The Star-Crossed Bride (12 page)

Struggling against his own impulse to interfere, Valentine didn't relax until, again, Granbury's man stopped his master with a light hand on his arm. The valet, apparently knowing where to find the vulnerable areas of the marquess's pride, said quietly, "My lord, your face will puff like a pastry if we do not treat it immediately."

Valentine felt himself let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding as the marquess allowed his man to lead him to his own room. He was shocked at how barely his temper was held in check. He had come so close to exposing himself, and leaving Emily open to an unknown retribution from her mother. Not to mention the trouble she would cause for his sisters. He stood for a moment, regathering his wits and his patience.

Where was his common sense? Perhaps he should leave the household for now? Just turn and walk away while everyone was still in an upset over the latest incident. For several seconds, he gave the option his most serious consideration. As a footman, no one would stop him. He would not have to return to his true identity until he was well away and no longer in any fear of discovery.

And he did no one any service by bringing the countess's wrath down upon their heads because he could not control his own emotions. He struggled to calm the rapid beating of his heart. If he left, if he tried to find the duke, perhaps he could do more good than he was doing here, unable to talk to Emily, unable to protect her even while he stood a handsbreadth away.

An unwelcome thought came to him. He remembered Emily's near terror as she stood in the hallway, the marquess's hands upon hers. Did that guilty look mean more than she had been caught in some unexpected mischief? Had this been some benighted scheme of hers? Had she actually planned this? If so, he could not dare leave her here alone. There would be no telling what she might choose to do next. The decision whirled unmade in his mind. Should he go, or should he stay? It was time, he decided, no matter how risky, to see Emily again.

He would tell Nan that it must be arranged immediately. Tonight. He must make it clear to her that the marquess was not a man to challenge on a whim. Perhaps, he thought, remembering how close he had just come to exposing his true identity, they both needed to be reminded of the dangers they courted trying to thwart the marquess of Granbury.

Once he had talked to her, he was certain he would know whether he should leave the castle and find the duke.

* * * * *

The maids fussed over her as if she were still the darling and pampered only child of an earl. Nancy clucked her tongue and wiggled her brows, but she said nothing, too aware of the other ears that might overhear. Emily waited for her mother to sweep in, demanding to know what had happened. But the countess did not come, which was even more worrying. Herer mother was not about to overlook this insult to her favored guest.

Could she convince her mother that she had not planned it. Bees were not known for their sweet nature, after all. And there was no shortage of bees in a garden. Perhaps her expression had not contained the guilt she felt? Or perhaps her mother had not seen it there, since she had been focused on the marquess and his injuries. She thought of her mother and shook her head. Probably not. The countess knew her devious qualities just a little too well. Even if she had not actually caused the crisis, her mother would have blamed her anyway. Her favorite accusation had always been that Emily was a scapegrace.

The maids left. She heard the key turned loudly in the lock, an audible reminder to Emily that she was trapped. "I am star-crossed," she muttered to herself in frustration. "Why doesn't Lord Granbury see it?" Did others see it? Perhaps that was the reason Valentine no longer loved her? She had ruined his chances for an heiress bride, after all. No. He could have found an heiress if he chose. If anything, his guilt would make him the culprit for her misfortune in his own mind.

For a moment in the hallway she had believed he would reveal himself. She hoped no one else had noticed the footman who lost his impassive facade. She had seen it in his eyes then. He loved her. And he had almost given his disguise away. If Soames had noticed — but she supposed, given poor Ned's completely distraught demeanor, Valentine's slight lapse would not cause a stir.

Would he find a way to see her? She hoped so. They needed to talk. He loved her still. She loved him. It was time to clear the air between them, once and for all. She didn't care that he was only a viscount, or that he had no fortune. He must believe her.

