Chapter 7

CHAPTER7

“Lady Emma,” was the first thing out of Silas’s mouth, and the first thing his eyes fell upon. “I told you we would meet again.”

It appeared that the poor thing had endured a rough night and an even rougher morning, if the redness around her beautiful blue eyes were any indication. She had recently wept, her thick, dark eyelashes wet with the tears.

“Lady Emma?” Joanna parroted, her expression confused.

Silas stood up and bowed. “Apologies for the early hour of my call.”

“Your… call? You are here to visit Lady Emma?” If her sister looked confused, Nancy looked as if a light breeze might blow her over.

“Obviously,” Silas replied, turning his attention to Marina. “Where is your mother?”

Marina’s shaky hand thumbed backward. “Resting, Your Grace.”

“Rouse her,” Silas said, a quiet command. “I believe this will be worth dragging herself out of bed for.”

Marina pulled a face, clearly disapproving of his tone. “Might I ask why I am to wake her and bring her down here?”

“She is the one responsible for Lady Emma, at present, is she not?” He made a show of drawing out his silver pocket-watch, though he already knew the hour. It was simply to keep his hands busy.

Nancy seemed to be the more obliging of the three guardians who stood between him and Lady Emma. “She is, indeed,” Nancy said graciously. “Of course, my Aunt Eliza will be fetched at once.”

To prove the point, she rang the small silver bell on a nearby table, and the butler immediately bounced in as if he had been loitering—or eavesdropping—behind the drawing room door.

“Nancy, I—” Marina began to protest, but Nancy cut her off, addressing the butler instead.

“Mr. Frost, would you be a dear and have someone rouse Aunt Eliza as swiftly as possible. Tell her it pertains to Lady Emma and that she must hurry.” Nancy paused, the corner of her mouth lifting in a shy smile. “Indeed, tell her that a duke has come to call upon Lady Emma.”

Mr. Frost cast a sharp glance at Silas, for they had not had the most agreeable of encounters earlier, when Silas had demanded entry.

Not that Silas particularly cared if the staff liked him. He did not really care if these women liked him, either. The only one who mattered was the only one who had not said a word, standing just a few paces into the room, looking like a deer that had just heard a twig snap in the forest.

“Mr. Frost,” Nancy urged. “Now, if you please.”

The butler bowed and departed, no doubt annoyed that he had been given the lowly task of messenger boy.

“Come now,” Joanna said as soon as the butler had gone, “be decent and tell us the meaning of this visit.”

Silas sat back down on the armrest, ignoring her entirely. “Did you sleep well, Lady Emma?”

Emma paled, nodding.

“Do not lie,” he scolded lightly. “It does not suit you.”

“Your Grace,” Joanna pressed, “I have a right to know why you are here.”

Silas kept his gaze fixed upon Emma. “All in good time, duchess. All in good time.”

* * *

Half an hour later, Silas’s patience had worn as thin as gossamer. He could only check his pocket-watch so many times, and the silence was unbearable upon his nerves. In truth, there was nothing he hated so much as absolute silence, where once he had craved it.

“I do apologize for this,” Nancy said, her eyes flitting toward the drawing room door at the slightest sound.

Marina had vanished fifteen minutes’ prior, likely to hasten along the appearance of Eliza. Meanwhile, Joanna seemed content to let him stew, her arms folded across her chest, her eyes assessing him.

And Emma just stood there as if she was awaiting her turn at the gallows, head bowed, hands clasped against her stomach: the very picture of innocence.

But as the carriage clock at his back chimed out the hour, another sound echoed beyond the drawing room door. Indeed, he heard the infamous Eliza Wilkins, Dowager Countess of Creassey, before she was even close to making her entrance. And she did not sound all too happy to be awoken so early.

“Has the fellow no manners?” came the outrage. “He was at the ball last night—he must know how indecent it is to call upon a household when the sun is barely up. I am surprised the ball is not still underway; it is so disgustingly early!”

Silas smirked. “Her reputation really does precede her.”

“She spent all night tending to my sister,” Nancy said hurriedly. “You must forgive her sharp tongue. I do not think there is anyone alive who is quite themselves when they are exhausted.”

Silas glanced at Joanna. “You have been unwell?”

“It is nothing, Your Grace,” Joanna replied, her hand falling to her abdomen.

He did not press her further, understanding immediately. He might have even offered congratulations, if Eliza had not exploded into the room at that very moment. At last.

“You are the one responsible for Lady Emma, yes?” Silas jumped in before a word of reproach could spew from Eliza’s tight-lipped mouth.

Eliza faltered, as if she had expected to be allowed her morning cup of vitriol first. “What concern is it of yours?”

