She felt his body clench. Clench, and then release. Again and again and again, until he seemed to collapse bonelessly against her, his warm breath audible next to her ear.
“I will never…leave your side. Never. At last I’m alive…” he whispered, and her tears fell once more as he kissed her hair, her eyelids, even the tip of her nose, before settling once more against her mouth. “Neither of us will ever be alone again.”
* * *
EMMALINE ALLOWED herself to be convinced another black gown she’d always loathed would be extremely fine for the morning, especially since she would have to meet with the vicar at some point, and headed down the stairs to see if John was already at breakfast in the morning room.
He’d proposed to her an hour before dawn, promising her his love and all of his worldly goods. He’d gone down on his knees; he’d held both her hands in his as he looked so deeply into her eyes. Had she said yes before he’d kissed her, before they’d fallen onto the bed once more?
And did it matter? He had to know her answer was yes.
She would still have a personal maid when she was John’s wife, as well as a cook and housekeeper, if not a butler. Her dowry was such as to make them both comfortable, and to support any children that might come of their union.
Children. Emmaline stopped on the bottom stair and smiled into the middle distance. She’d never thought she would have children, and now she wanted a houseful. And she and John would never neglect them, never treat them as if they were a nuisance.
No. They’d live in a lovely thatched cottage, possibly near the sea—John loved the sea—and they would spend their lives quietly, happily. Watching their children grow, together. The two of them growing old, together.
After all, being the daughter of a duke had gained her nothing. She had no qualms about exchanging that role for that of wife and mother.
There was a knock on the door and one of the footmen hastened to open it, stepping back quickly as Helen Daughtry swept (Helen swept better than most anyone else in the world) into the foyer.
“Emmaline!” she called out, already drawing off her black gloves and untying the smallest wisp of a black bonnet that must have cost the earth. And if the bonnet had cost the earth, the black cashmere shawl tipped with ermine and the black mourning gown covered in lace and edged with pearls had cost the remainder of the universe. “I came as soon as I heard. Oh, the horror!” And then her eyelids narrowed. “Has my son been notified? He’s the duke now, you know.”
“Yes, Helen, I know,” Emmaline said, descending the last few stairs and allowing herself to be lightly embraced by her sister-in-law’s scent as the woman pursed her lips and kissed the air about an inch from Emmaline’s ear. “And you are now the dowager duchess.”
Helen Daughtry’s eyes widened in horror. “Dowager? Oh, no. Oh, no, no. I think not! We’ll have to do something about that. But for now,” she said, taking Emmaline’s hand and leading her down the hallway, “I’m famished. Ah, Grayson, there you are.”
“Your Grace,” the butler said, his bow stiff, as if it was restricted by a rusty hinge rather than a spine. “I’ll have someone see to your luggage, and that your usual chamber is prepared.”
“Oh, no, don’t do that. I’m staying only a few miles away with Lord Edmunds—dearest Ferdie—marvelous house party. You weren’t invited, Emmaline? Shame on them! Just because you said your last prayers years ago doesn’t mean you couldn’t be included, at least for the tamer entertainments. At any rate, I heard the news, and knew I must have someone drive me over here for a few hours,” Helen said with a wave of her hand.
“How fortunate you managed to pack that gown,” Emmaline said without inflection.
“Yes, isn’t it, darling? I had to borrow the bonnet, but I wear black quite often in the evening, as it shows off my hair so well. Strange that we’re both blonde, and yet black…well, perhaps a little visit to the paint pots, hmm? At any rate, I’m only here to make certain my son is being installed as he should be…and to lend you my support of course, my dearest Emmaline. So alone in the world now. How difficult it must be to be a spinster. Being a widow is much more fun! Why, only Rafe’s charity will keep a roof over your head now, won’t it? But not to worry—I’m sure he’ll find someplace to put you.”
Grayson and Emmaline exchanged looks as Helen wandered off ahead of them. “As my late brother said, Grayson, the woman has a tongue that runs on wheels, but only rarely engages with her brain box. She means well.”
“As you say, my lady. His…that is, your guest awaits you in the morning room.”
Emmaline hastened down the hallway, realizing that putting Helen within fifty yards of any young, handsome man was akin to setting a plate of sugar cookies within easy reach of a precocious child.
She stopped to take a settling breath, and then turned the corner and entered the morning room, just in time to see John bowing over Helen’s hand.
Her sister-in-law turned to her with a wink and a smile. “Well, now, aren’t you the naughty one? While the cat’s away the mice will dance, hmm? Or did Charlton know about this…houseguest of yours?”
“Captain Alastair was there on the scene, just after the yacht sank, Helen. It is he who brought me the sad news.”
“And then decided to stay for the funerals? How accommodating of you, Captain. I may have to attend the services myself, after all,” Helen said, once more turning her back on Emmaline. “Alastair? John Alastair. Now why is that name so familiar to me, hmm?”
John shot a quick look past Helen, to where Emmaline stood. “John is a fairly common name, Your Grace.”
“Common as dirt, yes. But Alastair? No, I think I…oh, wait! I think I remember now. Not John Alastair. Jonathan Alastair. You’re William’s son. The sailor. How he loathed that you’d put the line in jeopardy, haring about on the high seas and all of that nonsense. Poor William, although Dame Rumor has it that he died quite happily.” Helen sank into a graceful curtsy. “It is so delightful, again, to meet you, Your Grace.”
Emmaline found that she couldn’t breathe.
And Helen, who always noticed such things, noticed. “Emmaline, dearest? Are you quite all right? How could you have forgotten to tell me that the Duke of Warrington is your houseguest? Your Grace, you simply must return to River’s Edge with me, as there is nothing quite so dull and dreary as a house of mourning. So sorry you won’t be able to join us, Emmaline. What with your brother so newly dead and all.”
