The Star-Crossed Bride (7 page)

He sighed, wanting to pace, but feeling constrained. The room was a young woman's room and he felt badly out of place, despite living in a household of five sisters for as long as he could remember. He started at every creak of a board, afraid the maids had returned. Emily expected him to remain safely here. But he would not risk the danger to her. There was nothing he would not give for her. The ache to see her again was as familiar as the feel of his heart beating. He paced the room as best he could, stopping only to touch a discarded ribbon that lay on her dressing table. The jade green was a good color for her. If she were his wife he would dress her in it exclusively — if. He dropped the ribbon back onto the lacy table covering and paced to stare out of the window.

He glanced down into the gardens, remembering how Emily had felt in his arms after she loosed her hold on her makeshift rope. The dogs had moved off, their baying no longer even faintly on the air. Perhaps he should go now, before the gamekeeper brought them back to the kennels and they caught his scent? Knowing it was the wise thing, he considered and discarded the idea to leave a note of explanation. There was no telling what curious eyes might find even the most innocuous missive and create trouble for her.

Cautiously, he pressed his ear against the door. There was no sound from the hallway. He eased the door open, thankful for once that the countess was a perfectionist who expected hinges to be oiled and squeak-free. He felt exposed and vulnerable in the hallway as he tried to remember the direction of the hasty run they had made from the kitchens to Emily's room in the dark. He turned down the wrong corridor and corrected himself, turning back just as a door to his left opened, and a maid stepped through the doorway and caught sight of him. She opened her mouth to scream and for one frozen moment he stood there waiting for the shrill sound, wondering how Emily would pay for his mistake.

* * * * *

He wasn't under her bed. Emily rummaged through her armoire, feeling foolish. It was more than obvious he never would have fit in there. She checked once again under the bed, under the mattress. He was gone. She felt unaccountably bereft, considering she had not seen him for three years before yesterday. And considering that he had as much as told her he no longer loved her.

She should not have taken so long trying to convince Granbury that marriage to her would cause him ill-fortune. For all the good her efforts had accomplished, she would have been better served pretending that she herself was dying.

She stopped, considering and then discarding the idea. It was fraught with problems, as her cousin the duke had discovered several years ago when he tried the ploy on his new wife. For one, both Lord Granbury and her mother would take her from doctor to doctor. For another, she did not think herself capable of languishing for any convincing length of time. She smiled, remembering how the duke's wife had confided to her that he had seemed a bit too healthy to her, but she couldn't imagine him lying about such a matter. Neither her mother nor Granbury were as trusting as Miranda, for certain. And though she wished she had the duke's commanding way about her, Emily was positive that she did not. One must have to be born to oversee a dukedom to ever achieve the required level of self-confidence and assurance. She looked around the room, as if she might discover that Valentine had been there all along and she had somehow overlooked him in one of the corners. But finally even her ever-hopeful mind had accepted that he was not to be found here.

Had he been discovered by the maids who had tidied the room? She could not believe those two giddy girls would not have made some fuss at the discovery. She tried to think back. Had she heard anything unusual at all over the sound of Granbury and her mother conversing about polite nothings? A shriek would have been loud, surely loud enough to have disrupted her time downstairs with Francis?

She tossed away the napkin full of sandwiches that she had sneaked upstairs with her. Had he simply gotten too hungry to wait and gone for something to eat? Or had he come to his senses and abandoned her? For a moment she felt helpless with despair. The key had turned loudly in the lock as soon as she was safely in her room. She had no doubt that she was locked in as securely as ever. And though the maids had tidied the room they had not replaced her sheets‚ no doubt upon her mother's instructions.

The key ring. Had the chamber maids found it when they tidied? She struggled to remember what had happened to the ring of keys in the confusion of the morning. Valentine had held them, meaning to return them to their place. No doubt he had still held them when he dove under the bed. The question was, would he have left them for her, or taken them with him? It didn't help that she wasn't sure whether he had gone willingly, or whether he had been discovered and taken by force. Perhaps if she found the keys, she could sneak downstairs and find out for herself, instead of waiting for the gossip to reach her ears — if it ever did.

