A Summons From the Duke (11 page)

She breathed deeply, caring not a whit that all the breath she took was redolent of stale tobacco and boiled onions. She'd go home, then journey to Aunt Millie and Uncle Arthur's, and from there she would contact the duke. Everything would be all right.

The coach heaved violently, throwing Emily against the window. She gasped and rubbed her throbbing temple, which had received a smart crack. A sound of splintering wood rent the air, and the lumbering pace of the carriage ground to a halt. The peasant woman beside her finally wakened, mumbling "Love a duck! What's happened?"

"I don't know," Emily replied. "Sounds like an accident."

The coachman opened the door to the carriage, motioning everyone out. "Broke an axle, we did. It's going to take some mending, too. Pretty bad break."

Emily alit from the carriage, spying the splintered shards of wood as they poked out of the muddy road. It certainly did look like a nasty break. She rubbed her temple again. "Excuse me, sir, but what do we do now?" Surely there was some sort of emergency plan, a relief coach, anything to keep the travelers going.

He grinned, showing a row of gapped teeth. "Nothin' to do but wait, ma'am. I'll see what I can do to fix it, but there ain't much to be done. There's a village up ahead, Kings Lynn. We might have to get help from there." The coachman unloaded their parcels and luggage, setting all the bags beside the road. The other passengers milled around, some claiming their baggage, while others simply squatted in the mud. A few men offered to help the coachman begin the repairs, and they set about trying to remove what was left of the wheel from the carriage.

Emily was ready to stamp her feet in frustration. The keen wind bit at her cloak, sending goose flesh up and down her arms. Her head ached from the sharp rap she'd received. She had no time to waste, no time to sit around and wait for a carriage. Her daughter was waiting for her. The man had said Kings Lynn wasn't too far away, hadn't he? Well, then, she would walk ahead and get help. She hefted her striped valise on one hip and began walking with purposeful strides up the road.

""Ere, now. Where are you off to?" the peasant woman bellowed after Emily.

"Off to find help at Kings Lynn," Emily replied, giving a jaunty wave of her gloved hand. Wandering about the countryside was madness, to be sure, but it felt good to move, to do something. Besides, moving kept her warm. She would likely freeze by the time the repairs were done if she just sat around on her bum as the other travelers seemed content to do.

~ * ~

The well-sprung Danby carriage was traveling at a smart pace thanks to fresh horses and a night of rest in Norwich. Philip patted the case on the seat beside him. Giles had retrieved his violin from the luggage and placed it in the carriage early that morning. Philip gave a rueful half-smile. His batman surely knew that music would comfort his master as much as drink. In fact—more.

The carriage slowed and a cacophony of voices, male and female, old and young, swamped the road. Philip opened the curtain in confusion and peered out. Ah, an accident with the public post. Broken axle, it looked like. Faces, red with cold, stared up at him as the carriage pulled to a halt. He alit before Giles could even open the door.

"Ho, there. Need help?" He approached the coachman, peering at the wreckage of the wheel.

The coachman peered over at the Danby carriage, his sharp eye taking in the ducal crest. "Well, milord, we've got a bit of a broken axle. We're working to put it to rights, but 'tis taking longer than we thought. Got quite a few passengers, as you can see."

Philip nodded, looking over the crowd. No children, a few peasant women, some men both elderly and young. "I can take the weak and infirm with me to Kings Lynn, and dispatch some help once we reach there."

Giles, standing beside Philip, nodded. "You're going to need a new wheel. Perhaps a new coach can be ordered to take these travelers on."

The coachman pursed his lips in assent. "If you don't mind, milord, that would be very helpful." He turned to the milling crowd, cupping his hands around his mouth. "This gentleman will take the elderly and infirm on to Kings Lynn, and he will send for help once he's there. Anyone need to reach shelter quickly?" he bellowed.

The travelers gawked at the impressive carriage, but no one stirred a step in its direction. "Come now," Philip entreated. "Anyone who cannot wait for the coach to be repaired, I can oblige."

A peasant woman in a red cloak broke ranks and walked over to Philip. "I don't need to reach shelter quickly, milord. But there was a young lady on the carriage who took off walking for Kings Lynn. Said she was going to get help. Well, she had such a smart step about her that I let her go on. But I'm worried about her. It ain't right for a young girl to be wandering the countryside."

Philip nodded. "We'll catch up with her. Are you sure you will be all right?"

She snorted and smiled. "Sure I will. Now, this young lady was wearing a black cloak, carrying her bag with her. She's the only one out mucking around the countryside, I'll bet."

Philip smiled. "All right. Anyone else?"

The crowd remained silent. Philip cocked his head at Giles. "Let's go rescue a damsel."

He rode on the box with Giles and his coachman, his head clear for the first time in days. The cold air had cleared the cobwebs from his mind and a sense of purpose uplifted his spirits. Scanning the road for a young lady in distress, he was—for the first time in years—a rescuer, a hero. Not a vagabond and a seducer. Not a Whitton family disappointment.

Straining his eyes, he glimpsed a shadowy figure up ahead. He nudged Giles and pointed. "Is that our damsel? Or is it just a rock on the side of the road?"

Giles squinted. "I'm thinking that's the lady."

Giles motioned to the coachman, who nodded and slowed down behind the young woman. She must have heard the carriage approach, for she stopped walking and dropped her valise on the side of the road.

Philip jumped down from the box, making his way to the lady with quick strides. "Hello, there. Are you from the post? We were sent here to retrieve you and to get help from Kings Lynn."

The lady turned in his direction and deftly pushed the hood of her cloak back from her head with a graceful gloved hand. Philip froze. He would know those rich brown eyes, that mahogany hair anywhere. She was the girl who haunted his dreams. The girl who taunted him all those years ago, and left him for a portly little prick of a man. His ultimate desire and his ruination.

