silver especially for what would be a solitary meal in the cavernous dining room, followed by a quiet evening of reading and an early bedtime.
Perhaps she should reconsider those caps Charlton had given her along with the warning that she was only living under his roof because of his kind and generous nature. She considered this idea for a full three seconds before declaring to the flowers and the trees: "The devil I will. With or without my family, I'm going to celebrate my birthday. By Jupiter."
And then, after surprising herself with her outburst, Emmaline quickly bit her lips between her teeth as she heard the sound of firm, purposeful footsteps approaching along the brick path. How wonderful. Now she was talking to herself, a very spinsterlike thing to do, and someone may have heard her.
She turned her head at the sound of her name.
"Yes. Here I am," she said, knowing she did not recognize the male voice that had called to her.
The gentleman who appeared momentarily was a complete stranger to her, for she surely would have remembered such a tall, darkly handsome man as this if she had ever seen him.
"Lady Emmaline?"
"Yes... um, yes, I am she," Emmaline said, feeling rather shaken by the sight of the man's coal-black hair and blazingly blue eyes. As her own eyes were a very ordinary brown and her hair so typically English blond, she had always had an attraction to dark hair and blue eyes. Indeed, she had secretly envied young Nicole her ebony curls and nearly violet eyes, knowing that when she and the differently beautiful Lydia came of age and headed to Mayfair, their suitors would probably have to be beaten away with stout sticks.
"Please pardon the intrusion, ma'am. Your butler told me I would find you here."
Belatedly, Emmaline held out her hand to the man, her hopefully subtle inspection unnoticed by him. She recognized his uniform as belonging to the Royal Navy. And on my birthday, too---what a lovely present.
She mentally slapped herself for her frivolous thoughts, probably old-maid thoughts, or those more often entertained by someone like Helen.
Then again, Emmaline reminded herself, she was not exactly a debutante, was she? "Captain?"
"Alastair. Captain John Alastair, ma'am," he said after only a slight hesitation, taking her hand in his and bowing over it before releasing her and rising to his full height once more. "I've brought news. If we might step inside, ma'am? And do you have other family in residence at the moment?"
Goodness, what a glorious uniform, right down to the bicorne hat he had tucked up under his arm. Now this was a man worth meeting. Stop that! she warned her inner self, who was certainly not behaving as a spinster should. But, my, he was so handsome...
"No, I'm quite alone," Emmaline answered after a moment, feeling slightly dazed. When he'd taken her hand she'd felt a tingle of awareness skip up her arm, and knew she was disappointed that he had not kissed her hand. Which was ridiculous. It wasn't as if someone had sent her the man as a birthday present, for goodness' sake.
Still, the image of him being presented to her, all tied up with a lovely satin bow, persisted in her traitorous brain. If this was what reaching the lofty age of eight and twenty got her, what would she be doing at thirty? Chasing men down the streets of the village? Shame on her!
His frown told her she had given him an answer he could not like. "Then perhaps your maid? A companion?"
Reluctantly, Emmaline brought her mind back to attention. "Captain Alastair, I don't understand. I'm certainly past the age of needing a chaperone. Or have you come to the front door of Ashurst Hall and introduced yourself to my brother's butler all with the intention of either robbing us or killing us, or both? If so, you may want to reconsider housebreaking as a way to make your way in the world now that the hostilities are a thing of the past."
Had she really said all of that? Why, she was babbling, that's what she was doing. But he looked so serious. So handsome and so serious. It seemed necessary to keep speaking, even babbling, so that he didn't say what he had obviously come here to say. Something he would say that, it would seem, required that she have some other female conveniently on hand for the moment when she would either erupt in hysterics or faint dead away.
A sudden fear invaded her. "Has this to do with Rafe? My nephew, Captain Rafael Daughtry? He is with Wellington. But no, that can't be it. For one, the hostilities are over. And you are a navy captain, and Rafe is with the---I'm sorry. I should stop asking questions and ask you to accompany me inside, shouldn't I, as that is what it would seem you wish me to do?"
"That was another question," Captain Alastair pointed out, not unkindly. "If I may?" He held out his arm to her, and she took it, suddenly believing she might need some sort of support.
Neither spoke as they made their way along the brick path to one of the many sets of French doors leading into the large formal saloon. The captain held open the door for her, and Emmaline stepped inside to see that not only was the silver tea service already set up on the table between the two couches near the center of the room, but that both Grayson and the housekeeper, Mrs. Piggle, were standing just outside the room, pretending not to be watching for her.
She shot them a look they both seemed to understand, and the double doors were closed. Not that Emmaline didn't feel certain that both servants had stepped no more than an inch away from the doors. Knowing Mrs. Piggle, the woman was probably already down on her knees, one eye to the keyhole.
"This is about my brother, isn't it?"
Emmaline asked as she sat down and waited for the captain to take up his seat on the facing couch.
"What have he and his sons done? Did they somehow ram and sink one of His Majesty's boats? Has the Navy put them under arrest?"
"No, ma'am," the captain said, reaching for the teapot. "May I?"
"Oh! I should have offered. I'm so sorry... yes, please do. Would you rather some wine?"
He looked across the table at her, those blue eyes unreadable. "I'm pouring the tea for YOU, ma'am. You might consider it a restorative, unless you'd rather a glass of wine. I'm afraid I'm the reluctant bearer of very sad news."
"Yes, I believe I've rather sensed that, Captain Alastair. Please forgive me for attempting to delay delivery of this very sad news. I'm trying to keep my wits about me. Unfortunately, I believe I'm sadly failing at the effort. I'm imagining all sorts of things, none of them very palatable."
"Then please allow me to say this as quickly as I can, and I apologize now for being so abbreviated. Lady Emmaline, it is my sad duty to inform you that your brother and his sons were lost at sea last evening off Shoreham-by-Sea. My own ship arrived on the scene just as the yacht was disappearing beneath the waves with all save one soul still onboard. I'm... I'm profoundly sorry we could not save them."
Emmaline sat very still. She may have breathed, but she couldn't be sure. Her mind objected in the most ridiculous way: But it's my birthday. Isn't it just like them to do this to me on my birthday?
She twisted her hands in her lap, and then pinched herself, just to be sure she was awake, and not in the middle of a nightmare that incongruously somehow included a man best described as the perfect lover of her more pleasant dreams.
"Lady Emmaline? May I please summon someone now?"
She shook her head, unable to speak. She waited for the tears, but they didn't come. In all, she felt rather numb. What had been the last words Charlton had said to her five days ago before climbing into his traveling coach behind George and Harold? Oh yes, she remembered.
Make me a happy man, sister mine. Run off with one of the grooms before we get back!
Her nephews had laughed hard and long at their father's joke. She could still hear them laughing as the coach moved off down the drive.
Emmaline snapped herself back to the moment at hand.
"Was... um, was there a storm?" She didn't know why she asked this. But she felt it was something at least halfway sensible to say, something to break the oppressive silence.
"No, ma'am. Not anything I'd call a storm, at least. As I understand the thing from speaking with the survivor, a Mr. Hugh Hobart, the captain was intoxicated and belowdecks at the time, and one of your nephews was at the helm. Waves are powerful things, ma'am, even on a day that could only be called choppy from the wind along the Channel. Ride with the waves and you fly across the water. Hit one of them wrong, and even a sturdy ship can crack like an egg."
He looked at her, wincing. "I'm sorry. That was stupidly clumsy of me. I shouldn't say that the tragedy could be laid at your nephew's door."
"The yacht was a recent... acquisition. I can't imagine what either George or Harold could have been thinking, to attempt to take the wheel like that. But that's what this Mr. Hobart told you?"
The captain nodded. "The man was rather overset and unintelligible. But, yes, he said his friend Harold was at the helm. That is---was---one of your nephews, correct?"
Emmaline nodded, still waiting to cry. She should be crying, shouldn't she? Clearly Captain Alastair believed she should be weeping, in need of comfort. She was an unnatural sister, that's what she was, and an unnatural aunt.
Because all she could feel, of the little she seemed capable of feeling, was relief...
John Alastair was certain he'd felt more uncomfortable in his lifetime, but at the moment he could not recall anything that measured remotely close to the impotence he felt as he sat across from the bravely stoic Lady Emmaline Daughtry.
He wasn't certain what he'd been expecting from the woman once he'd delivered his terrible news. Tears, protestations that he was wrong, slightly buckling knees or even an outright swoon necessitating burnt feathers being passed beneath her nose to revive her.
He was in considerable awe of the woman, even as he was grateful that he wouldn't have to deal with a hysterical female, as he did not believe playing the role of sympathetic comforter was one of his stronger suits.
Although the thought of having Lady Emmaline in his arms as he comforted her probably appealed to him more than it should.
The late duke's valet, whom John had run to ground at a tavern in Shoreham-by-Sea, had rather grudgingly informed him that Lady Emmaline was the late duke's closest relative, and then gone back to drinking himself under the table, bemoaning the loss of his master. John had asked that the man accompany him to Ashurst Hall, but the valet had demurred, pointing out that there was nothing for him there anymore so he'd stay where he was for the nonce before returning to Ashurst Hall, thank you very much, and then maybe take himself to London to find a new position. When the valet began loudly complaining that he'd have to find that new employment without aid of a written recommendation, considering that the duke was currently fish food, John left the useless man where he was, and good riddance.
