The Heir and the Spare (11 page)

“What are you two girls twittering about?” Lady Palmerston inquired.

“We were just discussing, um . . .”

“Embroidery,” Annabelle supplied hastily.

“Bah! My niece hates it. If you were discussing that, there would be tears in her eyes. And mine as well.”

“Embroidery is a perfect pastime for a young lady,” Lady Stillmore observed.

“Lady Stillmore, you’ve never picked up a needle and thread in your life,” Lady Palmerston retorted.

“That is utterly beside the point,” she replied.

The men returned then, and it being the first evening of the house party, it was agreed upon that there should be music and dancing. One of the guests agreed to play, providing the music. Phillip asked Emilia for the first dance.

“I heard that there are ruins of an old castle on the estate,” she said once she was in his arms. Perhaps she was getting accustomed to him now, since she could actually manage to speak easily to him.

“Yes, they are a bit of a walk from here,” he replied.

“Do you go often?”

“No. I haven’t been there since I was a child.”

“Was it frightening to do so all alone?”

“I was with my brother, actually.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother. Neither you nor anyone else has mentioned him.” This was good, she thought. She was learning more about him.

“He is no longer with us,” Phillip replied.

“I’m so sorry,” Emilia whispered. “I had always wanted a sibling. To have lost your brother must be quite distressing.”

“Quite,” Phillip said, looking away. He clearly did not want to discuss it further, and she was starting to get the distinct impression that at the moment he would rather be anywhere else than waltzing with her. And then, as usual, she tripped over his boots and fell against his chest.

“I’m sorry. I’m a bit clumsy,” she said.

“Yes, you really ought to work on that,” he said. She stared up at his smooth, pale skin stretched over those exquisite cheekbones, that mouth, those brown eyes looking down at her. Suddenly he did not seem so handsome to her. “Only for your own safety,” he said, slightly flustered, as if he realized how horrid he had sounded. “I say that only out of concern for you, because I . . . I care about you.” His voice sounded mechanical.

Hmmph,
Emilia thought to herself. She did not know how to interpret that.

After that, Lord Knightly asked her to dance. Dejected, she refused, saying she was a wretched dancer.

“That shall make our dance all the more exciting, then,” he said, offering his hand.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said, smiling.

“You aren’t a wretched dancer,” Knightly said after a moment.

“
Shhh.
I am counting the steps in my head,” she said, and, losing her concentration, stepped on his boot. She offered him a sheepish smile.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve experienced far worse, as I have three sisters and was forced to be their dance partner during their lessons.”

“Three sisters! That must have been so much fun. I am an only child, and always wished for sisters.”

“I would never wish three sisters upon anyone,” he said, though it was clear as day that he loved them and would do anything for them.

“Lord Huntley was just telling me that he had lost his brother,” she said.

“Did he?” Knightly asked, with far more interest than she thought the comment warranted.

“Yes. He said it was very unfortunate.”

“Of course he did,” Knightly murmured, looking over at Phillip with narrowed eyes. “Miss Highhart—” he started.

“Yes?” she asked, as the song was concluding.

“You are an excellent dancer when you don’t think too much about it.”

“Thank you, Lord Knightly. Or perhaps it’s not me, but my dancing partner.”

Emilia sat out the next dance with her aunt and Lady Stillmore, half listening to their gossip, but mostly watching Annabelle and her fiancé. Her friend seemed completely and utterly happy. And the way he gazed down at her as they whirled around in each other’s arms was enough to nearly make her own knees weak. Emilia wasn’t really jealous, though she may have experienced a pang; it seemed impossible to wish anything but the very best for a girl like Annabelle. But Phillip had been courting her for weeks now, and save for a moment here and there, he never looked at her with anything even remotely resembling desire.

And not only that, she thought, crossing her arms over her chest and getting angry, he didn’t approve of females reading. Many men held the same opinion, but to think she, who loved it so much, fancied herself in love with a man who believed it damaged their brains.

