Rhyme and Reason (21 page)

“You live here?” she managed to choke out.

“Not within the chambers inside the wall, thank goodness.” He motioned with his head for her to follow. “The Wentworths no longer need to be prepared to withstand an attack. We have grown more civilized through the centuries.”

“Or you have simply disposed of all your mortal enemies.”

Laughing as they rode side-by-side, he replied, “If it were only so easy. I must own there are times when I pine for the days when the lord of the manor could dispose of his foes with a strong force of men as lief a barrage of barristers.” He caught her reins and edged closer to her horse. “And times when I consider the privileges offered as
le droit de seigneur
.”

“We have grown more civilized.”

“Have we?”

She knew she should not let the husky warmth in his voice entrap her, but resisting the impulse to look into his enigmatic eyes was impossible. As he drew both horses to a walk beneath the shadow of the wall that was encrusted with moss and vines, he leaned toward her. Boldly, her hand glided up to his shoulder as his mouth slanted across hers. His arm around her waist tilted her even closer to him as he probed within her mouth, setting each slick surface alight with rapture.

Sudden brightness struck Emily’s face, and she drew back to discover they had ridden through the gate and into the glow of the late-afternoon sun. “Oh, my!”

“I had hoped for a more enthusiastic response to our kiss than simply ‘Oh, my!’” Damon said with a laugh.

She stared at what lay within the ancient wall. Her assumption that it was intact had been an illusion, she discovered, for only the one section remained standing. The austere tower, which once encompassed the keep, now was the centerpiece of a trio of wings that must be several hundred years old. Arched windows and deep sills were a reminder that this once had been a fortress. An avenue of trees invited them to explore as they rode past the broad lawns leading to the house and the smaller outbuildings that were set like courtiers around the grand dame.

“I had no idea,” she whispered, “Wentworth Hall would look like this. How do you keep from becoming lost within that maze of wings?”

“It was the perfect place for a lad who was eager to find a hiding place to avoid his tutor.” Setting his horse to a walk again, he said, “You must explore while you are here.”

“And if I become disoriented amid all those rooms?”

“Then I shall have to come to your rescue. That is the duty of the lord of the manor, is it not?” He caught her gloved hand in his as the rakish leer returned to his face. “And then, mayhap, I can learn just how grateful you can be.”

Wandering through Wentworth Hall that evening, Emily paused to look at the portraits lining the dusky walls. Faces, proud and somber, were edged with long hair and short as well as ruffs and stiff, starched collars. As she stared at the paintings, she could hear within her memory the sound of her grandmother’s voice, telling the old tales of her ancestors.
Family and the family’s traditions must always be the most important aspect of one’s life
.

Here, with every breath Damon took, he was a part of the past. A line unbroken, a line unblemished.

Emily sighed as she turned to walk along the deserted hallway. Purity of bloodlines was something the peerage took pride in. The purity of the bloodlines of their horses, of their hunting dogs, of their heirs.

She examined the niches cut into the stone wall. They were empty, and she was uncertain if they once had held art or sconces. Everything about Wentworth Hall was grand, but tired. When she had ridden over the bridge between the Hall and a small village, she had discovered, on closer view, the large house wore her age like a confident dowager. As Damon had talked of the renovations he planned, she heard an unusual excitement in his voice. It told her he had an affection for the estate that he wasted on little else.

When she left the huge bedchamber suite where Kilmartin was exclaiming about the dressing room that was larger than the parlor on Hanover Square, she had been certain she could find her way to the sitting room where the guests were to meet. Where was everyone? She could be alone in this house, for not a single voice reached her ears. Only the distant resonance of thunder which flowed along the hallway after lightning flashed. She did not want to own to Damon that she had become lost. She could not trust that glitter in his eyes. Nor could she trust her reaction, the yearning to toss aside caution and thrill in the madness of his kisses … just once more.