He left feeling certain that whatever belongings of the duke and his sons had remained in their rooms at the tavern would soon be sold in order to line the servant's pockets, but it wasn't as if he could command the fellow to show him the way to Ashurst Hall. Instead, he'd commandeered the duke's crested traveling coach and set out to be the Bearer of Sad News.
News Lady Emmaline Daughtry seemed to be taking exceedingly well. What sort of men were the late duke and his sons? The valet had cried... the sister had not?
John studied her as she spooned sugar into her tea and then added cream, her hands steady, her movements graceful. She was a mature woman, little of the girl about her. Her blond hair was styled very simply, swept up and back, away from her face, which showed her smooth chin line and remarkable cheekbones to his admiring eyes.
Her brown eyes were rather long, their shape definitely bordering on the exotic, although she did not use them to their best advantage.
Not that he'd expected her to flirt with him.
For the love of heaven, what was he thinking?
This was probably what happened when a man hadn't stepped foot onshore, let alone been in the company of a beautiful woman, in more than half a year.
"Lady Emmaline?"
"Yes, Captain?" Still slightly bent toward the tea tray, she looked up at him from beneath her curiously dark eyelashes. Now she was using her eyes as they were meant to be used. Except he doubted she realized that, even as he was certain she couldn't know how his traitorous body had reacted to the look of vulnerability he saw in those soft brown depths.
"I apologize again for being the one to bring you such disturbing news, and feel I have intruded on your sorrow long enough. I took advantage of having your coachman drive me here in the duke's coach, so I would be most appreciative of the loan of a horse so that I might be installed at an inn before nightfall. I'll see that the horse is returned tomorrow."
"You... you're leaving?"
It seemed a strange question. But he couldn't ignore the sudden apprehension in her voice.
What was wrong with him? She'd told him she was alone here. Alone, and most probably completely at sea as to what she should next do.
As if to help decide the question of his departure, there was a loud boom of thunder just as the skies seemed to open in a downpour that would have had him soaked to the skin in moments were he to step outside.
Lady Emmaline turned to look out through the panes of the French doors, and then returned her gaze to him. "You were very kind to have come here today, Captain. Please, allow me to offer you the hospitality of Ashurst Hall for the night. Unless it is imperative that you return to your boat?"
"Ship," he corrected with a slight smile. "A frigate, to be exact. But not mine. I was merely traveling with the Fervant, as my duties have concluded. I was on my way home via the port of Hove, in fact, when we came upon... when we came upon the wreckage."
She ignored his mention of her brother's yacht. "Have you been away from your home and family for a long time, Captain?"
"My home, yes, my lady. Four years or a little more, when last I thought about it. As for my family, my three sisters are wed and gone. My parents are also gone---to their eternal rewards. Not to belabor the thing, but as I have spent a solitary bachelor existence at sea for so very long, I will be returning to a home as empty as this one must feel to you at the moment."
"Then I wouldn't be delaying you overmuch if I were to shamelessly beg you to remain here until I... until I can think what next to do. I should be doing something, shouldn't I? Should I be asking you to take me to Shoreham-by-Sea?"
John shook his head. "There's nothing for you to do there, no, my lady. The Fervant circled the area for hours, and only Mr. Hobart was located. He'd somehow been lucky enough to free the small boat the yacht had been dragging with it before it, too, was pulled beneath the surface."
"How fortunate for Mr. Hobart. Will there be an inquiry, do you suppose?"
John didn't have an answer to that question.
"I suppose that will be up to the authorities in charge of such things. But Captain Clark has already written his recounting of what we found, what we did. I'm fairly certain the ruling will be death by accident, not misadventure."
"Yes, I would agree with that. Not misadventure, but adventure. Is that what men call heading out to sea with a drunken captain, and with less knowledge of how to pilot a boat---ship---than a strutting barnyard rooster?" She entwined her fingers together as she looked at John in some surprise. "Why, yes, that's it. That's what I'm feeling. I wasn't certain. But now I know. I'm angry, Captain Alastair. My brother and my nephews are dead, leaving me to do Lord only knows what, and I'm very, very angry with the three of them. Is that wickedly unnatural of me, Captain?"
John lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. "I suppose that, in some ways, you could believe that they've behaved rather inconsiderately toward you. Dying, that is."
They looked at each other for a long moment, and then John felt the comers of his mouth attempting to embarrass him with a smile.
But rather than be appalled by his inappropriate levity, Lady Emmaline's brown eyes began to twinkle, and a smile played about her lips, as well, before she stood, so that he, too, hastened to his feet.
"I need to have Grayson summon all the servants and inform them of the duke's demise. Oh, dear. The duke's demise. That sounds rather like a farce at Covent Garden, doesn't it? Do you know something, Captain Alastair? I think I may be about to become slightly hysterical, after all."
"I sincerely hope not," John told her frankly.
"I've no experience with hysterical women, and I was hoping to be of some use to you as long as it would appear I am to be your guest for the evening." He was liking this woman more with each passing moment. Her courage, her strength---her honesty. And those lovely soft brown eyes...
"Very well, then, I won't be hysterical. Not even slightly, I promise. But you'll come with me, won't you? You'll speak to Grayson for me?"
"Would you rather I hunted him down and brought him in here?"
"I suppose. But you won't have to look far, I'm sure. Just open the door. Oh, and be careful Mrs. Piggle doesn't topple in on your feet."
Lady Emmaline's strange warning had John thinking that the woman still wasn't very far from a complete breakdown, but when he opened the doors that led into the foyer, it was to see a rather red-cheeked, pudgy woman of an indeterminate age attempting to regain her feet just on the other side of the door.
"You could at least have offered your arm in helping me up, Mr. Grayson," she complained to the butler, who was now eyeing John as if he was some bit of vermin he'd unintentionally let into the house.
"Let me assume that you've heard the news," John said before turning to close the doors behind him, blocking Lady Emmaline's view. She'd mentioned a farce, and he sought to spare her the one now taking place in this foyer.
"How can we know they're dead? We've only your word for it. And who are you?"
Grayson asked, accused, the moment those doors were shut.
John nearly told him, but then mentally bit his tongue. A duke of the realm and his two heirs didn't all perish together without repercussions that would reverberate for weeks, if not months.
There was enough turmoil at Ashurst Hall at the moment, without him making some grand announcement. Besides, Lady Emmaline might not be as ready to appeal to him for help if she knew who he really was. As things stood now, she could accept his assistance and retain the illusion that she was in charge. John believed she needed to feel in charge, competent.
"I am who I said I was when I arrived here, Grayson. Captain John Alastair, late of His Majesty's Royal Navy. I'm also the man who would consider your words an insult to his honor if not for the grief that has just settled over this household."
Grayson's chin lowered slightly, the older man seeming to understand that he had spoken out of turn to a gentleman who didn't take insolence lightly.
"I'll have one of the grooms ride to the village to summon the vicar. Lady Emmaline will wish for spiritual guidance."
"Hummph, " Mrs. Piggle snorted, and then quickly covered her mouth as she turned her less than laudatory reaction into a cough. "Suppose someone'll want the chapel taken out of Holland covers. Ain't been a Daughtry in there since the last duke was carried in feetfirst. I'll set the maids to it first thing tomorrow."
"We all worship the Almighty in our own ways, Mrs. Piggle." Grayson quelled the woman's insolence with a stare that would have made any sergeant-major proud. "Lady E. attends services in the village, you understand. His Grace and his sons... preferred to worship our Lord in their own way."
"You don't need to explain. I will tell you that I'll be staying here tonight at Lady Emmaline's request," John said, not wishing for any more confidences from the servants at the moment. "See to it that a chamber is made ready for me. My bags are still in the coach, I imagine. I'd like to bathe and change into a fresh uniform before the dinner bell is rung."
"Oh, laws, Lady E. 's birthday! Mr. Grayson, we forgot. Lady Em's birthday celebration. And Cook has prepared all of her favorites, and now we're all at sixes and sevens, what with the duke and those horrid boys drowning and all. Ah, what a misery this day is. Poor little dab. What a misery..."
John cocked a look at the butler. "It's Lady Emmaline's birthday?"
"Just as Mrs. Piggle said, yes. She's had more than her share of birthdays under this roof, that's what His Grace would always say. He may have forgotten this one, I'm afraid."
"They'd all still be alive if he'd remembered this one. Excepting he probably would have gone sailing at any rate." Mrs. Piggle took a step away from the butler as Grayson frowned. "I'm only speaking the truth, you know. I can't remember the last birthday any of them paid a bit of mind to. Poor little dab."
John took a step toward the butler. He was beginning to feel rather proprietary toward Lady Emmaline Daughtry. "But we're not going to forget it, Grayson, are we? Whatever has been planned shall go forward. So, what is planned?"
