The Heir and the Spare (2 page)

With a thud, she fell into something hard. And then the dizziness ceased and she felt steady again.

“You’re safe. Open your eyes,” a low voice commanded. A voice so at ease at giving commands that she, who hated being told what to do, opened her eyes at once.

His eyes were right there. Deep, dark brown eyes. He was right there. One of his arms was wrapped firmly around her waist, and the length of her body was pressed up against his. He had caught her. Saved her, even. She released the breath she had been holding and took another. Her heart began to pound in her chest, and delicious warmth stole over her.

“Are you all right?” he asked. She could feel the vibrations of his voice through his chest, as he was still holding her close, though it was definitely unnecessary at this point. She made no effort to move. Neither did he.

She opened her mouth, and by the grace of God, words came out. “I’m fine, thank you. Perfect, actually,” she replied. And when she realized those words were the sterling truth, because she hadn’t fallen, and because she had been caught, for once, and by such a handsome man, she laughed. “Just perfect,” she repeated. “Thank you.”

“Shall I escort you the rest of the way?” he offered courteously.

“I will certainly be able to make it to the bottom of the stairs by myself, thank you. Whether I am able to do so without causing myself bodily harm is another matter entirely.”

He smiled at that. “In light of such risk, it would be remiss of me not to assist you,” he said. He then released his hold on her and instead offered his arm. She accepted, and together they elegantly descended the stairs. All the while she was stealing glances at his profile and wondering what would happen once they reached the bottom, for surely it couldn’t all end there. It just couldn’t.

It did.

He bowed politely and vanished, leaving Emilia alone with her aunt.

“Well, my dear, you certainly made a spectacular entrance into society,” Lady Palmerston said, with a hint of humor in her voice. “Are you all right?”

“Who was that?” Emilia asked, watching as that mysterious man walked away. Already she wanted to see him again. Or simply be near him again.

“Hmmph. That was Phillip Kensington, Marquis Huntley, heir to the dukedom of Buckingham, and the biggest rake and scoundrel this town has ever seen. You’d do well to stay far away from him. It will be a wonder if your reputation isn’t frayed already. Now let’s go introduce you to the rest of society.”

They had not taken more than two steps before the young men swarmed. Emilia had arrived from America a few weeks ago and had not met anyone other than a few close friends of her aunt. But apparently word had gotten out. Perhaps they were genuinely interested in her, or perhaps it was the novelty of an American, or perhaps rumors of her fortune had been circulating. Within a few minutes, Emilia’s dance card was full for the evening, and she embarked on her first waltz.

Lord Wiltshire was not an unattractive man, but he just could not compare with the image of that impossibly handsome man from the stairs still reverberating in her mind. Lord Wiltshire asked her polite questions about where she was from in America and how she was enjoying England thus far, but he couldn’t quite command her attention. Instead, she looked around for her mysterious guardian angel, just in case he miraculously reappeared.

Lord Wiltshire did not exactly excel at dancing, which ordinarily was no great flaw. But Emilia was atrocious at dancing, even when she was concentrating on her steps. Presently, she was not. She was wondering how life could go from plain, to sublime, to plain again in the span of a few minutes. She was wondering if she would see him again, and she wondered what he had done to earn a reputation as the biggest scoundrel London had ever seen. Realizing she had missed a step, Emilia struggled to catch up to the music and her dancing partner. In her efforts, her skirts became tangled around her legs. As she struggled to get them free, Lord Wiltshire, oblivious to her distress, chose this moment to execute a turn. It happened so fast, and before she even had a chance to right herself, she was merely a heap on the floor with a throbbing ankle.

There were gasps from the other guests. Lord Wiltshire mumbled apologies. Two other young men helped her up, clearly enjoying the opportunity to come to her rescue. One of them attempted to examine her ankle, but Lady Palmerston swatted him with her fan. Before she knew it, she was seated on a settee in the library with her aunt, while a footman went to fetch a doctor.