She was addled to think like this. As long as she held her secrets within her heart, she must not dream of his touch. Such thoughts would only risk breaking her heart and ruining everything she had fought so hard to gain for her sister. Her sister, who was throwing her chance at happiness and a good marriage away by throwing herself at that accursed impostor. Dear God, why was everything as mad as a midsummer moon?

And how was she going to find her way to the sitting room?

Emily paused when she saw a door ajar. “Is anyone here?” she asked as she pushed it farther open.

The light of a single lamp cut through the storm’s shadows in the large room. Two walls were lined with glass-fronted cases filled with books. Arched windows that had been thrown wide to catch any breath of air glowed when lightning exploded through the sky. Emily flinched as thunder crackled, the sound rumbling against the stones of the round hearth in the far corner of the room.

Walking to the desk set in front of the closest window, she edged no nearer to the glass as another bolt of lightning outlined the whipping branches of the trees beyond the driveway. She wrapped her arms around herself.

Her eyes widened as they were caught by familiar bindings in the largest bookcase. Blue leather and gold ink pressed into it to form the title she had devised. She touched the glass door hesitantly. Although Damon had urged her to run tame through Wentworth Hall, she did not know if she should be intruding in this room.

The door opened as if on invisible fingers. Her own fingers shook when she drew out a copy of the first book of poetry she had written. Amazement froze her as she realized a half dozen copies of the same book were stacked on the shelf. Kneeling, she read the titles of the other books. All of them were printed in the same blue with the gold lettering.

She set the poetry book back on the shelf and picked up another.
A Season in a Sussex Garden
by a Mrs. Charles Lock. Opening it, she carefully turned the crisp pages. Mr. Homsby’s bookshop was listed on the title page along with the name Old Gooseberry Press.

Emily frowned as she put it aside and reached for another with the same binding and printing. An identical imprint was set on the cover page. Spurred by curiosity, she opened several others. Each one contained Mr. Homsby’s name, although only about half listed Old Gooseberry Press.

“Looking for something interesting to read?”

She recoiled at the question that was as deep as the thunder. She glanced over her shoulder and discovered Damon leaning toward her. “I—I—” Words refused to form on her tongue.

“No need to look like a Tyburn blossom caught in the act of heisting books from my office.” His smile broadened as he offered his hand to bring her to her feet.

Standing, she hid her shock at his clothes which better suited a stable than this grand chamber. His boots were scuffed, and the elbows of his black coat were shiny with wear. A loosely tied cravat threatened to escape from his waistcoat, which was missing a button.

Something must have betrayed her thoughts, for Damon chuckled and said, “I trust you will keep my secret.”

“Secret? This is what you have teased me with when you have spoken of a secret?”

“This?” He laughed. “No, that special secret is still to be revealed.” He poked at his elbow. “I accede to propriety in Town and am the epitome of a man in prime twig. Here, in the country, I set aside every illusion of being
à la modality
.”

“I believe others will take note.”

“I shall change before dinner.” He leaned back against the heavy oak desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “In fact, I was on my way to do exactly that, but I was curious to discover who was in my office.”

“I did not mean—”

He put his finger to her lips, and she fought the craving to take his hand and lead his arm around her. “Emily, why do you always see wickedness in my words?”

“Mayhap because I always see the wickedness in your eyes.”

“Not wickedness.” His voice softened to a caressing whisper as he took her hand, drawing her toward him. “Just imagination. An imagination which urges me to presume that you are thinking much the same as I.”

When he pressed his mouth to the curve of her neck, she slid her arms up his back. His strong muscles moved smoothly beneath her hands as he stood, enfolding her into an inflamed embrace. Her fingers splayed along him as he etched sweet fire across her cheek and onto her lips.

Her breath was no more ragged than his when he drew back. His hands framed her face as he whispered her name. Putting her fingers over his, she steered his mouth back to hers. Each kiss only whetted her desire for another.

Thunder burst through the room, and rain splattered against the window like fine pebbles tossed up behind a speeding carriage. Emily flinched.

With a laugh, Damon tapped her nose. He released her. Going to the windows, he drew them closed and latched them securely. “Afraid of a bit of rain?”