Mrs. Piggle answered. "Just her favorite meal, sir, and a simple confection she also favors. And all to be served in the main dining saloon, with the table shining with all the silver and candles and such. The staff is quite fond of Lady E."
"Thank you, Mrs. Piggle. It all sounds lovely and thoughtful. I would ask that another place be laid, as I will be joining Lady Emmaline at table. There's time enough for the vicar tomorrow, Grayson. For tonight, we will discuss the duke's death only if her ladyship wishes it. Agreed?"
Grayson nodded. "Agreed, sir. And I will inform the staff. Her ladyship should not have to worry her head about a thing, not if we can be of assistance." He frowned, hesitated and then added, "The new duke will be here soon enough, if he's not dead, too."
"And who might this new, perhaps deceased duke be, Grayson?" John asked, anxious to get back to Lady Emmaline, who probably shouldn't be left alone with her grief for too long.
Grayson sighed. "The most unlikely person, that's who. The late duke's brother's son. One Rafael Daughtry, and a captain serving under Wellington. I cannot imagine anyone less suited for the title."
"And don't be forgetting the mother," Mrs.
Piggle said, rolling her rather bulging eyes.
"There's one would make a stone statue blush, what with her outlandish ways. We're to be taking orders from the likes of her?"
"Shush, Mrs. Piggle. That will be quite enough." Grayson turned to John once more.
"Forgive us, sir, the both of us. We've had quite the shock. We've known the late duke ever so long, and the boys since before they were born. And then, of course, Lady Emmaline holds all our hearts. It's... it's a trying time. But we will overcome it, sir."
"Then you're all finished with being shocked now, aren't you, and from this moment on you will all do whatever is in your power to assist Lady Emmaline during this trying time---without further comment. Am I correct? Very good."
What a poorly run household this was, John thought. He'd never met the Duke of Ashurst or his sons, but he felt fairly certain he had nothing to regret in not making their acquaintances.
At last, the butler seemed to pull himself together. "Yes, Captain. I'll see to having your bags taken up to the west wing and a bath called for. I'll have one of the footman escort you directly. Dinner is at six."
"Thank you, Grayson. But before you do that, please summon Lady Emmaline's maid to her and explain that I will rejoin her in an hour."
"Yes, of course. And again, Captain, our apologies. We will strive to draw ourselves together and carry on." The butler put his hand to the small of the housekeeper's broad back. "Come along, Mrs. Piggle. I know you can't wait to be the one who tells everyone the terrible news."
John looked at the closed doors to the main saloon, part of him wishing to rejoin his hostess, while another part of him longed to be out of his uniform and sunk in hot soapy water to his chin.
Bathing aboard ship was always a spotty thing, and he was sorely in need of not only soap and water but clean linen and even a razor.
He should have stopped at an inn along the way from Shoreham-by-Sea and made himself more presentable, but he'd believed time was of the essence, that news of the duke's demise---as Lady Emmaline had termed it---must be brought to his estate as quickly as possible.
Still, it wouldn't hurt to just step back inside the room for a moment, to assure himself that the woman was still as bravely stoic as she'd been since first hearing of her now vastly altered family situation.
Giving in to his curiosity, if that was the proper term for it, he opened the door only slightly and peered toward the couches set in the middle of the large room.
Lady Emmaline was no longer seated on one of the couches.
John stepped fully inside, casting his gaze around the room, only to discover that it was empty of all but its furnishings.
Where could she have gone? A quick glance toward the French doors told him that the rain was still coming down hard, so she wouldn't have gone back outside into the gardens.
Then he noticed another door in the far righthand corner of the room, and he approached it quietly, to see that it was slightly ajar.
"Lady Emmaline?"
"Yes. One moment."
He stepped back from the doorway and she joined him in a few moments, as promised, a new look of determination on her beautiful face.
"How do I best get a message to Paris?" she asked him without preamble. "Or at least to France. I think Rafe's in France."
"Rafe. Your nephew?"
Lady Emmaline nodded. "Yes, my nephew. He has to come home, doesn't he? Ashurst Hall cannot be without its master."
"You should not be alone here, no. I would suggest a personal courier, ma'am. Perhaps a former soldier? A Bow Street Runner? It's an orderly turmoil now that Bonaparte has retreated to Paris, but it is still turmoil, and will be until the man officially abdicates."
She looked up at him, her eyes fearful. "Is Rafe in any danger?"
"Hopefully not. But as I said, Bonaparte is still in Paris, and one can never consider the man as being entirely toothless."
"Oh, dear," she said as she turned and stepped back into the room she'd just left. She crossed to a small table, the top of which was more than completely covered by what looked to be an open Bible. "I want Rafe to be safe. There's no question of that. But there is more than just Rafe's safety that is at stake now."
John walked over to the table and looked down at the writing on the inside of the back cover of the Bible. "The next in line after your nephew is a real rotter?" he asked, hoping to make her smile.
"Hardly. The next in line after Rafe is nobody. I was certain that is the case, but felt it necessary to check my conclusion by looking at our family tree in the Bible. And there is nobody. The titles, these lands, this estate and others, they would all revert to the Crown. That can't happen, it simply cannot. Someone must be sent to find him, immediately, and bring him back here." She laid both her hands on his forearm and looked up into his face. "Please, Captain Alastair. Help me."
"I will. I promise." He didn't know how he would help, but if she'd asked him to move a mountain he would have agreed to that chore, as well. How could he deny this woman anything when she looked at him with those soulful brown eyes?
Emmaline surreptitiously turned her head toward her left shoulder and sniffed. Maryanne, her maid, had sworn to her that the black gown did not smell of camphor after being packed away in the attics these past half dozen years or more, since her father's death, but Emmaline was still not convinced.
What she was convinced of, however, was that the gown, never a favorite, was woefully out of fashion. According to her sister-in-law, Helen, it had been out of fashion the moment it had been stitched up by the seamstress in the village, as anyone with any sense knew there was no hope of cleverness to be found in Mrs. Watley's hamlike fingers. To Emmaline, that had meant that Mrs.
Watley had flatly refused to lower Helen's bodice another two inches for fear that the deceased would take one look at those exposed bosoms and sit up straight in his coffin.
The last time Emmaline had worn this gown (the one with the depressingly ordinary neckline)
had been during her year of mourning for her father. That grief, although not overwhelming by any means, had been genuine, as it was difficult to fault the twelfth duke for being the man he had been: rough, gruff and fairly oblivious.
Summoning up authentic grief for her brother and his sons was still proving problematic, however, and she'd once again felt a fraud as she'd come down to dinner in this gown.
Emmaline paced the main saloon, unable to settle herself, wondering where she'd summoned the courage---no, the audacity!---to enlist a complete stranger's assistance in dealing with the repercussions of her brother's death. But there was something about Captain John Alastair that instilled confidence in him and his ability to, if not make things right for her, at least shepherd her through the next difficult days.
She closed her eyes and thought about him, and the way he'd looked as he'd approached her out in the gardens. His tall, handsome form so splendid in his impressive uniform, his bicorne hat neatly tucked beneath his arm, the slight shadow of an evening beard on his lean cheeks. He'd looked weary, and more than a little nervous, most probably because he was certain he would momentarily be presented with a wildly hysterical, weeping woman.
Emmaline walked along behind one of the couches, lightly running her fingertips over its curved back, and then stopped to look up at the portrait of her father that still hung in its place of honor above the fireplace. Yes, she'd wept when the twelfth duke had died. Why couldn't she seem to weep for the thirteenth duke and his two sons?
There had to be something unnatural about a woman who would see their deaths as a problem to be solved rather than the tragedy that it was.
There had to be something perverse about a woman whose primary occupation since hearing of those three deaths had been to worry for her own future... when she wasn't peering into every mirror she could find to assure herself she and this horrid gown wouldn't frighten Captain Alastair when next he saw her.
"Emmaline?"
Emmaline turned in time to see Charlotte Seavers racing into the tossing her shawl the general direction of Grayson, who was now wearing a black armband and a suitably stem expression.
"I just heard the news," Charlotte said, approaching Emmaline and taking her hands. "Is it true? Harold's dead?"
Charlotte, who lived on a small estate that bordered Ashurst Hall, was not only Emmaline's dearest friend. She had also recently been betrothed to her younger nephew, a fate Emmaline had considered worse than death for that beloved friend. Indeed, for the past month, since Charlotte had become betrothed to Harold and she had learned the circumstances behind that engagement, Emmaline had lost any remaining love she'd harbored for her brother and nephews.
"All three of them, yes. It's over, Charlotte. You're free."
"Oh, but I... that is, I shouldn't..." Charlotte shook her head and sighed. "Surely I'm going to hell, Emmaline. I want to dance a jig!"
"Oh, thank God," Emmaline said, pulling Charlotte down on the couch beside her. "You're the only one who understands how I feel, and I don't have to pretend with you. We can travel to hell together."
"Perhaps not. Lord knows George and Harold and your brother are already there. Perhaps we'll go somewhere else. Would you like to see Paris, Emmaline?"
"I know you're joking, but perhaps we could. It is imperative that Rafe be informed of his changed station as quickly as possible. Would you like to see Rafe, Charlotte?"