“Mama!” Marina hissed, stepping in behind her mother. “Behave yourself!”

Silas stood, smoothing down the lapels of his tailcoat. “It is quite simple. I mean to marry Lady Emma.”

Five gasps cut the thick air at the same time. A strange, somewhat amusing chorus.

“As you are her custodian, I am here to ask you for her hand,” Silas continued. “Of course, I shall write to her father and ensure that due diligence is done if I must, but that can be discussed later.”

Emma drained of color, which was not exactly the complimentary reaction he had anticipated. Then again, considering her history, he knew she had a somewhat… aversive reaction to the entire idea of marriage, so perhaps her deathly pallor was not so unexpected.

“Of course!” Marina yelped, stepping past her mother. “Of course, my mother will consent to it.”

Nancy nodded her head so hard that she would undoubtedly feel it in her neck for days to come. “This is a most fortuitous morning,” she cooed. “Why, the heavens must be smiling on us. And I doubt it shall be difficult to obtain a special license. My husband and I would be more than happy to help with that.”

“Will you contain yourselves!” Eliza snapped, smoothing a hand across her lacquered hair. “Goodness, you would think he was here to propose to you, instead.”

“I am not in the habit of proposing to married ladies,” Silas replied drily, folding his arms behind his back to keep them out of the way. His palms were already clammy.

If Emma had been pale before, she was entirely colorless now. A porcelain doll, too fragile to touch.

Eliza took a breath. “It is a very generous offer, Your Grace,” she said carefully, “but a response cannot be given now.”

“And why is that?” Silas asked.

“Yes, Mama, why not?” Marina agreed, reaching for Emma’s hand, squeezing it gently.

Eliza hesitated. “First, you must get to know one another. One dance upon one evening is not nearly enough for anyone to decide if they wish to hitch their lives to each other.”

“Many marriages have been arranged with far less,” Silas pointed out, observing the view beyond the window, maintaining an air of indifferent calm.

“Well, perhaps, but—” Eliza’s protest was soundly interrupted by another, bursting forth from the only person he wished to hear from.

“Absolutely not!” Emma shook her head violently, her clasped hands shaking. “No. No, no. No, no, no.”

Silas allowed a gravelly laugh past his lips. “That is quite the refusal. Fortunately for you, I am not easily dissuaded once my mind is made up.” He wandered to the garden doors and opened one wide, stretching his hand out toward Emma. “Walk with me.”

It was neither a request nor a demand, but something in between: the collection of a debt owed. At least, that was what he hoped she would deem it to be.

“I will chaperone!” Nancy blurted out.

Silas held Emma’s anxious gaze, clouding his own expression—it was a talent he possessed, making himself unreadable. Slowly, the hard, worried edges of her face softened, and as she exhaled, the last of her dissent appeared to drain out of her. Head bowed, severing the connection between their eyes, she moved toward him and allowed him to weave her arm through his.

“Let us not waste this beautiful morning,” he said to the rest of the room, and promptly marched out with his prize upon his arm.

* * *

Silas could feel the questions thrumming through Emma’s veins, rising with the pink tendrils that meandered up her slender neck. Yet, he had to applaud her determination, for she remained silent for at least the first five minutes of their walk, along the pretty crushed-shell and gravel walkways, beneath archways of wisteria and climbing roses, past babbling fountains and pear trees in full fruit.

“The Duchess of Bruxton really has transformed this place, has she not?” he said, choosing neutral ground. “The gardens might be the most exquisite of any I have seen, though it was not always like this. There were years and years where this entire estate resembled a ruin.”

“It is my first time here,” Emma replied sullenly, staring at the gravel pathway.

“Eyes on me,” he growled.

Her head snapped up, her eyes meeting his. “We are not dancing now.”

“Nevertheless…” he watched confusion and annoyance and something akin to fear pass across her beautiful face; her plump lips pursing. He wondered how hard she would slap him if he were to kiss that disapproving mouth.

Emma halted. “What are you doing, Your Grace? What is the meaning of this madness?”

“Madness?” He arched an eyebrow. “There is no madness, Lady Emma.”

“There must be, for this is… this is… I do not understand it, Your Grace. I do not understand why you are here.”

He caught a stray lock of her hair, teased free by the balmy breeze, and twisted it gently around his forefingers. The glossy, dark strands gleamed like magpie feathers; the color more complex than he had thought.

And as he curled the wayward lock behind her ear, he said, “There is nothing to understand. I have come to ask for your hand, and to make sure that you are well after last night’s less pleasant events.”

The immediate blush that spread across her cheeks stoked a thrill in him that he had thought to be extinct. Dormant, at the very least. The impulse to feel the heat of her skin pummeled through him, drawing his hand down from her ear to cup her cheek.

