The Star-Crossed Bride (11 page)

He glanced at the papers in his hand. No letter would change that fact. Could even the faultless Duke of Kerstone, make her see reason? She bore no love for her daughter, her words proved that. And how could he tell Emily of this? It would break her heart to know that her mother was well aware of the caliber of man her daughter was marrying.

He couldn't imagine how painful it would be to know that her own mother was secretly glad of the danger in which her daughter's life would be until she bore the marquess a son and heir. It was only to be hoped that the countess did not realize the marquess was a murderer as well as an unscrupulous seducer. Surely even she would draw the line at such a man for a son-in — for propriety's sake at least.

* * * * *

Emily had been allowed to take a turn in the garden — with an eager footman at her elbow. It was most vexing to feel as if one were boxed and packed in cotton. Despite the years of seclusion at the castle, she had never felt her isolation and imprisonment so oppressively as she did now. Perhaps, she reflected, it was because the marquess was stalking her like a fox with a hare, or perhaps it was because Valentine was under the same roof, and yet still as far away as he had always been since the duke had halted their elopement attempt.

Nan assured her each day and night that he remained unnoticed in his role as footman. But she had little more information on how he fared. She thought she could have borne the marquess's attentions, wanted or not, if only she had been able to look at Valentine, to find out what he was thinking, what he was planning. At the very least, to tell him what she was planning herself. She had been too afraid to even send messages through Nancy. Though Valentine obviously thought her trustworthy, Emily herself was too aware of how her previous maid had betrayed her.

Perhaps she should be surprised at how unexpectedly difficult it was to forget that Valentine was under the same roof, considering that she had been separated from him for three years. But she had never lost her faith in him and now she knew the depth of her feelings--how fully she trusted him, and how much she wished she could discuss this situation with him.

For one brief moment, she had hoped that Soames would assign Valentine as the footman to accompany her in the gardens, but he had not. She glanced at the face of the young servant who had been chosen to accompany her. Deliberately, she memorized his features. Soames had called him Ned. She promised herself she would call him by name from now on. And perhaps it was even a blessing that Ned had been chosen rather than Valentine, considering what she planned to do.

Valentine had an uncanny knack of knowing when she was about to spring some plan into action. He might have stopped her out of misguided chivalry. After being locked in her room for so long, the fresh air in her lungs was sweetness itself. She breathed deeply, and wandered the gardens aimlessly, keeping just ahead of Ned so she could pretend that she was actually alone — perhaps even waiting for Valentine to join her for a stroll. A pleasant but useless fantasy.

She was not terribly surprised when her mother and the marquess joined her after only fifteen minutes. If she hadn't had a plan in place, she might have dreaded seeing them. But she not only had a plan, she had a great deal of hope that she would at last convince the marquess that she was unhappily star-crossed — even for a man who had been born with the nine lives of a cat. A quick glance confirmed that there was a bench nearby. Without warning Ned, she veered from the path and headed for it. With an ostentatious sigh of exhaustion, she sat.

It would not do for her mother to insist she walk with Francis. They must be seated for her plan to work. They approached her deliberately, neither hurrying nor dallying. She felt like a mouse being toyed with by a pair of cats. Nervous tension crept into her fingers and toes, and she pushed it back down. Now was not the time for timidity or cowardice.

Carefully she took the bottle full of bees from her skirt and placed it under the bench. It had taken three days to collect the bees at her window. They had come one by one, lured by the honey she set aside from the morning tea Nancy brought her each day. She had been stung only once, thankfully. Gently, she eased out the stopper and dropped it to the ground. She knew the marquis was afraid of bees, or so Nancy had been told by a servant of the marquess's. His one unearthed vulnerable spot, despite Nancy's pointed gossip over the last weeks. She supposed she would not know for certain for another few minutes whether the rumors were accurate and it truly was a weakness of his.

Her mother's voice carried clearly, even when they were still far down the path. "Emily, my dear, what a beautiful day. I am gratified to see you enjoying the outdoors. It does not do the constitution good to wall oneself up in one's room too much."