The younger woman colored, her eyelids fluttering shut for a moment. "No. I... I wouldn't know what to say to him. It has been six years. We're no longer children, are we?"
"He will be coming back here as the new duke," Emmaline reminded her friend. "You won't be able to avoid him. And if you were to tell him the truth, he'd certainly understand. Or I could explain everything to him for you."
Charlotte shook her head. "No, don't do that, please. He can't know. I couldn't possibly look him in the eye once he knew, not knowing what I'd see. Please, Emmaline, let's not speak of this anymore. Just take this," she said, pulling off the heavy betrothal ring and putting it in her friend's hand. "There, that's better. It was as if I had a small millstone circling my finger. From now on, we shall pretend it was never there, and Rafe never needs to know. Are we agreed?"
"Agreed, although I doubt such a secret will stand for long, not once Rafe has returned."
Emmaline examined the fine Ashurst ruby set inside a cluster of diamonds. "This ring has been in our family for untold generations. How often do you think such a pretty thing was employed to hide an ugly truth?"
They sat silently for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, before Charlotte asked what she might be able to do for Emmaline in the coming days.
"I really can't be sure. There are no... that is, there is nothing to be laid to rest in the family mausoleum. I suppose, for the sake of propriety, there must be a service of some kind at some point. The few relatives we have left need to be notified. Nicole and Lydia. Oh, dear. You know whom else that means, don't you?"
"Helen," they said at the same time, and then Emmaline smiled.
"I could say I sent a letter off to London and it became lost in the post?"
Charlotte nodded, not quite suppressing a smile of her own. "The post has been notoriously erratic recently, hasn't it? Why, by the time your letter arrived in Grosvenor Square, it could be whole days after the service, and with the Season already begun. No one could expect Helen to leave Mayfair in the midst of the Season."
"Least of all Helen," Emmaline pointed out, her smile widening, until the two of them dissolved into guilty laughter, which is how Captain Alastair discovered them a few moments later as he entered the main saloon.
"I'm sorry. Am I interrupting?"
Emmaline wiped at her moist eyes and looked up at the captain, who appeared bathed and shaved and positively resplendent in his brushed and pressed uniform. "Oh, no, no. Miss Seavers and I were... we were just reminiscing about a family memory. Captain, may I introduce you to my dear friend and neighbor, Miss Charlotte Seavers. Charlotte, Captain John Alastair, who was kind enough to personally inform me of... of the tragedy."
She quickly explained the man's continued presence to Charlotte, and his generous offer to help her wade through the necessities that must be dealt with in the coming days.
"Captain, I cannot thank you enough for your kindness to my friend," Charlotte said, holding out her hand. He bowed over it elegantly, Emmaline thought. And then Charlotte got to her feet after only one quick, interested look at Emmaline, saying she was needed at home and must leave. "My mother is not quite well," she explained to the man. "I only stole a moment to sneak here once the rain stopped, to see how you were, Emmy."
"You can't stay for supper?" Emmaline inwardly winced, wondering if her lack of disappointment was evident in her voice.
"No, I'm sorry, I can't. Oh, but I forgot!"
Charlotte reached into her pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in ivory paper and tied with a small red bow. "Happy birthday, Emmy. It's only a silly bookmark, and I'm afraid my embroidery isn't what it should be. But please know I give it with love," she said, and then kissed her friend's cheek. "Captain," she said, dropping into a quick curtsy, "it was a pleasure to meet you, and I thank you for being so considerate as to offer your support to Lady Emmaline during this trying time. I'm sure I'll see you again, at the memorial service?"
The captain looked to Emmaline, who realized she was suddenly holding her breath, and then back to Charlotte. "Why, yes, Miss Seavers, I shall look forward to that."
Emmaline watched the captain as he watched Charlotte depart the room, and then she quickly looked away as he turned back to her, so that he shouldn't know that she'd been staring. But who could resist staring, when the man's presence seemed to fill the room with light, charging the very air with an excitement she could not name, yet knew she had never before experienced.
"May I add my congratulations to Miss Seavers's sentiments, ma'am, and wish you as pleasant a birthday as possible under the circumstances," he said, inclining his head toward her.
She didn't know where the words came from, what part of her normally reticent self had allowed such a thought to enter her head yet alone escape her lips, but suddenly Emmaline heard herself saying, "Captain, I would consider my natal day to be more of a blessing and less of a reminder of my continuing gallop into old age if you could please resist addressing me as ma 'am again."
His low chuckle sent hot color flooding into her cheeks. "A thousand apologies, Lady Emmaline. Are you feeling quite decrepit? Surely you're not anything so ancient as ma'am would suggest. At six and thirty, I believe I have some years on you."
"Good Lord, yes," Emmaline shot back, suddenly willing to give as good as she got.
"You're positively tottering on the brink of the grave." Then she realized what she'd just said.
"Oh, dear. No matter what anyone says, we seem to keep circling back to Charlton and the boys, don't we? I still imagine they'll all come storming back in here at any moment to put the lie to what I know is true."
Did she sound as if that was a prospect much to be wished, or the thing she would dread most in the world? Really, she had to take control of her tongue, and quickly, or the captain would wonder if he'd blundered into a madhouse.
"May I?" Alastair asked, indicating with a small gesture that he'd like to join her on the couch.
"Oh, yes, please do," she said, tucking her horrid black skirts more closely around her just as if he'd planned to plop himself down right next to her when the couch could easily accommodate a half dozen people. "And would you care for some wine?"
"Thank you, no," he said as he sat, and then bent down to pick up something that had fallen to the floor. "Yours?" he asked, holding up the ruby ring.
Denying the dratted thing would open up questions about Charlotte, and as the story could only reflect badly on her brother and Harold, she quickly claimed the ruby as her own. "Thank you, Captain," she said, reaching for it. "It was my mother's, and always much too large for me."
And then the dratted ring made a liar out of her by stopping at her second knuckle as she attempted to slip it on her finger. She resisted the urge to fling it across the room.
"Ma'am---Lady Emmaline...?"
"Just Emmaline, please," she said, sighing.
"And I shall call you John, since we're just the two of us here. And then, John, I should tell you that I just quite blatantly lied to you, shouldn't I?"
"About the ring. Yes. But you don't have to explain."
She relaxed. "Good, because I really don't want to." She slipped the ring into her pocket and picked up the small wrapped present. "Shall we open this instead? I love presents, and Charlotte is always so inventive with hers, even if she insists she has no talents. Just this past Christmas she gave me a small, smooth rock she'd painted to look like a toad."
Actually, Charlotte had given the toad a face that greatly resembled that of her nephew George, but the captain didn't have to know that.
The captain put his hand on her wrist.
"Lady... Emmaline," he said, so that she forgot all about Charlotte's present. "I should leave."
"Leave?" Emmaline squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, hating that she had seemed to squeak out the word. "But... but why? I know the rain has stopped, but it's coming on to dark soon, and we'll be called in to dinner at any moment, and---"
"I didn't mean tonight," he said, cutting her off, thankfully, before she could say something so silly as to mention how much she really wanted him to stay. "I would go only as far as the nearest inn, if you still wish my assistance for a few days, until we can summon your brother's solicitor, set up a search for your nephew and anything else I might do for you."
"You're saying without saying it that we are unchaperoned here."
"No, I'm saying without saying it that you are unchaperoned here. I would suggest that Miss Seavers come bear you company, but as she is quite young, and there's the problem of her mother being unwell..."
"John, there are twenty-seven servants in this house, at least three of whom, I have every certainty, are spying on us even now. I hardly call that being unchaperoned."
"No. However, Society would. You've just been dealt a serious shock, Emmaline, but one of us must think clearly."
She nearly let her shoulders sag as she realized what he was saying. "You feel responsible for me. Because it was you who brought me the news about Charlton and the boys. And I did nothing to dissuade you of that impression, absolve you of your gentlemanly impulse to protect a clearly helpless woman."
His slow smile sent her stomach to doing a small flip inside her. "That sounds so very noble, doesn't it? Actually, I came here to deliver my news and then depart as quickly as possible. Until I saw you out there in the gardens and thought you the most exotically beautiful woman I'd ever seen. You've had the most immediate and remarkable impact on me, Emmaline. I am in no hurry to leave."
"Oh."
"Yes---oh. And, hopeful idiot that I surely am, I don't think you have taken me in disgust. Now do you understand? The proprieties must be adhered to, no matter the circumstances. I won't go far, unless you've now decided that I should, but I cannot remain here, the two of us beneath the same roof."
"There are sixteen bedchambers under this roof," Emmaline said, as if that meant anything to Society, that same Society that had condoned Charlton's behavior, George's and Harold's behavior, but would condemn her, a confirmed spinster, for the most minor infraction of their silly rules. "There's no need for you to be put to the expense of staying at the inn."
His smile in response to that statement had her looking at him strangely, and she quickly attempted to explain what she'd said.
"Not that I'm intimating at all that you might be... that you cannot afford, um, that is---oh, stop that! I'm not saying anything in the least amusing."