“I’m so sorry about all that, Aunt. If you want to send me back to America, I perfectly understand,” Emilia said, hoping that was not the case. She hadn’t particularly wanted to come to London to find a husband, but she had done so because it had been her late mother’s wish for her. Now she wanted to stay, if only to see that man one more time. She felt a little lurch in her stomach just thinking about him.

“Nonsense,” Lady Palmerston replied briskly, while pacing around the room. “It might do to be a bit more careful, if only for your own safety. But we can use this to your advantage.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Emilia wondered. During her years at finishing school, when it became apparent that her clumsiness was incurable, she was often encouraged to stay seated as much as possible. No one had ever suggested it was anything but a liability.

“The gents will be lining up to catch you,” her aunt said with a smile. “You just must be more careful whose arms you fall into.”

“So not like earlier, falling into the arms of the biggest scoundrel in the world,” Emilia mumbled, feeling a wave of warmth flush across her cheeks.

“Precisely.”

“What did he do to earn such a reputation?” she asked, hoping it wasn’t anything truly awful.

“Such a tale is not fit for innocent ears like yours. Where on earth is the doctor? Stay right here while I check, and I shall be back in a trice.”

Emilia waited. The room was dimly lit by a fire in the grate and candelabra on the mahogany desk in the center of the room. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined three walls; on the fourth, French doors led out to a conservatory. She grew impatient and decided to limp over to the bookshelves to find something to read. But the pain in her ankle was worse than she had anticipated, so she was forced to pause, leaning awkwardly against the large mahogany desk. Had it not been too painful, she might have tapped her foot impatiently.

“Finally,” Emilia said under her breath when she heard footsteps approaching in the hall.

Devon no longer wished to leave the ball, which was odd, because for the hour he had endured there all he could think of was his departure. He walked toward the front of the house, intent on leaving anyway. Masquerading as his brother was exhausting. One had to flirt outrageously with the married women, banter about hunting and women with the men, and play poorly at cards. Well, perhaps that last bit was just one brotherly prank he couldn’t resist. Just imagining his brother having to pay a hundred pounds for a card game he never played amused him.

If he had known Phillip’s most treasured possession, he might have wagered that. And there it was—that old desire to hurt and one-up his twin. He had thought it had gone away, for during the past five years in America, he hadn’t contemplated it. But here he was, back in England only two days, and already he was back to behaving as he did at twenty. As if he had never left.

He shouldn’t even be there, in London, anyway. His father was dying, and the chance to make some sort of peace was why Devon had returned. But was he with his father? At Cliveden, the pile of rocks otherwise known as the ancestral estate? No, he was not. He was instead standing here, contemplating returning to a ball, because of a woman.

It wasn’t every day that a beautiful woman simply fell into a man’s arms. He tried to picture her face, but could only recall dark red hair and dark blue eyes. And, of course, he could remember far more vividly the imprint of her lush, soft body pressed against his. He caught himself with something that felt like a smile on his lips and scowled it away. He did not have time for a woman now, even if his body, or certain parts of it, thought otherwise.

“There you are. Leaving so soon?” Devon turned to his cousin and friend, George, Earl Winsworth. The only person aware that he was in England and the perfect person to help him with his ruse to go out as Phillip. George had informed him of the way Phillip currently dressed, how he wore his hair, and how he generally conducted himself. They chose this evening for the scheme because George had learned that Phillip would be attending an exclusive party at the home of Mrs. Bradford, a notorious courtesan, and was sure to be completely drunk, and thus not able to recall whether he attended this event or not. Devon simply had a morbid curiosity to see what his brother’s life was like—without having to come into contact with him.

“I was thinking about it,” Devon replied. He was still amazed at the transformation in George. He was no longer the scrawny child that was victim to Phillip’s taunts. Neither was Devon. Since they had not been able fight back physically, their strategy had been to concoct all sorts of devious pranks instead to get back at Phillip. That, and running very fast.

“Knightly is here. What do you think of letting him in on the ruse?” George asked, with a slight lift of his brow.

