In Bed with the Duke (3 page)

So, walking to the fountain, she dipped Lady Lettice’s handkerchief into the pool until it was thoroughly dampened, then lifted it and wrung it out.

When she heard a warm, rasping chuckle behind her, she jumped, dropped the handkerchief, and turned to face Michael Durant, the tragic English nobleman.

“I came out to direct you to the ladies’ convenience, but I see you found a better solution.” He nodded toward the fountain.

“It’s not what you think.” This was her worst nightmare. He would report her to the beast. She was going to be thrown onto the street in a strange country with no resources, nowhere to turn. She was going to die—or suffer a fate worse than death. “I didn’t come out here on purpose—”

He held up one hand. “Please. Lady Lettice made clear your amazing ability to get lost. What she didn’t realize, I suppose, was your ability to improvise. Miss . . . ?”

“Chegwidden.” She curtsied as she’d been taught in Miss Smith’s School for Young Gentlewomen. “Emma Chegwidden.”

In the ballroom, she had watched Michael Durant and thought him not at all lordly. Rather he was a handsome brute of a man, big-boned, tall, and raw. His black suit was of the finest material and in supreme good taste, and she would wager he visited only London’s best tailors. Yet the clothes didn’t fit well: The formal black jacket was tight across his shoulders, the pants were loose at the waist, and the whole ensemble gave him the appearance of a warhorse dressed in gentleman’s clothing. His hair was red, untouched by gray. His eyes were bright, piercing green. His skin was tanned; he seemed like a man who followed the sun.

He bowed. “A pleasure, Miss Chegwidden. Of the Yorkshire Chegwiddens?”

“Exactly.” Silly to feel relief that Durant knew of her family, respectable and impoverished though they were, but she warmed to him. “My father was a vicar at the chapel in Freyaburn near the St. Ashley estate.”

“I know the area well. Very beautiful. Very wild. Do you miss it?”

“Oh, yes. In the spring, when the winds sweep across the moors and ripple the purple heather, I—” Her breath caught abruptly. She made it a point to never think about home, and this was why. A rush of silly tears could only lead to mockery.

But he said merely, “I find Moricadia is very different from England, is it not?”

“Very different.” She swallowed hard, gained control, and gestured toward the east. “The city is cosmopolitan, so bright and full of wealthy visitors seeking fun and gaming.”

“Actually, Tonagra is”—he took her finger and pointed in the opposite direction—“that way.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t embarrassed by his correction. Rather, she realized how long it had been since she’d had contact with another human—or at least another human who was not intent on humiliating her. And his touch was warm, penetrating her thin cotton glove, a gentle, light directional clasp.

“But I interrupted you.” He removed his hand from hers, and when she didn’t immediately speak, he said, “Miss Chegwidden?”

Obscurely discomfited by her wandering mind, she hastened into speech. “Here in Moricadia, the gambling houses are large and beautifully decorated, and again, so many visitors! So much wealth! And the châteaux dot the mountain ridges like so many stars in the sky. But at the same time . . . the people are so poor, and I feel as if no human habitation or feeble effort of man can tame these towering mountains or the primeval forest that blankets them.” Remembering the narrow, winding road Lady Lettice’s rented carriage had taken to bring them here, the way the woods had pressed close, the glimpses of rocky peaks she had seen when they crested a ridge, Emma shivered and pulled her shawl around her shoulders.

Realizing suddenly that he watched her closely, she flushed.

In the ballroom, she had thought him a phony, another nobleman flirting with tragedy for the outpouring of sympathy and the residual gossip.

Out here, he seemed different, amused and more than a little sympathetic to her plight. Yet he saw too much, understood too well her emotions, and in the night, with only the stars for light, he had a quality of stillness about him, like a tiger lying in wait for its prey. In her position, paying attention to details like that meant the difference between surviving unscathed by pain and scandal, and being an unwilling victim.

So she must step carefully. For all that Durant appeared kind, he could be every bit as nasty and mocking as the other gentlemen surrounding Lady Lettice, and a good deal more dangerous, for he invited confidences.