He took her trembling hands in his and raised the right one to his lips, turned it over, and pressed a bone-melting kiss against her palm. Just for an instant, the tip of his tongue lightly stroked her sensitive skin. And then, holding her hands against his chest, he looked at her with those soul-destroying eyes. "Now, Emmaline? Now do you see why I need to take myself off to an inn tomorrow morning?"
"Yes... I rather suppose I do."
John didn't know if Grayson's entrance into the main saloon to announce that dinner was being served had been fortunate, or if it had been the worst timing in the history of Affectionate Old Family Retainers. Probably the former, as John hadn't known what in bloody blazes he was going to do next, once he was looking so deeply into Emmaline's glorious eyes.
He had wanted to kiss her. No, he had needed to kiss her. He would kiss her before this night was over. As a man who had spent many years at war, he knew that opportunities were just that, and often fleeting. For too many years of his life, he'd put his own wishes aside in the name of the Better Good. Now it was time for him to think about what John Alastair wanted.
And he wanted Lady Emmaline Daughtry.
Curiously, knowing this, he was finding it best suited to his purpose to keep his true identity hidden just a little while longer. He wanted Emmaline to see him as Captain John Alastair, accept him that way... perhaps discover feelings for him that way; the simple man, the man she could be concerned about if he had to pay for his lodgings at the local inn.
He also wanted to know more about the late duke and his two sons, but would she find it as easy to confide in him if she realized his true rank? Emmaline had been shocked by the news of their deaths---anyone would have been shocked at the suddenness of it---but John felt certain he'd also seen a measure of relief in her eyes.
Having experienced much the same feelings when he'd opened the letter from Warrington Hall, informing him of his father's departure from this earthly coil by way of collapsing after a hard ride on one of the local tavern wenches, John wondered what sort of man the late duke had been. What sort of brother he'd been to Emmaline. Obviously not a beloved one.
John sensed that applying to Grayson for enlightenment would get him nowhere, but he had higher hopes of Mrs. Piggle, and planned to speak to the woman in the morning. In the meantime, he would not press Emmaline for details, not knowing how painful it might be for her to share them with him.
This decision left him free to concentrate on Emmaline herself, which was what he'd much prefer to do in any case.
He entered the cavernous dining room with Emmaline on his arm, only to see that their places had been set at opposite ends of a table that could easily serve as a bowling green. Once he'd assisted her to his chair and Grayson had withdrawn his disapproving face, John picked up his gold charger plate, utensils, serviette and wineglass and carried them all down the length of the table, placing them to Emmaline's right.
"This way we won't have to shout at each other," he said as he sat down. "And I might add that I cannot think of more pleasant company than you in this, my first meal in months in which I won't have to worry about my wineglass sliding off the table as the ship cuts through the waves."
"Grayson will not be pleased," Emmaline told him as a young girl entered, two bowls of soup balanced on a tray. "He's quite the stickler for propriety."
"Among other things, yes, I can see that propriety would be one of his sticking points. Does that worry you?"
Emmaline cocked her head slightly to one side, as if considering the question. "No. No, I don't think it does. Thank you, Mary. It smells delicious."
"Yer fav'rit, milady. Cook remembered. All yer fav'rits tonight. All whats yer likes best, right here."
"Yes, I believe you're right," Emmaline said, sneaking a quick look at John from beneath her lashes, a delightful flush coloring her cheeks.
The soup was country thick and flavorful, or so John remembered it later, even though the rest of the courses were eaten without him tasting them. He was much too well-occupied answering Emmaline's intelligently probing questions about his service in the Royal Navy, much too enthralled by the way the candlelight danced in her golden hair, the grace with which she patted her lips with the snow-white serviette... the way she listened to him as if he was reciting words he'd brought down from some mountain on stone tablets.
He did remember the dessert course, because it seemed that Emmaline's favorite sweet consisted of a simple dish of strawberries and heavy cream. Whenever some of the cream clung to her upper lip, and she surreptitiously employed the tip of her tongue to swipe it away, John began to wonder if taking himself off to the inn the next morning could be seen as in the way of cruel and unusual punishment for a man who definitely had another destination in mind.
At last the meal was over, and John suggested they take a stroll in the gardens now that the rain had disappeared and a setting sun still lent enough light for a pleasant inspection of the grounds.
Good Lord, he sounded so stiff, didn't he?
"Emmaline---I want to be alone with you," he whispered in her ear as he pulled out her chair for her. "And to hell with the posies."
She looked up at him, her smile tremulous, and laid her hand on his as she got to her feet.
"The herb garden is well away from the house at the bottom of the gardens. And fenced," she said quietly. "With rather tall shrubbery."
"I've always liked herbs," he said as, together, they departed the dining room through the French doors conveniently placed there so that gentlemen could end their meals by stepping outside to blow a cloud, spit or relieve themselves over the railing of the stone terrace. John's father used to hold contests as to who could aim best and shoot farthest, much to his son's embarrassment.
He pushed the memory from his mind.
"Rosemary is one my favorites," Emmaline told him as they descended the flagstone steps into the gardens.
"Mine, as well. Along with parsley and sage and..."
"Thyme," she finished for him. "I've always thought Scarborough Fair a most confusing poem. If you wish someone to be your true love, why would you then make impossible demands on that person in order to become that true love?"
John bent and broke off a perfect pink rose, stripped it of its thorns and then bowed as he handed it to her. "'Love imposes impossible tasks,"' he quoted from memory, "'though not more than any heart asks.'"
"Oh? And do you think that sounds as asinine as I do, John? Why should a heart that cares make demands?" Emmaline asked as she held the rose beneath her nose and sniffed. "Ah, nothing complicated about a rose, is there? It is pretty, it smells heavenly, and if you aren't careful in the way you handle it, it pricks your finger. Still, you can see the thorns, so it isn't as if you weren't warned, correct?"
They threaded their way along the curving brick path. "Am I being warned, Emmaline?"
She stopped, turned to look up into his face.
"Someone probably is, but I'm not sure which one of us that person might be. John... I think you should know that I'm not a very... nice person."
"Is that so?" He cocked one eyebrow as he offered her his arm once more and they continued down the pathway. "Do you abuse kittens? Snore in church? No, wait, I have it---you pull faces behind Grayson's back."
"Well, sometimes---that last bit about Grayson. But I'm attempting to be serious here, John. I'm... I'm an unnatural sister, an unnatural aunt. I've been trying all day long to work up even a single tear over Charlton and the boys, and I simply can't manage it."
"You didn't love them?"
"No, no, of course I loved them. One doesn't have much choice in that, seeing as we're related. The question is, did I like them? And I didn't."
John kept moving toward the tall thick shrubbery that he was sure concealed the herb garden. "They weren't likeable?"
"I suppose that would depend on whom you applied to for their opinion. Their friends seemed to like them well enough."
"And did you like their friends?"
They stopped at a slatted wooden gate and John opened it. "No, I didn't. Why would you ask that?"
He ceremoniously bowed her through the entrance to the herb garden, where they were immediately cast in the shade of the towering evergreens. "I don't know. It simply occurred to me that, if you didn't care for the people who cared for them, then perhaps the only reason you cared for your brother and nephews at all was because of an accident of birth. We can't choose our relatives, Emmaline. Only our friends."
"You're only trying to make me feel less guilty."
"I know," he said, leading her to a curved stone bench at the center of the small garden. "Am I succeeding?"
She sat down, gracefully arranging her skirts around her, and looked at him. "Why, yes, I believe you are. Charlton and his sons are dead, and I'm sorry they didn't lead better lives while they had the chance. I think I could weep for that."
He joined her on the bench. "Now?"
Emmaline was slowly twirling the rose stem between her fingers, and looked up at him in some confusion. "Pardon me? Now what?"
"I was asking if you were going to weep now," he explained, biting back a smile.
"Oh. Oh, no, I don't think so. But at the service it will be better if I don't disappoint Vicar Wooten. So then I shall think about what might have been." She sighed. "What might have been is always so sad, isn't it? What we could have done, what we should have done. What we missed because we didn't dare to---"
John brought his mouth down on hers, cutting off any chance that either of them would ever look back at this moment and think, if only.
He pulled back slightly, smiling into her eyes.
"I'm sorry, I couldn't seem to resist. In fact, I still can't..."
This time when he kissed her he also slid his arms around her, pulling her closer against his chest. She responded by sliding her arms around his back, signaling without words that she didn't dislike what he was doing to her.
What she was doing to him.
A kiss. A simple kiss. And yet his world was tilting on its axis. He prodded at her with his tongue, and she responded by opening her mouth to him, and the flame she had lit inside him the first time he'd seen her threatened to consume him.
He kissed her hair, her perfect shell-like ear, her throat. He heard her quick intake of breath as he moved his hands forward, to her rib cage... and then slowly slid them upward, to cup her firm breasts.
"John..." she breathed, but not in protest, as she still held him tightly, her head tipped back as he dared to press his lips against her bare flesh above the neckline of her gown.
Her mourning gown.
Christ!
He took her hands in his and raised her to her feet, not letting go of her as he looked deeply into her eyes. "I'm sorry. I had no right..."