"Yes, Mother." Emily did not waste her breath reminding her mother that she would have happily spent more time in her garden if only the door to her room were not constantly locked, preventing her from doing so. She forced herself to appear unworried as they approached. Her ears were pricked for any sounds from beneath the bench. Were the bees too loud? Would Granbury be warned ahead of time? She glanced up, but only saw pleased complacence on his face as he smiled down upon her.

His gaze was more avid than she liked. "Your hair looks like spun gold in the sunlight. Quite delightful. Perhaps I shall have you painted like this, so that I can keep the memory always."

Did she imagine that he licked his lips? "That would be delightful, my lord. I have always wanted my portrait done." Emily tossed her head coyly, to hide the shiver of distaste which traveled up her spine, even as she wondered if either her mother or Francis could hear the rising hum of the bees beneath the bench upon which she sat. Moving deliberately to create a distracting rustle with her skirts, she left half the bench open.

She wondered how uncharacteristic and suspicious Francis might find her invitation for him to sit beside her on the bench. Fortunately, she did not need to extend the offer, he simply took the place as if it were his due. Her mother beamed down upon them and then, with an unusual lack of subtlety claimed a headache and gestured to her maid to see her back inside the house and prepare a remedy.

It was only the thought of what lay under the bench that kept Emily in her seat as Granbury took possession of her hands in his own and said chidingly, "I believe you are avoiding my company, my dear."

"Avoiding your company? But we have been walking each day, we picnicked by the pond only yesterday, I played for you last night after dinner. I cannot see how I deserve such a slanderous accusation, my lord." She kept her voice frosty, and addressed him formally, as any young woman might who was so unjustly accused of neglect.

His eyes seemed to probe deeply into her soul as he stared at her. "You were there in body, perhaps, but I have doubts about mind and heart. Perhaps your thoughts were full of someone else? A young man you used to know? Valentine Fenster, perhaps?"

Emily felt as if she had turned to stone. She must answer, and she must answer in such a way that the marquess gave Valentine no more thought. "We do not say that name in this house, my lord. The man is a bounder."

"Ah, but all young women secretly desire the very men they name bounders, do they not? Do you not?" His smile was not pleasant.

"How dare you!" Emily rose, allowing her indignation to show, hoping to escape this conversation by escaping the garden. Suddenly she did not care if her plan succeeded. Indeed, she was willing to abandon it altogether. But he still held her hands tightly in his own, so her actions were severely hampered and she ended up looking foolish instead of furious.

However, the stir of her skirts had evidently sent the bees into the frenzy she had been waiting for, and suddenly they were everywhere. Francis screamed as one landed on his cheek, and he released her hands so forcefully that she staggered back, not even reacting to the feel of several bee stings upon her outstretched arms. For a few seconds, as the bees buzzed and stung, Emily watched as her formerly controlled and collected fiance danced and screamed and stomped.

He slapped himself so hard she was afraid he might knock himself unconscious, as he threw bees to the ground and then stomped them into paste with his boots. By the time the hapless Ned had gathered his wits enough to understand what was happening, and come to the besieged marquess's aid, Francis was bright red and breathing hard.

She could see that he was very near hysteria. Not that she could blame him. If she had been ambushed by bees, she would have been hysterical herself. Perhaps she should be regretful for what she had done? His face had welts beginning from the stings, and she could imagine that there would be more rising under the collar of his shirt and upon his hands, where he had swatted at the bees in his panic. But somehow she could not feel sorry for him. He had done much worse to others. Suddenly, as he struggled to regain his breath, his eyes fixed upon her. Her breath stopped in shock. She had not schooled her features to hide her own lack of surprise at his display.

Like quicksilver, his demeanor changed rapidly from panic to fury. Though his breathing was still ragged and his face still choleric he grew completely still and pushed away Ned's frantic hands, which were still swatting at the few remaining bees.