"Emily."

~ 3 ~

"Philip. I mean, Lord Philip Whitton." Emily gave herself a brisk mental shake. His sudden apparition caught her off guard, but there was no reason on earth to be gawping at him so openly. Yes, he was handsome. He had always been so, with dark brown eyes, and blonde hair that waved back from his forehead. He was taller than she remembered, thinner too—a man now, where a boy had been. There was an unreadable expression in those eyes, one of anger and something more, something deeper. She took an involuntary step backwards and reached down for her valise.

"What are you doing out here?" Even the tone of his voice had changed, from friendly solicitude to a harsh rasp.

"I was taking the public post home to Sheffield, and they broke an axle, as you saw. So I was walking ahead to Kings Lynn to find help."

He grasped her valise in one hand and steered her towards the carriage, his warm hand sending shockwaves of heat from her elbow to the tips of her fingers. "Come, into the carriage."

He bundled her into the luxurious coach most unceremoniously and slammed the door shut. His muffled voice gave directions to the coachman—something about Kings Lynn—and then the door opened again. He sank onto the bench across from her and rapped on the window. With a jolt, the carriage swung back into motion.

In the warmth of the coach, and under Philip's glowering gaze, life began wakening in Emily's limbs again. A rush of heat flooded her cheeks. Heavens, she must look like a clown, with cheeks that red. But if her appearance was amusing, it had no effect on her rescuer, who continued to regard her as one might regard a worm that had crossed one's path. He was staring at her, which was horribly ill-bred—but then, Philip had never been one for social niceties.

Fine, two could play at that game. She turned the full force of her gaze on him, as boldly as he regarded her.

"Thank you for the ride," she said evenly.

"Why were you taking the post?" he rejoined, waving off her thanks with a brusque gesture.

"I had business in Norwich, and now I am returning home." Not that it was any of his affair.

"What business?" Again, no
politesse
from Philip Whitton.

"Business affairs related to my husband's death."

A rueful half-smile quirked his lips. "You are a widow now, Emily?"

She indicated her widow's weeds. "As you see, these four months." She turned her gaze away from his. He could always outstare her. It was rather unnerving, really.

"I can't say I'm sorry. You know me too well for that."

His tone was harsh, unyielding. Yes, she did know him too well. "I am not offended, Lord Philip." She sought anything to change the subject. The air in the carriage was stifling. He was too close to her. She removed her cloak and placed it on the seat beside her, catching a glimpse of a familiar leather case on the seat beside him. "Ah, your violin. You always did have it close by."

"Better for me than drink." He caressed the case with his gloved hand. Philip had beautiful hands—large but sensitive enough to coax a single quivering note from a harpsichord or a viola. And, of course, that one night when she let those lovely hands stray too far—she shut off her thoughts with a snap.

"'God save you pilgrim! Wither are you bound?'" she quoted, hoping that the flush on her cheeks could still be attributed to the change in temperature from the frosty outdoors and the warmth of the carriage.

"Danby. Grandfather has issued a summons to the entire family. I was studying abroad when I heard the news. I just landed yesterday."

"Why did your grandfather send out a summons?" Emily cocked her head, regarding him with curiosity.

"The old fellow says he's dying." Philip crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the window.

"Oh dear, how terrible!"

"He's not really. Just wants to set the whole family straight." Philip lapsed into a brooding silence, and Emily took quick glimpses up at him from under her lowered lashes. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo. Why was being so close to her former beau having such an effect on her sensibilities? She was, after all, a widow and a mother. Those flutterings should have vanished long ago—by society's standards, she was decidedly on the shelf.

The carriage slowed to a halt, and Philip peered outside. "We're at the inn," he announced. "Go inside and warm yourself—I'll bespeak a room for you if you wish."

"Oh, no indeed, thank you. I must be going. I need to return to Sheffield as quickly as possible." She gathered her cloak and prepared to step out of the carriage.

With a gentle but insistent hand, Philip pushed her back onto the seat. "What awaits you in Sheffield?"

"My daughter. I must pack up our home and move back to my aunt and uncle's now that Charles has passed."

Philip looked down at her, the color draining from his face. "You have a child?"

"Yes, Rose. She is but two years old. I must go to her quickly and prepare for our travel."

Philip released his hold on her arm and stepped outside the carriage. He extended his hand to Emily.

"I'll take you home."

~ * ~

Why had he made such a daft promise? From the moment the words slipped from his lips, 'twas obvious he had made a mistake. It meant two more days of traveling next to his temptress and muse, giving himself the double pain and pleasure of seeing her but not being able to touch her—not in the way he wanted, not in the way he had dreamed for two years.

Philip snuck a quick sip of the burning contents of his flask. Was it worse to sit on the box with Giles and the coachman, freezing and denying himself the painful pleasure of Emily's company? Or was it better in the close confines of the carriage, pretending not to notice her rapid, appraising glances? To engage in idle prattle about the weather while watching that enchanting beauty mark above Emily's mouth, like a pert little exclamation point above her smiles?

Yesterday he chose the former. Today, the last leg of the trip before Sheffield, the latter was thrust upon him. A somewhat raw throat and the threat of snow in the air meant the remainder of the trip must be spent inside the coach. He shifted on his seat, glancing over at Emily. She was reading—or at least pretending to. He hadn't seen her turn the page in a good five minutes.

"Emily, why are you going to live with your family? Why not continue living in Sheffield?"

She jumped, dropping her book. Deftly, he scooped it up and placed it on the bench beside him.

"Circumstances dictate that we must move." She blushed so easily. She was never good at deception. It was one of the things he found most attractive about her.

"What circumstances?" All right, so he was pressing her. He wanted the truth.