"You were not lacking an invitation, Captain Alastair," Emmaline told him quietly, shifting her gaze to the ground at her feet. "Shall we just put this down to an aging spinster feeling reckless, even desperate, on the event of her twenty-eighth birthday?"
"I don't think so, no. Not unless we explain my behavior with the notion that I've been too long at sea, and haven't seen a woman in months and months, so that any woman will do. You're not that old, Emmaline, and I'm not that young."
She smiled weakly and pulled one hand free, turning so that they could retrace their steps to the house. "You've quite the way with words, or else I'm eager to be convinced."
She shivered then, only slightly, as the setting sun had slipped behind a blanket of thick clouds, and John slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer beside him as they walked along the path.
"I had an idea as I dressed for dinner," he told her as they approached the doors to the main saloon. "I've remembered the name of the brother of Josiah Coates, my steward aboard ship. Phineas. Yes, I'm positive that's it. Phineas Coates. He's with the Bow Street Runners, but Josiah told me the man is unhappy with his position, so that he's actively seeking employment as a valet. Josiah and his other brothers are all gentleman's gentlemen, in one form or another, you understand."
"Not really, not yet," Emmaline admitted as they stepped inside the main saloon, to see that Grayson had already ordered the evening tea tray, a not-quite subtle hint that he believed her ladyship should soon be saying her good-night to the captain. "But you'll explain?"
John availed himself of the well-stocked drinks table, pouring a glass of wine while Emmaline prepared a cup of tea for herself. He returned to the main seating area, but did not sit down.
"Josiah left for his home at the same time I was coming here, to Ashurst Hall. I know his direction, and I'm sure he'll be there by the time a letter from me reaches London." He didn't add that Josiah had only gone to the city to visit his widowed mother before heading to Warrington Hall, as that was information best kept to himself for the moment.
"Ah, you're thinking this Phineas Coates might be the man who can find Rafe for me."
"Yes, that's exactly what I'm thinking. You could go through the War Office, but the extremely busy people there might not consider the mission as important as you'd like."
"And, since Mr. Coates is a Bow Street Runner, he should have no problem in running down Rafe if we tell him what we know, that my nephew is in Paris. He could even, considering the man's desire to leave the Runners, offer his services as the new duke's valet, and stay with him, accompany Rafe home to Ashurst Hall. All very neat and tidy."
"Only if you're agreeable. I don't know Phineas, but I can vouch for Josiah."
"Very well, then, that's what we shall do. I'll write to Rafe tonight, and you can include the letter along with your instructions? And, yes, I'd feel much more comfortable if this Mr. Phineas Coates stayed at Rafe's side until he's home safe. I might even suggest they stop in London for a few days, to do something about Rafe's wardrobe. The boy has been in uniforms for half a dozen years. Now he has to dress himself as befits a duke. Oh, dear, I wonder if he's going to like that. He left here a boy, but he's a man now. I wonder if he's going to like any part of this, to be truthful. He had no ambitions in this direction, and no training, when it comes to that."
"Three hearts away from the title, two of them young and I'll assume vital, I can see why your nephew might not have considered that such a day might arrive. The title, this estate and, I'm sure, several others? He's inherited considerable responsibility. Is he up to it, do you think?"
Emmaline nodded. "Rafe is a good, sound person, boy or man, I'm sure. He may be somewhat discommoded to see how his sisters have blossomed in his absence, and I don't envy him having to ride herd on his mother once she decides she is now the dowager duchess---but, no, I have no serious qualms for the title now that it is in Rafe's hands."
She put down her cup. "John... about what happened in the gardens..."
He shook his head slowly. "No, let's not talk about that now. You've had a long and extremely trying day, one way or another, and I certainly wasn't any great help to you."
"I feel as if I've just been told to take myself off to bed," she said to him, smiling. "All right. And I'll have that letter for you in the morning. Oh, and I suppose there are others I'll need to write. To some distant aunts... perhaps the newspapers?"
"Tomorrow, Emmaline. There is nothing you can do anymore tonight that can't wait until tomorrow."
"Do I look that exhausted?"
"No, Emmaline. You look that vulnerable. And I'm not as strong as I thought myself. Not since I kissed you, at any rate."
He watched as hot color invaded her cheeks once again. "Oh. Well, then, all right. It has been a long day."
"Until tomorrow, which is already much too far away," he told her, not daring to kiss her hand because he knew neither of them would be able to stop with such a simple, formal gesture.
He watched her walk, chin held high, toward the foyer, and then drank the rest of his wine, resisting the temptation to then fling the glass into the fireplace.
What in bloody hell had he done out there in the gardens? The woman had just had a terrible shock. Had he really believed that seducing her was the answer to all her problems?
And lying to her? How was that helping her?
His deception had begun easily enough, but there had been ample opportunity for him to correct her when she addressed him as captain.
She'd been impressed to hear he was a captain in the Royal Navy, that he had, like her nephew, gone to war to defend his country. And all of that was true enough.
She'd also felt comfortable with him, possibly because he was, to her mind, a relatively simple man. She'd felt free with him. Free to tell him the truth, bare her troubled soul to him. Free to lean on him in her time of need.
Free to let him kiss her.
She was Lady Emmaline Daughtry; daughter of a duke, sister of a duke, aunt to a duke. There would be no real social consequences for her if she kissed a captain in the Royal Navy. Kissed him... or more.
John poured himself a second glass of wine, preparing to settle himself in for at least another few hours of thinking, and most probably drinking. He had to tell her. He couldn't put off telling her.
How would he tell her?
"Your Grace?"
John's head turned toward the door before he could stop himself, and he watched as Grayson entered the main saloon, to bow in front of him.
"Excuse me, Grayson? That's Captain, not Your Grace."
"No, Your Grace, it's not. I took it upon myself to personally unpack your bag. There were letters inside. I left them tied as they were, but could not avoid reading what few lines I saw. You are His Grace, Captain Jonathan Alastair, Duke of Warrington. I've taken the liberty of removing your belongings to the large bedchamber just to the left at the top of the landing, Your Grace."
"Lady Emmaline?"
"Doesn't know, no, Your Grace. May I ask why?"
"I was just sitting here asking myself the same question, Grayson. She seemed... she seemed pleased that I served in the Navy."
Grayson nodded, transformed from the stiff and stem butler to the sort of old family retainer who had come to look upon his employers as well-loved children. "Her ladyship is very admiring of those who chose to defend this country from that rascal Bonaparte, yes, Your Grace." The butler bowed, turned to leave, and then turned back to look at John, his expression stem once more. "She is also, begging Your Grace's pardon, quite fond of honesty and truthfulness."
"Yes, thank you, Grayson. Lady Emmaline is, indeed, a very truthful, forthright person. She deserves nothing less in return."
Grayson bowed again. "As you say, Your Grace."
...such sad and shocking news. I imagine you reading this wherever you are, and marveling at how quickly lives can change. In truth, I have been thinking much the same thing ever since Captain Alastair walked into the gardens of Ashurst Hall this afternoon.
Emmaline lifted her pen and stared at her words. Why had she written them? She should tear up this letter, as well, and put it with the other discarded efforts she had begun and then abandoned. But it would make no difference if she began again; no matter how she tried to concentrate on the matter at hand, John Alastair kept creeping back into her thoughts, and onto the page of the letter to her nephew.
She dipped the pen once more and continued:
You are, of course, needed home as soon as you are able, but I understand the demands of your service, and wish to assure you that we are all quite safe here, and capable of holding things together until you find it possible to return. I ask only that you write to us as often as you can, and that you allow Mr. Coates to be of any and all assistance to you.
Rafe, you will make an exemplary Duke of Ashurst. You hold my deepest confidence and blessings.
Yrs. In Greatest Affection,
Emmaline
Before she could change her mind, Emmaline sanded the page, folded it and then used the Ashurst seal to press the warmed wax onto the folded page. There, it was done. She'd arrange for funds to be given to Mr. Coates, who would carry them with him to Paris, so that Rafe would not feel penny-pinched as he made arrangements for his transport back to England.
She kept the letter separate from the small stack that would go out with the morning post, informing a few distant aunts of Charlton's death, and then reluctantly added the letter to Helen, Rafe's mother, to them. She could not in good conscience delay sending that particular letter, especially since the London newspapers were bound to make a huge announcement in the next few days.
After all, it wasn't every day that a duke and both his heirs drowned in the Channel thanks to their own utter stupidity.
"Stop it," Emmaline muttered under her breath as she rose from the small writing desk in her bedchamber and turned to contemplate the mantel clock. She was surprised to see that it had only gone past midnight. She'd hoped for more, perhaps that it was already after three, or even four.
How long before she would see John again at the breakfast table? Knowing she would not sleep, could not sleep, she believed the hours between now and then could be more easily measured in months.
In any event, it was no longer her birthday, although she could still consider it such until the sun rose in the morning. The next time she marked her birthday, it would also mark the day she'd learned that her brother and nephews had died. How odd. Which was worse, she wondered: to grow older every year, or to be reminded how many years it had been since those deaths?