“Pay no attention to me, my lord,” she said in her most self-deprecating tone. “Those are merely foolish musings on my part.”

“Not at all. You show great insight.”

“You have been here for a long time, then?”

“A very long time indeed.”

“Is your family unable to send the ransom?”

“What ransom?”

“The one to get you released so you may return home.”

“My family would be quite shocked by that request. They believe me dead.”

“How horrible for them! Can you not send a message secretly to relieve their grief?”

“I don’t choose to.”

Shock and revulsion held her frozen in place. “You have a family—a mother, a father—”

“And two brothers.”

“And you choose not to return to their bosom?”

“I would never ask them to send money to line the de Guignards’ pockets.”

She would have given anything to have her father back, paid any amount of money, would have begged and pleaded—and this man refused to send word to his relatives because . . . because . . . “So it’s
pride
that holds you back? You don’t wish to escape Moricadia, and you care nothing for their sorrow?”

He stepped toward her.

Abruptly she remembered that she was out in the garden. No one knew where she was. Michael Durant was a powerful nobleman. And she had just obliquely criticized him.

She retreated. “I have overstepped my bounds—but you should be ashamed of your selfishness.”

“You’re correct on both counts.” His voice was courteous and remote. “Shall I help you retrieve Lady Lettice’s handkerchief?”

Glancing down into the clear water, she saw the white square floating just below the surface. “Thank you, I can do it.” Without turning her back to him, she leaned down, caught it in her fingertips, and wrung it out over the pool. “So Lady Lettice did this to humiliate me.” That was a bitter pill to swallow, to know everyone was laughing at her, and she could do nothing.

“She is not a gentlewoman, I believe.”

“No.” She wrung the handkerchief again as if it were Lady Lettice’s neck.

“Nor a particularly pleasant woman.” He walked up the steps and looked back at her. “Shall we go back to the ballroom?”

By that, she assumed he meant to guide her, and cautiously she followed him.

He held the door for her,
observing
her as she walked through.

She straightened her shoulders.

“This way.” He gestured down the corridor, and as they walked, he continued. “I recall something about her being the only daughter of a manufacturing family, married for her fortune to Baron Surtees.”

“When she was seventeen, she was reputed to be a great beauty.” Emma did not say that now Lady Lettice was a great beast. She suspected Durant, with his direct gaze, already had deduced that fact.

“I also heard that after a mere twenty-some years of miserable married life, Surtees escaped wedlock by dropping dead.”

“You are uncharitable, my lord.” She took a breath to avoid laughing while she spoke, and when she had herself under control, she said, “But essentially, you are correct. So Lady Lettice determined to do as she had always wished. She took his title and her fortune, which was relatively intact, hired a respectable companion from the Distinguished Academy of Governesses, a companion who had no resources, no family, and no way to leave her—that’s me—and has been taking the Grand Tour of Europe.”

“In hopes of meeting and marrying her next victim . . . er, husband.”

His height made her uncomfortable, and as they walked, she watched his hands. Big hands. Big bones. Big knuckles. Broad palm. Hands weathered by fighting experience. A white scar sliced across one knuckle on his left hand. He had hit something, or somebody, and split his hand. And she was walking alone with him. And determinedly talking. “Originally, Lady Lettice sought out young Englishmen, thinking it would be a good idea to wed someone who could take her higher in English society, but the young men were skittish and not particularly flattering.” Emma ran her finger over the raised ridge on her chin. “So she wisely moved on to gentlemen of the Continent. They have a much more sophisticated attitude toward women of her age and wealth.”

“I can imagine. This way.” Durant took a turn to the right, then again to the left, leading her down corridors lined with closed doors and dimly lit by sparsely placed candles.

“Are you sure?” She could have sworn they were headed back to the garden again.

“I never get lost.” He sounded so sure of himself.

Irksome man. He might not get lost, but he was certainly in trouble. With more sharpness than she intended, she asked, “What did you do to get yourself arrested as a political prisoner?”

He stopped walking.

She stopped walking.