With a new sense of hope, she searched under her pillows, under the bed, under the mattress. Unfortunately, the set of keys was nowhere to be found. Perhaps that was a sign that Valentine had not been discovered by the servants and had made good his escape. Otherwise he would have left the keys safely here . . . if he had been discovered here. He could always have been seen as he made his way down to the kitchen ...

Not knowing what had happened to him was unbearable. She buried her face in the pillow that had cushioned Valentine's head just a few hours before. His scent was still there; she had not imagined last night. She had not. She began to sigh once more and stopped herself. This was no time to play the languishing maiden. Where was he? Had he gone for good, or was he planning to sneak back in to see her? Half of her hoped that he did, while the more sensible half hoped that he had gotten safely away and was waiting for word from the duke.

Blast the man for not leaving her a note! But even as she had the thought, she knew he never would have left something behind to lead her mother to suspect Emily's own complicity in Valentine's infiltration of the household. So what was she to do now?

Her mother had told her to nap, so that her night's escapade did not put unwanted lines upon her face .... As if a few lines would discourage the supremely self-confident Lord Granbury — if she even thought it possible, she would scowl until she was as wrinkled as her mother's favorite pug dog, Daffodil. But sleep was not possible until she knew where Valentine was. Until she knew if he would be able to help her avoid marriage to the marquis of Granbury. And if she could win back Valentine's heart.

Quietly she contemplated her options, which seemed to be shrinking by the minute. How could she convince Granbury that she was not the wife for him? And Valentine that she was? In an hour or two Nancy would be here to dress her for dinner. Dare she ask the girl if there had been a stranger found either in the house or on the grounds? It was a risk, probably too large a risk. Nancy had always seemed a sensible girl, but she was the countess's servant, not Emily's own, and that was a lesson Emily had learned early on. How could she question Nancy without revealing herself — worse, if he hadn't yet been discovered, Valentine's presence in the household?

She was to have a bath and wear a new gown. Perhaps while she bathed, she could toss a question out? Nancy would be occupied with laying out her gown and petticoats, and might be distracted enough not to think too hard about what Emily was asking. And if Nancy knew nothing? To bring up the conversation — even obliquely — at dinner would result in more trouble than it was worth. Her mother had made it clear that she was not to broach the issue of her unfortunate past again. And Valentine was most definitely part of that unspeakable past. What punishment her mother would choose to inflict had been left vague enough to make her uneasy.

Obviously, the countess was concerned that Francis would be swayed by her words, enough to call off the engagement, but Emily couldn't understand why. He had been utterly impervious to the suggestion that he might be in danger of succumbing to the curse that dogged her. He had, perversely, considered it a challenge to be met and mastered. She shuddered. No doubt he thought the same of her. She simply could not marry him.

Having discovered no solution to her dilemma in the hours of quiet contemplation, Emily gave herself up to the ministrations of her maids as they made her ready for dinner with Francis. She asked a few idle questions about the household, but frustratingly she learned nothing of whether Valentine had been captured. Instead, she felt as though she was being readied as a human sacrifice — a sacrifice to the god of the marquess of Granbury to be specific. Every wrinkle in the gown must be smoothed — the gown had gone out three separate times to the ironing room, with much sighing and tsking on the maid's part. Her hair; of course, must be curled into glossy ringlets that looked more like strawberry blond silk than hair and adorned with feathers that scratched at her scalp. And the jewelry was to be an emerald necklace that came from the marquess' family vaults.

Adding to Emily's feeling of being a sacrificial victim were the glances that Nancy sent her occasionally. The girl seemed almost frightened to look at her directly. Her eyes focused on nothing whenever her gaze neared Emily's face. Her terrified manner unsettled Emily even more, as though Nancy knew that Emily was marching downstairs to her death rather than to dinner. Once, when in the hectic pace of work the maid dropped one of the pretty bottles on the dressing table and it broke, she burst into tears.