"If they were going to die, anyway, they could have been just a little bit more considerate," Emmaline told her reflection in the dressing table mirror as she pinched at her cheeks to bring color into them and then checked the neckline of her ridiculously virginal white night rail and dressing gown.
And then, before her better self, her saner self, could talk her out of it, Emmaline headed for the door to the hallway, intent on spending her twenty-ninth birthday thinking back over a much nicer memory of her twenty-eighth.
She headed for the west wing, hoping her courage wouldn't desert her, but halted before she got to the center staircase, having seen light peeking out from beneath the double doors to the bedchamber reserved for their highest-ranking guests. The prince regent himself had stayed in the chamber twice, this last time breaking a fine antique chair just by sitting his bulk in it.
Why would Grayson put John in this chamber? It wasn't like the butler to stray from the strict rules of social protocol that made up such things. Captain Alastair should have been put in the west wing, and probably at the end of the corridor at that, right next to the servant stairs.
Perhaps Grayson had taken a liking to John.
Although Grayson rarely took a liking to anyone.
And what did it matter where Grayson had put John, or why? She told herself that all she was doing now was standing in a drafty hallway, possibly to be seen by any servant who might be up and about for some reason. Either she was going to do something for herself or she was going to die old and dry and with a regret that had her sighing into her teacup while her relatives murmured behind her back: "Poor old Emmy, unlucky in love, you know."
She raised her hand, hesitated as she took one last, deep steadying breath, and then closed her fist and rapped her knuckles on one of the doors.
Emmaline winced as the sound of that knock seemed to fill the quiet night like cannon shot woke the world to mark a dawn battle.
"You wanted something, Emmaline?"
She nearly jumped out of her skin, whirling about to see John standing almost directly behind her.
"Why aren't you in bed?" she asked, saying the first thing that came into her head.
"I should perhaps ask you the same thing," he responded, his magnificent eyes slipping lazily up and down her dressing-gown-clad body.
Her toes curled in her slippers.
"I didn't hear you come down the hallway."
"Or up the stairs, either, I'd imagine," he said, smiling. "Perhaps, next time, I should have one of the footmen lead the way, blowing on a trumpet."
"Wow you're making sport of me."
"No," he said, his tone serious as he stepped closer to her. "I'd never do that. For one thing, I'm too grateful to see you. It has been hours and hours."
"Yes, it has," Emmaline told him, daring to look straight into his eyes. "And it's just as you said, John. Tomorrow is much too far away..."
He put his hands around her upper arms and then leaned in ever so slowly, touching his mouth to hers with a gentleness that brought her closer to tears than she had felt all day.
At first she thought she was floating, but quickly realized John had picked her up, lifting her high against his chest, even as he went on kissing her. She sensed his knees bending slightly as he tried to manage the brass latch. She was about to tell him that romance was lovely but perhaps they were both a few years too old for such gallantry when the door opened and he walked her inside, kicking it closed behind him.
By now she had her face buried against the side of his neck. "That was quite... impressive," she whispered, keeping her eyes shut as he carried her across the large chamber and toward the bed that had housed kings, queens and rotund princes.
"Thank you. I thought so, too," John told her as he laid her on the already turned-down bed.
Bless Grayson, he was nothing if not efficient.
Standing next to the bed, John stripped off his uniform jacket before joining her on the lush satin sheets, pulling her once more into his arms. His mouth mere inches from hers, he said, "I've wanted this for so long."
Emmaline thought that a lovely thing to say.
"We barely know each other."
"No. We've known each other forever, my dearest one, always known the other of us was out there somewhere in the world, waiting. We only just happened to meet today."
They made love slowly, because it was her first time, because they had the rest of their lives, because to rush something this beautiful, this perfect, would be tantamount to a crime.
He kissed away her silent tears when the lovemaking threatened to undo her; the unexpected intensity of her arousal, the tenderness of his every intimate touch, swelling her heart and wordlessly telling her she was cherished, she was beautiful to him, she was desirable.
But there was more. She hadn't expected what she'd felt so far, what he'd caused her to feel, and her surprise manifested itself in a rather startled gasp as he found the very heart of her most intimate place and touched it, teased and stroked it, doing amazing things to her suddenly eager body.
She lifted her hips to him, wanting to know more, wanting to learn her feelings even as he was learning her body. A new tension invaded her every muscle, urging her forward, telling him without words that, yes, yes... there. And again, there. Do that... please do that. Don't stop doing that... right there... please...
And when he mounted her, when her body relieved her of the responsibility to think and just reacted to his, when he settled himself deep inside her, Emmaline knew that every word he'd said to her was true. She'd been waiting for him all of her life.
Their bodies had become one, their hearts and minds, as well. He whispered sweet words in her ear, urging her to move with him, feel with him, fly with him.
Emmaline had already waved goodbye to all of her misgivings and inhibitions of eight and twenty long years. She lifted her hips to him, met his every thrust as she held on tight, pulling him deeper, deeper inside her. She felt her most secret parts bud, unfurl, bursting into the full flower of her womanhood.
And then more. Just when she felt she had nothing more to give, to take, to feel, her body began to throb around him, sending stunning sensations through her, glories both wonderful and frightening.
"John!"
And he knew, somehow he knew. His hold tightened on her and he thrust one more time as he held her close, his mouth on hers, taking in her frantic breaths, her wondrous sighs.
She felt his body clench. Clench, and then release. Again and again and again, until he seemed to collapse bonelessly against her, his warm breath audible next to her ear.
"I will never... leave your side. Never. At last I'm alive..." he whispered, and her tears fell once more as he kissed her hair, her eyelids, even the tip of her nose, before settling once more against her mouth. "Neither of us will ever be alone again."
Emmaline allowed herself to be convinced another black gown she'd always loathed would be extremely fine for the morning, especially since she would have to meet with the vicar at some point, and headed down the stairs to see if John was already at breakfast in the morning room.
He'd proposed to her an hour before dawn, promising her his love and all of his worldly goods. He'd gone down on his knees; he'd held both her hands in his as he looked so deeply into her eyes. Had she said yes before he'd kissed her, before they'd fallen onto the bed once more?
And did it matter? He had to know her answer was yes.
She would still have a personal maid when she was John's wife, as well as a cook and housekeeper, if not a butler. Her dowry was such as to make them both comfortable, and to support any children that might come of their union.
Children. Emmaline stopped on the bottom stair and smiled into the middle distance. She'd never thought she would have children, and now she wanted a houseful. And she and John would never neglect them, never treat them as if they were a nuisance.
No. They'd live in a lovely thatched cottage, possibly near the sea---John loved the sea---and they would spend their lives quietly, happily.
Watching their children grow, together. The two of them growing old, together.
After all, being the daughter of a duke had gained her nothing. She had no qualms about exchanging that role for that of wife and mother.
There was a knock on the door and one of the footmen hastened to open it, stepping back quickly as Helen Daughtry swept (Helen swept better than most anyone else in the world) into the foyer.
"Emmaline!" she called out, already drawing off her black gloves and untying the smallest wisp of a black bonnet that must have cost the earth.
And if the bonnet had cost the earth, the black cashmere shawl tipped with ermine and the black mourning gown covered in lace and edged with pearls had cost the remainder of the universe. "I came as soon as I heard. Oh, the horror!" And then her eyelids narrowed. "Has my son been notified? He's the duke now, you know."
"Yes, Helen, I know," Emmaline said, descending the last few stairs and allowing herself to be lightly embraced by her sister-in-law's scent as the woman pursed her lips and kissed the air about an inch from Emmaline's ear. "And you are now the dowager duchess."
Helen Daughtry's eyes widened in horror.
"Dowager? Oh, no. Oh, no, no. I think not! We'll have to do something about that. But for now," she said, taking Emmaline's hand and leading her down the hallway, "I'm famished. Ah, Grayson, there you are."
"Your Grace," the butler said, his bow stiff, as if it was restricted by a rusty hinge rather than a spine. "I'll have someone see to your luggage, and that your usual chamber is prepared."
"Oh, no, don't do that. I'm staying only a few miles away with Lord Edmunds---dearest Ferdie---marvelous house party. You weren't invited, Emmaline? Shame on them! Just because you said your last prayers years ago doesn't mean you couldn't be included, at least for the tamer entertainments. At any rate, I heard the news, and knew I must have someone drive me over here for a few hours," Helen said with a wave of her hand.
"How fortunate you managed to pack that gown," Emmaline said without inflection.
"Yes, isn't it, darling? I had to borrow the bonnet, but I wear black quite often in the evening, as it shows off my hair so well. Strange that we're both blonde, and yet black... well, perhaps a little visit to the paint pots, hmm? At any rate, I'm only here to make certain my son is being installed as he should be... and to lend you my support of course, my dearest Emmaline. So alone in the world now. How difficult it must be to be a spinster. Being a widow is much more fun! Why, only Rafe's charity will keep a roof over your head now, won't it? But not to worry---I'm sure he'll find someplace to put you."
Grayson and Emmaline exchanged looks as Helen wandered off ahead of them. "As my late brother said, Grayson, the woman has a tongue that runs on wheels, but only rarely engages with her brain box. She means well."