She blushed hot all over with fear as his stare mesmerized her. Did he realize she had done this on purpose? If so, what would he do to her? But the fury disappeared as swiftly as it came and he was suddenly calm. If she hadn't seen his panic, heard his screams, she would not have believed he had been beyond control a moment before. He smiled as if nothing had happened and said gently. "I'm sorry for losing my composure, my dear. I am not overly fond of bees."

She tried to recapture the moment of fear. "Now do you see? I am truly star-crossed, my lord. No one who comes near me is safe!" Emily struggled to hide her disappointment that he was regaining control so easily. She had hoped he would be distraught enough to take her suggestion of a curse seriously enough to break the engagement.

"Or the garden is so beautiful it calls to the bees, my dear. Do not be superstitious." The man seemed to have pulled himself back from the edge of hysteria without considerable effort.

Emily was speechless. This had not worked at all the way she had envisioned. At the very least she had hoped he would cut short his visit and head back home to recover and perhaps reconsider, so that she could think of how to escape without his watchful eye always upon her. As he kept his gaze fixed upon her, she forced herself not to fidget. Instead, she said simply, "You are stung." He drew near and pulled her hands into his again. Lifting her fingers to his face, he brushed the backs of her knuckles against his own growing welts. It had to have hurt, but there was something like pleasure in his half-closed eyes. "So are you, my poor little Emily." And he bent to press kisses on each of the welts developing on her outstretched arms.

Even from a hundred yards away it was clear that Granbury's face was swollen where the bees had stung him. Valentine had to school his face to the traditional footman's impassivity as Ned, the footman who had been out in the garden with Emily, came rushing ahead of the others into the house. His voice was high pitched and on the verge of frantic as he called urgently for Emily's maid and Granbury's man.

But Ned was considerably more discomposed than Granbury himself. The marquess had at least five large welts on his cheeks and chin, and even one on the bridge of his nose. Large, red, rapidly swelling welts, which had to be painful. And yet the man was showing no signs of discomfort. Indeed, he seemed more concerned for Emily than for himself. Had she been stung more seriously than he had?

Valentine watched them both anxiously as Granbury carefully led Emily into the house, showing all solicitous care for her. It was only Emily's pale face and shaking hands which told Valentine that she was not feeling comforted by the marquess's attentions. He could not be sure what had happened, but the way that Emily stared at the marquess reminded him of his youngest sister Kate. She had the frightened look of a high-spirited child when she was very afraid she would soon be punished for some transgression or other that had yet to be discovered.

He suppressed an urge to groan when he saw her arms. She had been stung. His instinct was to brush the marquess aside and personally take care of the red welts the bees had left upon her. The sight of that murderer's hands upon Emily tested his composure most thoroughly, and he could feel it failing. Fortunately, Nan pushed past him and took over Emily's care before he could expose himself — as well as Nan and Emily — to discovery. The maid was as pale as Emily herself, and her hands were shaking where they touched her mistress's injuries.

"My lady, what has happened?" Nan managed to insinuate herself between the marquess and Emily, which brought a frown to the man's face.

He lifted a hand and would have pushed her roughly away, but just at that moment, his own manservant arrived and began tutting at the sight of his master's face. "Bee balm, and bark poultice. I'll have some made up directly."

The countess, drawn by the disturbance, appeared to be more upset than the marquess. "What has happened to you?"

"Courting your daughter has a bit more sting to it than I expected." Granbury's words were soft and pleasant, but his expression was intense as he fixed his gaze upon Emily.

"What have you done?" The countess turned her fury upon her daughter.

"Nothing, Mother." But Emily's expression was transparent with guilt and Valentine felt himself tense.

"It is nothing I cannot deal with," Granbury said. His expression held a momentary ripple of irritation as he was forced to take his gaze from Emily to address the countess and calm her concerns.

Nan took advantage of the man's interruption to whisk her mistress up the stairs and away from the marquess. Valentine forced himself not to bristle as Granbury, staring intently at Emily's fleeing figure, made as if to follow. There was an expression of focused emotion on his features. Concern? Anger? Dismay?