And yes, she was often clumsy, and she really ought to work on that, if only for her own safety. But to mention it so condescendingly! Surely, it was ungentlemanly to say such a thing.

Why couldn’t she have fallen half in love with Lord Knightly? Or Roxbury, even?

“Emilia, dear, we do not scowl in public,” Lady Palmerston said, cutting into her thoughts.

“Unless, of course, it is to chastise a gentleman when he behaves inappropriately,” Lady Stillmore added.

“Naturally,” her aunt continued. “Perhaps, Emilia, you would like to scowl in the privacy of the ladies’ retiring room.”

“I think I would. In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I think I should like to retire for the evening.”

She walked briskly into the great hall, finding the paneled mahogany walls overbearingly masculine. She had tried to rationalize his behavior and had come up empty. Perhaps he did care for her, and perhaps he liked her in spite of her supposed flaws. Perhaps he did not. Emilia was quite certain she was beyond caring.

Love at first sight was a curse, of that she was now certain. One surrendered into the moment just once, and then spent the subsequent months trying to rationalize oneself out of the turmoil of the heart. It was humiliating to have fallen in love with someone who most likely did not return the sentiment. Someone who did not share the same interests and who disapproved of hers. Who disapproved of the very things that made her who she was. It was tantamount to disapproving of her. Why, then, was he courting her so? Perhaps he was nothing more than a fortune-hunting scoundrel. Perhaps she, blinded by love, had not seen it sooner.

The stairs were just ahead, but Emilia also noticed the library on her left. The door was open. There was a fire going, and, after peeking in, Emilia saw the room was empty. She went inside, intending to select a book and take it to her room.

Her fingers traced along the leather spines, collections of histories, an entire shelf of agriculture treatises, books on hunting and fishing, and the collected works of Shakespeare. She pulled a volume of sonnets off the shelf and cracked it open, obviously the first time anyone had ever done so. She inhaled the scent of the book: of paper and promise and dust. She thought that she wasn’t very tired after all, and she did not fancy the idea of lying alone in her room angry and unable to sleep. She put the book of poems back on the shelf, for she did not wish to read about love at the moment, selected another volume at random, and curled up on a chair beside the fire.

Devon had traveled to London that morning. He spent the better part of his day at the docks inspecting one of his ships that had arrived the previous day. After a quick lunch at a tavern, he went to call on Harold’s daughter.

A stone-faced butler opened the door and stood in silence, waiting for Devon to speak.

“I’m here to see Miss Highhart. Her father requested I call on her.” He thought he saw the corners of the butler’s mouth twitch. So he had cracked the butler’s reserve! And yet, what was so amusing about that?

“She is not at home at the moment,” the butler answered briskly.

“Is she really not at home, or is she hiding in a drawing room somewhere?” Devon asked with irritation. It was one thing to call on her out of a favor to her father; it was another thing to do so repeatedly. He did not care for the prospect of organizing his schedule to make the time to return for a tepid cup of tea, when in all likelihood, the girl was just fine.

“My lord,” the butler said with an air of complete superiority, “Miss Highhart is at
your
country estate, Cliveden. As is the lady of the house, Dowager Viscountess Palmerston,” he finished haughtily.

Devon started to laugh; the butler thought he was Phillip. And here he was not even attempting to pass himself off as his twin. Then it dawned on him. Damn. Phillip was entertaining Harold’s daughter at Cliveden, a place full of infinite opportunities to shut the door, take what you want, and get rid of the girl. The last thing Devon wanted to do was to inform some chit’s father that she had been ruined and abandoned; never mind that Harold was his boss, and that the ruiner in question was his twin. This situation was not good. For anyone. Devon could see his career in shambles if Harold decided to fire him. And then what would he do? And if that happened . . . It didn’t bear thinking about. Because it would not happen.

Devon thanked the butler and left.