"As you say, my lady. His... that is, your guest awaits you in the morning room."
Emmaline hastened down the hallway, realizing that putting Helen within fifty yards of any young, handsome man was akin to setting a plate of sugar cookies within easy reach of a precocious child.
She stopped to take a settling breath, and then turned the comer and entered the morning room, just in time to see John bowing over Helen's hand.
Her sister-in-law turned to her with a wink and a smile. "Well, now, aren't you the naughty one? While the cat's away the mice will dance, hmm? Or did Charlton know about this... houseguest of yours?"
"Captain Alastair was there on the scene, just after the yacht sank, Helen. It is he who brought me the sad news."
"And then decided to stay for the funerals? How accommodating of you, Captain. I may have to attend the services myself, after all," Helen said, once more turning her back on Emmaline.
"Alastair? John Alastair. Now why is that name so familiar to me, hmm?"
John shot a quick look past Helen, to where Emmaline stood. "John is a fairly common name, Your Grace."
"Common as dirt, yes. But Alastair? No, I think I... oh, wait! I think I remember now. Not John Alastair. Jonathan Alastair. You're William's son. The sailor. How he loathed that you'd put the line in jeopardy, haring about on the high seas and all of that nonsense. Poor William, although Dame Rumor has it that he died quite happily." Helen sank into a graceful curtsy. "It is so delightful, again, to meet you, Your Grace."
Emmaline found that she couldn't breathe.
And Helen, who always noticed such things, noticed. "Emmaline, dearest? Are you quite all right? How could you have forgotten to tell me that the Duke of Warrington is your houseguest? Your Grace, you simply must return to River's Edge with me, as there is nothing quite so dull and dreary as a house of mourning. So sorry you won't be able to join us, Emmaline. What with your brother so newly dead and all."
"Emmaline, I---Emmaline, wait!"
But Emmaline was gone, turning about so quickly she nearly tripped over the hem of her gown before running out of the room.
He caught up with her in the large foyer, before she could mount the stairs and lock herself in her bedchamber, where she would remain for the next hundred years, if possible.
"Grayson," he said, his eyes on Emmaline, his hand holding tight to her arm, "if you'd be so kind as to keep Her Grace occupied elsewhere."
"But... but how should I do that, sir?"
"I don't care if you tie her to a chair. And it wouldn't depress me if you included a gag. The woman is a feather-witted menace. Go, and everyone else---leave."
"John, you cannot just go ordering the servants to---and let go of my arm."
"I was going to tell you, Emmaline, I swear I was. This morning. I don't know why I didn't tell you immediately... but it all just seemed... easier if you thought me a more... a more simple man."
"I thought we'd live in a cottage. And... and raise our children. I thought... I thought I would be your helpmeet, your companion."
"And how does my being a duke change any of that? Granted, Warrington Hall is not a cottage, but as for the rest of it? Being duke and duchess does not preclude us from being loving parents. From loving each other, staying true to each other. We won't ever have to go to London at all, if you don't want to go. Is that it? Have you taken a firm dislike to London, to Society?"
She shook off his hand. "I'm not a recluse, John. Charlton refused to take me, that's all. I adore London, at least most of it."
"Oh, good," he said, relaxing slightly.
"Because I really think we need to go there from time to time. That is, if you can love a duke even half as much as you could love a simple sea captain?"
Emmaline looked down at the floor. "I'm being silly, aren't I? I saw us as being so simple, our lives so uncomplicated. Being Charlton's sister was... very complicated." She turned her gaze on the man she loved. "How did you know I felt that way?"
"I don't know. I felt that if I told you who I am, about the damned title, then you'd not relax your guard around me, tell me the sorts of things you told me yesterday. About your family, about your life."
"Well, I wouldn't have, you're correct about that. I don't think I would have worried about how you'd pay for your room at the inn, either."
"Darling, do you remember when I said we can't choose who we love, but we can choose who we like?"
"Yes," she said, allowing him to take her hands in his.
"I knew I loved you the moment I first saw you. That was the easy part. But then I knew I liked you when you showed such concern for my welfare, when you were more worried for me than concerned with the suddenly altered circumstances of your life. Now, am I forgiven?."
"I don't know," she said coyly---imagine, a twenty-eight-year-old almost-virgin, being coy! "I really believe I may have had my heart set on a thatched cottage near the sea."
He slipped his arms more fully around her and brought his mouth down to nearly meet hers.
"We'll work on that..."
There were two musty old aunts in the second pew, a quiet and reserved-looking Charlotte Seavers and her father in the third, and only Emmaline and John sitting in the first pew as the vicar looked uncomfortable in the small chapel hung in black crepe but glaringly absent of coffins.
Helen Daughtry had not only sent her regrets, but had forbidden her twin daughters from attending the service. "Much too depressing for the young dears," she'd insisted, which was, Emmaline knew, another way of saying, "If they're there, then I have to be there, and I don't want to be there."
Last night, while the two of them were in bed together after the rest of the household was asleep, John had proposed a wine toast to Helen's absence. If it were possible to love him even more, she did, because he was so impervious to Helen's beauty and wiles.
The quickness of the memorial ceremony and the absence of the trio who would provide raucous entertainment for them had kept Charlton's friends firmly in London. As for George and Harold, they were the sort who had acquaintances, men to whom they either owed money or were owed money. Not friends.
It was a sad statement about three wasted lives, lives that could have been so rich as well as privileged.
Now Rafael Daughtry was the Duke of Ashurst, even if he was probably still unaware of his new title. His mother would drive Grayson and the other servants to distraction when she was in residence, and Nicole and Lydia would make them happy again, as all the staff adored the twins.
But Emmaline, who had thought she'd never leave Ashurst Hall, would be departing in the next few weeks to become the Duchess of Warrington.
It was obscene, unheard of, for a woman in mourning to wed so hastily, but when she and John had realized that neither cared what Society thought, Emmaline had set her maid to bringing down trunks from the attic so that they could begin packing up her belongings.
"We mourn our brothers, Charlton, George, Harold," Vicar Wooten droned on---he'd been droning on for nearly an hour and even he seemed fatigued. "Dust to dust, ashes to ashes... um, well, not perhaps in this particular case, begging your pardon."
One of the aunts stifled a giggle and, for some reason she would never understand, that caused Emmaline to shed her very first tears for her brother and nephews.
Not in this case. No, nothing was quite like this case. The deaths had been senseless, unnecessary and much too soon.
She dabbed at her moist eyes with the corner of her handkerchief, knowing her tears now were for what might have been, for the past that could never be changed.
And then John slipped his hand into hers, squeezed it, and she turned to look at this man she loved. Every question she'd ever had, any answer she'd ever sought. They were all there, in his eyes.
She smiled through her tears as she saw her future.
What secret is Charlotte Seavers so desperate to keep from her childhood friend Rafe, now the new Duke of Ashurst? Don't miss How To Tempt A Duke, available September 2009 from beloved author Kasey Michaels and HQN Books.
Read more about the Daughtry Family in two full-length novels from Kasey Michaels and HQN Books!
How to Tempt a Duke(September 2009)
He'd returned from war a duke. Now Rafael Daughtry was battling a force more terrifying than Napoleon's army---his family. Thankfully, his childhood friend Charlotte Seavers had agreed reluctantly---to a bargain. While Rafe would provide her with the home she'd lost, Charlotte would provide him with a chaperone for his unruly twin sisters.
But who would chaperone Rafe? For the feisty young girl he remembered had blossomed into a sensual woman---a woman whose haunting beauty and deeply kept secrets drew him like no other. Charlotte had good reason to mistrust men---yet could Rafe's sizzling seduction convince her to give in to temptation?
How to Tame a Lady(October 2009)
Lady Nicole Daughtry has vowed never to be vulnerable to any man. Despite the many suitors vying for the dazzling beauty's hand, she has seen the damage love can inflict and wants no part of it. Until she meets Lucas Paine, Marquess of Basingstoke, whose aura of danger and mystery draws her like no other...
Lucas is a man with a mission---and a powerful thirst for revenge. The last thing he can afford is the distraction of a pretty face. But a scandalous affair with Nicole could be just the cover he needs to outwit his enemies. With treachery everywhere, and Nicole's very life in his hands, Lucas will face his greatest challenge yet---to keep the lady safe from harm... and his heart safe from her.
Don't miss more sparkling and sensual romance by USA TODAY bestselling author Kasey Michaels, available now from www.ebooks.eharlequin.com and wherever eBooks are sold:
The Beckets of Romney Marsh
A Gentleman by Any Other Name The Dangerous Debutante Beware of Virtuous Women A Most Unsuitable Groom A Reckless Beauty
The Return of the Prodigal Becket's Last Stand
The Sunshine Girls
Dial M for Mischief
Mischief Becomes Her Mischief 24/7
Other must-reads
The Bride of the Unicorn The Secrets of the Heart The Passion of an Angel Everything's Coming Up Rosie Stuck in Shangri-la
The Tycoon's Secret
Bachelor on the Prowl
How to Woo a Spinster
Copyright © 2009 by Kathryn Seidick
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