Wondering if Nan would bring Valentine, Emily waited silently in her room, laid out like a Christmas roast. The poultices that Nancy had prepared to soothe her wounds covered her until she felt she would melt with the heat. Though her mind was working wildly to deduce what consequences her actions would ultimately bring down upon her own head, she was unable to imagine what dire punishment her mother would inflict for this last folly. Would she beat her? Would she starve her? Or would she make her spend even more time with Lord Granbury?

Emily had to think she would prefer the beating. It, after all, would be the quickest done and over. Or maybe, with the wedding nearing, her mother would simply ignore the incident once she was no longer angry. There was no direct proof, at least. Which meant she could protest her innocence, whether she was ultimately believed or not.

Fortunately Nancy had retrieved the container the bees had been trapped in, so that evidence was not there for her mother to use against her. She had hesitated to trust the servant with the information about the bottle, but she needed to tell someone and Valentine was locked away from her just the same as if he were miles away in London. So she whispered to Nancy and the girl had sneaked out before gathering up the poultices.

The bottle was now safely returned to the dressing table. She looked over at it, sitting among the other bottles so innocently. She shivered, thinking of what the marquess would do if he knew she had provoked those bees to attack him. Still, it was clear that he suspected she had somehow managed to make the bees attack him. He had pretended to solicitousness for her own bee stings. Yet, there had been no kindness in his gestures. Even the kisses to her welts had been painful and full of subtle menace.

One of the poultices slipped from her arm, and she reached to replace it, but her arm was too heavy to lift. She stared at it in puzzlement, willing it to move and replace the poultice, but, except for a slight wiggling of her fingers, nothing happened. For a few moments she could not understand why she should be so tired. She had been stung more seriously than this when she was a child and she did not remember feeling this paralyzed.

At last, with a buzz of horror in her brain, she realized her mother had managed to drug her. But how? Letty had not brought up one of those noxious possets . . . Of course, she had been so upset she hadn't thought twice about the tea Nancy had brought up to calm her. Frantically she tried to move, but nothing happened.

Had Nancy known? Was the girl secretly helping the countess? The implications of such a possibility raced through her mind, though her body was relaxed to the point of torpor. Nancy knew about Valentine. The maid knew that he was a footman here, she had helped him get the job, had participated in the deception. Would she dare to tell the countess and risk her own dismissal? Was Valentine's identity in danger of being revealed?

Emily tried yet again to rise, but the influence of the laudanum dulled her panic and made her limbs heavy. And soon even worrying seemed too much effort, as she slipped deeper into the twilight of drug induced sleep.

* * * * *

The marquess was not in his room. Valentine had taken the opportunity to check, as he had every night he had been in the house and Emily vulnerable. Where could the man be? Anyone else who had suffered a bee attack would have been soundly sleeping. So where was the marquess? The answer caused a curl of dread in the pit of his stomach.

The household had been subdued since this afternoon's incident. The countess had supped alone, and the kitchen had sent up trays for the marquess and, he presumed, for Emily. The staff had instinctively gone about their duties as if there had been a death in the house and all duties were completed earlier than usual.

Valentine had waited impatiently in his cot for Nan to come and take him to Emily. By now Nan should have scratched at his door, to let him know it was safe. Instead, he found himself prowling the halls, looking for Nan, for the marquess, for a way to get into Emily's room. There was no help for it, if Nan had been delayed by mishap or deliberate malice. He could no longer wait for her to bring him the keys. He would have to risk checking on Emily himself. If anyone questioned him, he would simply claim to have been sent by Soames to investigate a broken window.

If needed, he could break it himself beforehand, just to make certain he would not draw any extra attention to himself. He gave himself a stern warning to be on his guard. It would not do to become complacent simply because his disguise had worked well up to this point. He would check upstairs just to ease his mind. Surely an ear to Emily's door would reveal whether his worst fears had come to pass, or whether he was letting his frustrated imagination run away with him.

Even as he had the thought, a woman began to scream. The sound, magnified by his growing sense of unease, galvanized him, and he set out at a run. He was all the way to Emily's door before he realized the identity of the person who was screaming — the countess.