“In Moricadia, it doesn’t do to poke your nose into local troubles.” He tapped her nose with his finger. “Remember that.”

Affronted by his presumption, she said, “I certainly would not do something so stupid.”

His eyebrows, smooth and well shaped, lifted quizzically. “Of course not. You’re supremely sensible.”

The way he spoke made her realize—she’d just called him stupid. “My lord, I didn’t mean—”

“Not at all. You’re quite right. Now.” He opened a door to his right.

At once, the sound of music and laughter filtered through, and, peeking in, Emma saw the dining hall where Lady Thibault’s servants were setting up for a midnight supper, and beyond that, through open glass doors, the ballroom.

She couldn’t restrain a sigh of relief. Relief that she had made it back in a reasonable amount of time, and would not have to face Lady Lettice’s wrath. Relief that she didn’t have to spend any more time alone with the enigmatic Michael Durant.

“Do you still have Lady Lettice’s handkerchief?” he asked.

“I don’t lose things, my lord.” She showed it to him, still twisted between her palms. “I only lose myself.”

“Now you are found. I’ll leave you to make your own way to Lady Lettice’s side.” He bowed. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Chegwidden.”

She curtsied. “My lord, my heartfelt thanks.” She watched him walk away, and wondered at the man. He seemed alternately kind, rescuing her from trouble, and heartless, in allowing his family to think he was dead. But still she was grateful; thanks to him, she had returned to the ballroom, the handkerchief was wet, and Lady Lettice and her nasty game had gone awry.

Of course, failure would put Lady Lettice in a foul mood, and make the nightly ordeal of unlacing the ghastly woman even more agonizing, but sometimes, regardless of the consequences, it was good to win—and now, thanks to Michael Durant, nothing else could go wrong.

M
ichael watched Miss Chegwidden hurry past the long table laden with china and silver and step into the ballroom.

She wasn’t quite as unattractive as he’d first thought. When she straightened her shoulders, it was clear his supposition had been right: She did have a good figure, with a lavish bosom hidden beneath that plain and hideous bodice. Her dark hair contained hints of auburn, and her eyes . . . her eyes were unusual. Not the muddy hazel he’d first glimpsed, for when she experienced real emotion—like her indignation at his neglect of his family—specks of gold sparkled to life and the color brightened, becoming aquamarine.

No, Miss Chegwidden wasn’t quite as cowed as he had imagined. She might fear Lady Lettice, but she had been free enough with her criticism of him.

He grinned. In fact, it almost felt good to have a young Englishwoman impugning his character. Normal. As if he were home in London in the family town house, being taken to task by his stepmother for his wild embrace of adventure, by his father for not taking his role as the Durant heir seriously enough, and by his staid brother Jude for not applying himself to his duties.

His youngest brother, Adrian, had never chided Michael for this wildness. The serious boy had adored Michael, and Michael had adored him in return.

He wished he could send a message to them, to let them know he was alive. But he didn’t dare. Not yet. And he prayed that no visitor from England told them the truth, for if they knew, nothing would keep them from coming to Moricadia and bringing him home.

But he wasn’t finished here yet.

Yet he missed them—and how surprised Miss Chegwidden would be to know it.

Taking the long way around, he entered behind Lady Lettice and her admirers.

If anything, the crush had grown greater in his absence. The open doors had done nothing to cool the summer night, and the guests’ elegance was wilting even as he watched. Icy champagne circulated on every serving tray and chilled every throat, and the sounds of voices and music combined to create such a cacophony he longed to be back in his quiet room at Lady Fanchere’s, staring at the bars on the window . . . and missing home.

No. He was better off here with so much to distract his mind.

He hoped Miss Chegwidden could make her way through this crowd to Lady Lettice’s side. He would have guided her himself, but appearing in the ballroom with him after a prolonged absence would have done her reputation great harm. If he weren’t in such a mess himself, he would see what he could do to relieve her untenable situation.

But he
was
in a mess.

As if his thought had called trouble, he glanced up, into the eyes of Raul Lawrence. He inclined his head.