The pink flush radiated against his palm, and as his thumb skimmed the rosy apple of that plump cheek, the color darkened to an altogether more intimate rouge, her eyes shining.

Nancy cleared her throat so loudly that she began to splutter into a cough.

Silas had forgotten about her. He did not care for the interruption, irritation frosting over the thrill. Plastering on a mask of propriety, he dropped his hand and forced a slight smile; it did not sit easily on his lips.

“You owe me a debt,” he said, leading her back into a walk.

“And you want me to marry you as the price?” Emma looked as incredulous as she sounded.

He tutted at her. “It is far more nuanced than that, Lady Emma.”

“My mind cannot handle nuance this morning, Your Grace. I beg of you, speak plainly so that I might understand what is going on,” she replied, though she continued to hold his gaze.

He grazed his teeth across his lower lip. “You beg of me? You should not say such things, Lady Emma. You do not know what such words can do to a man.”

It was her turn to clear her throat so hard that she nearly choked, banging on her chest as more of that enticing red colored her face. As she settled her breathing, her throat moving with every swallow, he continued, speaking as plainly as he could.

“I mean to rescue you a third time. Three is a lucky number.” He lowered his voice to a rumble. “You cleared half a ballroom last night, simply by attending. As such, you need a husband, and quickly, to avoid being shunned forever by the ton. And to prevent yourself from being banned from your family, never permitted to set foot across their threshold or to be in their company again.”

He had done a small amount of investigation between leaving the ball last night and reappearing in the drawing room that morning. Although, it was nothing he would not have been able to piece together by himself, even without evidence.

“That is my trouble to bear,” Emma said quietly, her voice thick. Her crystalline blue eyes were on the brink of filling again, the salt reddening the rims.

“I need a bride so I can find some peace from my family’s harassment on the subject,” he went on, ignoring her remark. “It would be mutually… satisfying.” He purred the last word, resisting a smirk as her breath caught and her bosom rose and fell at a somewhat frantic pace.

She fanned her face with her hand, but it did nothing to cool the blush. “You are suggesting a marriage of convenience?”

“A marriage of shared benefit,” he corrected. “It is hardly convenient.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Am I to understand that this is not something you want?”

“Want and need are two different things.” He closed his free hand over hers, as it rested in the crook of his elbow, and leaned close to her ear, purring, “Though, not always.”

Her breathing quickened once more, and her gaze flitted away toward the drooping wisteria. “Shared benefit,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “An… arrangement. A… business exchange.”

“Call it whatever you prefer,” he told her, guiding her toward a stone bench that rested in the shade of the arched trellises.

It was turning into a rather stifling day. By noon, the gardens would be like a greenhouse, humid and perfumed, shimmering in the sunlight. He hoped he would not still be at Bruxton Hall by then… and would have something with which to appease his mother.

“Of course, the wedding will have to be soon, so there ought to be some swiftness in your decision,” he prompted, balancing his ankle on his thigh as he settled into the bench.

He noticed her eyes widen, drawn to the muscle of those thighs and the strain of fabric at the peak of them. Nothing showed, of course, but he rather liked the oblivious intensity with which she was looking, like she could not look away, even if she wanted to.

“Eliza was right,” Emma gasped at last, tearing her eyes away, staring fixedly at a vine that curled down opposite. “We ought to get to know one another before any… rash decisions are made.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “I am never rash, Lady Emma.”

“Be that as it may, I would prefer it if we became acquainted first. You might find, after spending even a week in my company, that I am not the person with whom you wish to spend the rest of your life.” She showed great strength as she spoke, and the faintest glint of mischief, though she pushed her trembling hands beneath her own thighs, so he would not see. Too late, of course; he missed very few details.

“A week, you say?” He lightly tapped his lips with his two forefingers, pretending to contemplate.

She stilled, breathless.

“Then, a week it shall be,” he said.

She squinted at him. “What do you mean?”

Slyly, and in full view of Nancy, he reached beneath her and dragged her trembling hand from where she had been hiding it. Permitting her one of his hollow smiles, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, but not as respectable gentlemen might have done. He parted his lips slightly and took the nub of her knuckle into his mouth, his gaze locked on hers as she paled and flushed, all at once.

“A week at my country estate,” he said silkily. “I will expect you to arrive tomorrow. You, your godmother, and anyone else who might be curious enough to follow you there. I have plenty of space, so do not be miserly with your invitations. At the end of that week, I will write to your father.”

Emma blinked, rendered silent as he leaned further forward, his mouth a breath away from hers, and added, “by this time next week, you will not want to leave. I would stake the rest of our lives upon it.”

A soft gasp was her only reply.