“I’d like to see him,” Devon replied truthfully, thinking fondly of his old friend. He had missed his two friends and felt something like regret for the way in which he had left without an explanation and then never bothered to contact them.

“Excellent. I think it best if this meeting happens somewhere private. Knightly and Phillip are no longer speaking. It would cause a stir if you two were seen together.”

“What did my evil twin do this time?” Devon asked.

“Fortunately, he didn’t manage to
do
anything. But he was paying far too much attention to one of Knightly’s sisters.”

“I see. And probably ignored Knightly’s request that he not do so.”

“Something like that. The library is down the hall on the left. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can find Knightly.”

She
was not supposed to be here, and she most certainly was not supposed to be
here
, in a dimly lit room, alone. But there she was—the girl with the lush red hair and sparkling laugh who had tumbled into his arms. The one with eyes like the ocean at night. The one who had felt so perfect in his hold that he had kept his arm around her for a moment longer than was necessary or proper. The flickering candlelight cast shadows on her face, and the manner in which she leaned against the desk was both provocative and innocent. Provocative because it displayed her slender yet perfectly curved figure, and innocent because she seemed completely unaware just how enticing she was.

“I hope I am not interrupting anything,” Devon said, leaning against the door frame. He had to get rid of her. But not just yet.

“No, I am only waiting for someone,” she responded after a moment’s pause.

“Waiting for me?” he couldn’t resist asking, complete with a teasing grin.

“Oh, you really are a rake,” she said with a slight upward turn of her pink lips. “Just as I was told.”

“I see my reputation precedes me,” he replied, feeling something tighten in his chest. Apparently he had been successful at convincing them all that he was Phillip this evening. And he couldn’t help but think of what his twin would do in this situation: Shut the door. Take what he wanted from this girl. Then get rid of her.

“No, I am waiting for a doctor actually. And my aunt; I’m sure she’ll return any second.” The hint was unmistakable. But he didn’t want to leave just yet. And he saw something in her eyes that led him to think she didn’t want him to leave just yet either.

“Are you ill?” he asked.

“No. I fell. Again,” she said, with a little sigh.

“You fell again,” he repeated, as he didn’t quite know what to say.

“It wasn’t entirely my fault this time. It usually is. But the gentleman I was dancing with wasn’t very good. His skills barely surpassed mine. Together, we were positively dangerous.”

He laughed. Perhaps it was cruel, but he couldn’t help it. Most of the young women he had met socially spent hours a day in dancing lessons. The worst he had encountered had stepped on a great many toes. But none had considered themselves dangerous at dancing. He started to murmur and apologize for his laughter, but she cut him off.

“I don’t mind if you laugh. I suppose it is funny. I would be laughing, too, if my ankle did not hurt so much.”

“If your ankle is hurt, perhaps you shouldn’t be standing on it,” he suggested.

“If the doctor had arrived sooner, I wouldn’t have gotten bored and needed to find a book,” she replied tartly, as if everyone knew that boredom was far more painful than a twisted ankle. His smile faded, though, as he watched her features take on a determined look, and she took one tentative step toward the settee.

He should stay away, but it would be most ungentlemanly of him to let her fall. It took him three steps to cross the distance between them. In one fluid movement, his arm was once again wrapped around her waist, holding her steady. They moved slowly, she most likely because of the pain. He because he just wanted to savor the feeling of having her so close. Of course, having any attractive female form pressed up against him was a very pleasant feeling indeed. But there was something about this particular one. She fit.

He was lowering her onto the couch when it happened. When reason and honor took their leave of him. She was reclining back and he was kneeling before her, and at that point he really should have released her, patted her on the head, and left to check on the whereabouts of the doctor and her chaperone.

But he didn’t.

It was because of the way she looked at him, brazenly staring at his lips, as if imagining what it would be like for his mouth to be on hers. Perhaps that was his own fantasy. It would take so little to close the distance—her lips were near, his desire was strong, his sense of propriety gone.