* * * * *

She woke to the sound of screams. The sound pierced her ears as well as the drugged fog of her mind. When she opened her eyes she could see very little. A dim light from the doorway, a candle. Her mother. It was her mother screaming. How odd. She struggled to make sense of what she was seeing and hearing. She had never known her mother to scream before, not even when a mouse had climbed up her skirts at the Denby's ball. She'd gotten a bit red in the face and had lost her train of thought for an instant, but that was all.

Emily tried to rise from the bed, to go to her mother, but she could not move. At first she thought it was the laudanum, but then she realized that something heavy lay half over her. With a struggle she pushed it off and sat up. She had on her nightgown. When had she changed? Last she remembered she was fully dressed as she had been when she went out into the garden, except that Nancy had removed her boots, of course.

Her mother stopped screaming, thank goodness. Now she was only moaning. Her moan was in the form of Emily's name, said over and over again. The sound echoed in Emily's head until she could not only hear it, but feel it. There were servants now, behind her mother in the hall. Some were peering over her mother's shoulders, others whispering questions: "What's 'appened?" "Someone kil't?"

Emily saw Valentine peering over her mother's shoulder. She saw his stricken face, and then suddenly her mother stopped moaning.

* * * * *

Already a small group of servants crowded around the open doorway, at the countess's back. But Valentine was tall enough to see over them and into the room. Emily in her nightgown. And next to her the marquess, also in his nightwear.

Emily's eyes focused on him, and she looked puzzled and disoriented. The bewildered, pain-filled look in her eyes was familiar to him from his recent accidental dose of laudanum. She had been drugged. While she lay insensible, someone had unlocked her door and allowed the marquess to enter and climb into her bed. And Valentine had not been able to protect her. It was only the awareness that he would not get away with her safely that prevented him from breaking through the knot of servants and carrying Emily out of the room and away from the marquess forever.

"Nancy, Letty, come with me. The rest of you, go to your beds and forget this disgraceful sight." The countess sounded more like herself now that she was no longer screaming. She was full of command and confidence. He stood rooted to the spot.

The door closed, breaking his contact with Emily. Was she hurt? Had Granbury done more than climb into bed with her? If he had, his life was forfeit.

He noticed Soames watching him closely and he began to walk down the stairs with the others. He ignored the buzzing of the servant's ill-informed but imaginative gossip. Each step away from Emily was torture. But what could he do? Emily needed his help. What could he manage tonight that would not land her in deeper danger? Her mother was no ally And now he wondered, thinking of Nan in the room with the countess, Emily and the marquess — was the maid true, or would she betray them?

* * * * *

The door closed on the gaping servants and Emily closed her eyes in relief. But she opened them again at the sound of her mother's harsh sigh. Nancy's eyes were wide with shock. At first Emily thought the maid was looking at her, and she put her hand to her head expecting to see blood, at the very least. Her hand came away unmarked, even as she realized that she felt no pain. She had been drugged, not knocked unconscious. But then she realized that Nancy's eyes were focused on the object she had pushed off herself to get up.

She turned and saw, to her horror, that Lord Granbury, his face still swollen from the bee stings he had suffered this afternoon, lay beside her. His eyes appeared heavy lidded as if he, too, had just been awoken.

Even as she stared stupidly at him, he opened his eyes fully and sat up. He said soothingly to Emily's mother, "Dear countess, please forgive me for disgracing you like this. I regret that you found us here."

"I am deeply disappointed in you — as well as in my daughter. I did not raise her to behave like this, even so close to her wedding."

"The fault, of course, is all mine. I should never have taken advantage of such a sweet, innocent girl."

Emily glared at him, much misliking the emphasis he placed on the word innocent, as if perhaps it might be a word that was not descriptive of her any longer. And then she remembered Valentine's stricken face staring over her mother's shoulder. He must have assumed — Dear Heaven, what had he assumed?