"Don't worry, Nancy it was an accident," Emily said quickly, but the maid still took several minutes to compose herself. And then, in a fit of nerves she had never displayed before, she gave a wrench to Emily's hair when the countess's maid arrived. Fortunately the countess's maid did not witness this dereliction of duty, as Nancy and Emily returned themselves to more serene countenances in the time it took her to unlock the room and release Emily from her prison — for just the time it took to convince Granbury that she was no longer an unwilling bride. Though, as she went unhappily down the stairs, Emily secretly wondered if he might actually prefer her unwilling. He seemed to enjoy a challenge more than anyone else she had ever met. And unwittingly, she had set him one.

Dinner itself was difficult. She sat through the courses, touching very little, making polite conversation about the wedding trip she and Francis were scheduled to take to Italy. She found herself miserably wondering if Italy would sound more appealing if she were to go there with Valentine.

Granbury, for his part, smiled at her as if he had not held her chin in his hand and threatened her this very morning. "You will like the country, I am certain, Emily. I have always found it an interesting place to visit — especially Rome, which is, after all, the cradle of civilization?

"I thought that was Greece, my lord," Emily murmured in reply.

"Emily, I have no doubt Lord Granbury's education was much more thorough than yours," her mother scolded her. "Apologize for questioning him at once."

Emily could not bring herself to utter an apology for her statement. Instead she said blandly, "What does it matter? I very much want to see Rome, whether or not it is the cradle of civilization, Mother." But not with Lord Granbury, she thought. So that she would not be required to keep the conversation alive, she asked politely about his experiences there in the past.

He answered with enthusiasm, reminding her uncomfortably of her governess, who had enjoyed the lessons she taught much more than her students. Although the woman had known enough to teach Emily that Greece was the cradle of civilization. Tactfully she kept that fact to herself. But for the most part it was her mother who kept the conversation going with her own observations of Italy, her land and her people. Apparently her mother found the place dirty and foreign — her worst epithet, meaning not managed at all the way the countess would have done. There was a new footman, too, who stood much too close when he served her.

Toward the end of dinner, when her mother and Granbury were engaged in a lively discussion of whether Italians or Germans were the more barbaric race, the footman came unbidden to her side and offered her a second helping. As she still had most of her first portion on her plate, she waved him away. In flagrant indifference to her signal, he did not retreat. Instead, a tiny white square fluttered in the corner of her eye and dropped onto her lap.

Puzzled, she gazed down. It was a tightly folded note. Was it from Valentine? How had the footman gotten it? With a quick glance at her mother to ensure she had Granbury's complete attention, Emily unfolded the note and read — I will come to you tonight. Eat more, you must keep up your strength."

Surprised, she glanced up and nearly fainted. Valentine stood next to her, barely recognizable as himself dressed as he was in the livery of a footman.

Valentine found that he had been holding his breath as he watched Emily's face. It was the last test to determine whether his disguise would hold.

Her eyes had widened in surprise as she read the note. Then she looked up to meet his gaze. He had known she would be somewhat shocked, but her face had gone white. For a moment he had been certain that she was about to stand and reveal him by her inadvertent reaction to him. But, after an instant, she looked back down at the note in her hand, crumpled it up into a tiny ball, and dropped it into a puddle of lemon sauce on her plate. More amazingly, from his perspective standing there on the edge of being exposed, she did it all cleverly under cover of delicately wiping her mouth with her napkin. A quick flick of her fork ensured the paper now looked like no more than a lump of pastry. It was an awesome act of self-control.

He began to understand, at last, what life had been like for her with the countess as mother. She could be impulsive, but she had also learned that there were times when she must control her impulses. He did not like to think of what unpleasantness must be buried in her childhood. Perhaps it had been sheer desperation, and not love, which had made her so willing to elope with him? His heart rejected the idea immediately.