“Emmaline, I—Emmaline, wait!”
But Emmaline was gone, turning about so quickly she nearly tripped over the hem of her gown before running out of the room.
He caught up with her in the large foyer, before she could mount the stairs and lock herself in her bedchamber, where she would remain for the next hundred years, if possible.
“Grayson,” he said, his eyes on Emmaline, his hand holding tight to her arm, “if you’d be so kind as to keep Her Grace occupied elsewhere.”
“But…but how should I do that, sir?”
“I don’t care if you tie her to a chair. And it wouldn’t depress me if you included a gag. The woman is a feather-witted menace. Go, and everyone else—leave.”
“John, you cannot just go ordering the servants to—and let go of my arm.”
“I was going to tell you, Emmaline, I swear I was. This morning. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you immediately…but it all just seemed…easier if you thought me a more…a more simple man.”
“I thought we’d live in a cottage. And…and raise our children. I thought…I thought I would be your helpmeet, your companion.”
“And how does my being a duke change any of that? Granted, Warrington Hall is not a cottage, but as for the rest of it? Being duke and duchess does not preclude us from being loving parents. From loving each other, staying true to each other. We won’t ever have to go to London at all, if you don’t want to go. Is that it? Have you taken a firm dislike to London, to Society?”
She shook off
his hand. “I’m not a recluse, John. Charlton refused to take me, that’s all. I adore London, at least most of it.”
“Oh, good,” he said, relaxing slightly. “Because I really think we need to go there from time to time. That is, if you can love a duke even half as much as you could love a simple sea captain?”
Emmaline looked down at the floor. “I’m being silly, aren’t I? I saw us as being so simple, our lives so uncomplicated. Being Charlton’s sister was…very complicated.” She turned her gaze on the man she loved. “How did you know I felt that way?”
“I don’t know. I felt that if I told you who I am, about the damned title, then you’d not relax your guard around me, tell me the sorts of things you told me yesterday. About your family, about your life.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have, you’re correct about that. I don’t think I would have worried about how you’d pay for your room at the inn, either.”
“Darling, do you remember when I said we can’t choose who we love, but we can choose who we like?”
“Yes,” she said, allowing him to take her hands in his.
“I knew I loved you the moment I first saw you. That was the easy part. But then I knew I liked you when you showed such concern for my welfare, when you were more worried for me than concerned with the suddenly altered circumstances of your life. Now, am I forgiven?”
“I don’t know,” she said coyly—imagine, a twenty-eight-year-old almost-virgin, being coy! “I really believe I may have had my heart set on a thatched cottage near the sea.”
He slipped his arms more fully around her and brought his mouth down to nearly meet hers. “We’ll work on that…”
EPILOGUE
THERE WERE TWO musty old aunts in the second pew, a quiet and reserved-looking Charlotte Seavers and her father in the third, and only Emmaline and John sitting in the first pew as the vicar looked uncomfortable in the small chapel hung in black crepe but glaringly absent of coffins.
Helen Daughtry had not only sent her regrets, but had forbidden her twin daughters from attending the service. “Much too depressing for the young dears,” she’d insisted, which was, Emmaline knew, another way of saying, “If they’re there, then I have to be there, and I don’t want to be there.”
Last night, while the two of them were in bed together after the rest of the household was asleep, John had proposed a wine toast to Helen’s absence. If it were possible to love him even more, she did, because he was so impervious to Helen’s beauty and wiles.
The quickness of the memorial ceremony and the absence of the trio who would provide raucous entertainment for them had kept Charlton’s friends firmly in London. As for George and Harold, they were the sort who had acquaintances, men to whom they either owed money or were owed money. Not friends.
It was a sad statement about three wasted lives, lives that could have been so rich as well as privileged.
Now Rafael Daughtry was the Duke of Ashurst, even if he was probably still unaware of his new title. His mother would drive Grayson and the other servants to distraction when she was in residence, and Nicole and Lydia would make them happy again, as all the staff adored the twins.
But Emmaline, who had thought she’d never leave Ashurst Hall, would be departing in the next few weeks to become the Duchess of Warrington. It was obscene, unheard of, for a woman in mourning to wed so hastily, but when she and John had realized that neither cared what Society thought, Emmaline had set her maid to bringing down trunks from the attic so that they could begin packing up her belongings.
“We mourn our brothers, Charlton, George, Harold,” Vicar Wooten droned on—he’d been droning on for nearly an hour and even he seemed fatigued. “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes…um, well, not perhaps in this particular case, begging your pardon.”
One of the aunts stifled a giggle and, for some reason she would never understand, that caused Emmaline to shed her very first tears for her brother and nephews.
Not in this case. No, nothing was quite like this case. The deaths had been senseless, unnecessary and much too soon.
She dabbed at her moist eyes with the corner of her handkerchief, knowing her tears now were for what might have been, for the past that could never be changed.
And then John slipped his hand into hers, squeezed it, and she turned to look at this man she loved. Every question she’d ever had, any answer she’d ever sought. They were all there, in his eyes. She smiled through her tears as she saw her future.
* * * * *
Look for Kasey Michaels’ sparkling new novel, WHAT AN EARL WANTS, coming soon from Harlequin HQN!
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ISBN: 9781459244474
Copyright © 2012 by Harlequin Books S.A.
The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows:
A LADY OF EXPECTATIONS
Copyright © 1995 by Stephanie Laurens
THE SECRETS OF A COURTESAN
Copyright © 2009 by Nicola Cornick
HOW TO WOO A SPINSTER
Copyright © 2009 by Kathryn Seidick
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Stephanie Laurens, A Lady of Expectations and Other Stories
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