He hadn’t checked into his hotel yet, so he told his driver they would be returning to Cliveden. It wasn’t entirely out of a sense of moral duty that he was returning. But his motives weren’t purely selfish, either. And Phillip . . . he had to be stopped once and for all. Or at the very least, if he was going to ruin lives, it would not be Devon’s.

Leaving London was a two-hour nightmare. A carriage carrying chickens had overturned, and the road was overrun by hysterical birds and shouting Londoners. In the midst of the ruckus, he wondered what had become of his nice, ordered life. The one where he went to his office each morning, gave orders that people followed without question, and then he went home to have a drink and relax. Where people knew who he was. It was certainly not this life—where he tried to please a senile old man, save an estate from ruin simply out of duty, and rescue complete strangers from his scoundrel of a twin.

As luck would have it (or not) the carriage wheel broke two miles from the Maidenhead Inn. Rather than wait by the side of the road attempting to flag down a rare passing carriage, Devon left his driver with the vehicle and walked the distance. After some negotiations and a large sum of money, someone was sent to repair the carriage and Devon had procured a horse to ride the rest of the way.

And so he galloped through the moonlit night at a furious pace. Upon his return, he would speak with his brother, privately, so any argument or fight would not be fodder for the amusement of the guests. He would ascertain that Miss Highhart had not been ruined. And then he would retire to his chamber and have a hot bath.

Devon pulled his horse to a sudden stop as the house came into view. Though the hour was now late, the house was brightly lit. Urging his horse to continue at a walk, they came closer, and Devon could see couples dancing as he caught the strains of a melody from the pianoforte. He was shocked the old thing was in tune. The laugh of a young girl trickled through the open windows. The house was alive in a way he hadn’t seen since he was a child. His father used to host gatherings at Cliveden, but his sons had always been banished to the nursery the entire time.

It was an odd and new, and not altogether unpleasant sensation to come home at the end of a hellish day to a full, bright house, complete with a girl’s laughter. Not like the sparse lodgings he kept in Philadelphia, or the couch in his office where he often spent the night.

Shaking those thoughts out of his head, he walked the horse to the stables, and then returned to the house. He entered through the library doors because they were closer and he was exhausted, and needed to save whatever strength he had left to deal with Phillip.

He closed the doors softly behind him, and paused for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light. There was a fire roaring, and a girl in a chair beside it. It was not just any girl, but the one with the lush red hair, in which the flames brought out glints of gold. She was bent over a presumably enthralling book, since she didn’t seem to notice his entrance.

She must be one of the guests, obviously. He stood there for a moment, grinning to himself and wondering at his good fortune to return from a hellish day to find her here, as if waiting for him. He gazed at her for a moment, drinking in the sight of her, before asking, “What are you reading?”

Her head snapped up, and when she saw him, she scowled. It was adorable, the way her nose scrunched and her eyes narrowed. It was mildly appalling that his feelings suddenly felt injured because a mere slip of a girl had scowled at him. No other woman had ever treated him to such an expression.

“I can’t imagine you would care what I am reading,” she said in an American accent. Had he noticed that before? Or had he become so used to hearing it that such a thing didn’t even register in his brain anymore?

Devon tried vainly to identify and catalogue the swelter of thoughts and emotions pounding through him. She had scowled at him, for Lord’s sake, and it made something clench around his heart. But then he recalled that she didn’t know he wasn’t Phillip, and that the scowl was probably directed at his brother.

His brother, Phillip. Who was hosting a house party, which his partner’s daughter was attending. His American partner’s
American
daughter. Oh, it was all coming together now. Everything was adding up, and he couldn’t ignore the obvious answer.

It was incredibly annoying, Emilia thought, to have Phillip stare at her while she was trying to read. He was probably waiting for her brain to malfunction, so he could say, “I told you that would happen. You needn’t a brain anyway, I shall think for us both!” Well, perhaps that was overdramatic and cruel, but he was still staring at her, and between his gaze and the flames in the fireplace, she was starting to feel very hot and uncomfortable. She slammed the book shut.