“No, of course not.”

“Just jumpy.” He drew off his worn coat and folded it over his arm. “Guilt mayhap?”

She raised her chin. “You told me I could explore the house freely.”

“True.” He bent and picked up one of the books which had fallen, unnoticed, to the floor. “Did you want to read one of these?”

“No. I was simply curious about all the books looking so much like my—like my copy of the marquis’s books.”

“Mayhap because they all come from Homsby’s bookstore.”

“You patronize only his store?” she asked, pleased that he had not noticed her slip.

Damon smiled and closed the glass door. “To own the truth, I seldom visit his shop. He arranges to have books delivered to me.”

“Even the marquis’s books?”

“He believes I wish to be conversant with what is bandied about by the Polite World.”

Wrapping her arms around her, for his words were suddenly as cool as the rain against the window, she said, “Do not be angry. I did not mean to invade your private chambers.”

“I would not, I assure you, be angry if I found you in my
private
chambers.” He turned to the desk to straighten some pages that had been blown about by the storm.

When she picked up a page from the floor and handed it to him, he took it without comment. Had he thought she was perusing his business papers as well as the bookshelf? Pain twisted in her center. She went to the door, wanting to escape this room before tears escaped her eyes.

“Emily?”

She should not look back. She should not let the heat of his eyes sear her like quicksilver flames. She should not let those eyes lure her into his arms with the unspoken promise of his kisses. She turned and was riveted by longing mixed with grief.

He crossed the room in a pair of steps, but did not grasp her hands as she had hoped … as she had feared. Holding her gaze, he whispered, “What is it?”

“You do not trust me.”

He seized her arm as she whirled to leave. Bringing her back to face him, he asked, “Do you trust me?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know well what I mean.”

She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. She knew exactly what he meant, but, if he discovered the truths she had fought to keep secret, he surely would not welcome André—or Emily Talcott—to Wentworth Hall.

“Emily,” he said in the same low, intense tone, “I told you I would not play cards with your father while on our visit to Wentworth Hall, but you watch me like a duenna guarding her charge, sure I will break that vow at the first opportunity.”

She lowered her eyes before he could see her reaction. He must not guess that, of all she had tried to keep concealed, this mattered the least to her rebellious heart. “You are right, Damon. Old habits die hard.”

“Old habits? I have made you no vows before.”

She met his gaze squarely. “Others have broken them when Papa was insistent and gold was on the table.”

“I am not like others.”

She was certain of that as she was of nothing else. If she traveled the length and breadth of the world doing research for her books on gardens and exotic flora, she never would meet another man like Damon Wentworth. No other man could be a fusion of irritating arrogance and tender compassion. No other man could set her soul alight with his wit and her skin afire with his touch.

“Trust me, Emily,” he whispered.

“I will try. Be patient.”

“Patience? I suspect, as lief, I will be trying yours.” He opened the door wider and smiled. “You are far from the sitting room where we planned to meet. Could it be you are lost?”

She met his bold grin with her own. “Just exploring, but, if you would be so kind as to point me toward the nearest staircase to the lower floors, I would be grateful.”

“Grateful?” He brought her to him again. As she locked her fingers behind his nape, he murmured, “I ask again: how grateful?”

The best answer, she was sure, was none as she let her kiss speak for itself. This happiness must be fleeting, so she wanted to enjoy every bit while she could.

Chapter Fifteen

As Emily came down the wide oak stairs, she ran her hand along the bannister. She stopped in the door to admire the sitting room, for the chamber was as wondrous as the rooms of a royal palace. The ceiling might need a new coat of paint, and the stone floor was scratched and uneven, but her eyes were captured by a mural that covered three walls. The
trompe l’oeil
design suggested the room was set amid a glorious garden where rose vines were strung from fruit trees. Beneath every tree, bushes were laden with berries. Blackberries, blueberries, gooseberries, and raspberries twisted together in an invitation to gather a handful. Lattices outlined views of distant fields where animals grazed.