Lord Blakely had been right about the storm. Not thirty minutes later, the sun appeared and the road began to dry. Since Sophia had fallen asleep upon her husband’s shoulder, the gentlemen remained inside the carriage.
The journey was a short one, and Emily did her best to ignore the man sitting beside her. She’d grown all warm and mushy for him, once again, when he’d repaired her spectacles and then, oh, so tenderly, replaced them upon her person.
One minute, she’d been watching an unfocused blur of colors, and the next, she was gazing like a love-struck fool at his handsome face, which was closer to her than it had ever been before. Tiny crinkles edged his eyes, and she could even see the sharp little hairs appearing where he’d shaved earlier. He’d made certain the glasses sat securely when she’d reached up to adjust them herself.
She had placed her hands directly on top of his, which felt as though they were cradling her face.
The moment had felt so intimate as to send a jolt of a different type of lightning shooting through her. She’d had to turn away and focus on anything but the sensations he’d given rise to.
And so, the first thing that came to mind went flying out of her mouth.
Sophia had explained Lord Blakely’s unfortunate experience at White’s and at his other clubs. She’d even told her that many of the hostesses were being “encouraged” to withdraw invitations that had already been sent out to the earl.
His father most certainly was making things unpleasant for his only son.
And that angered Emily.
On numerous occasions since that night in the library, she’d wondered who Meggie was. And if the Duke of Waters had, in fact, murdered this Mr. Thistlebum. If he’d been behind such dastardly deeds, it was no wonder his son refused to do his bidding!
She hated that Lord Blakely was being chased away from London.
She hated it so much that her mind had gone to work, of its own accord, of course, at unraveling his precarious social situation.
Privy to information regarding Lord Blakely as a close friend of Mr. Nottingham’s, Cecily had told them that Lord Blakely had been quite successful with his shipping business. And so, Emily knew the earl did not lack for funds.
Aside from the social ostracism, there wasn’t much more the duke could do to harm Lord Blakely. And so, what if Lord Blakely took actions that would make the duke’s life unpleasant?
What might do that?
And then she knew!
If Lord Blakely married a less than suitable lady, the betrothal the duke had agreed to years ago would become null and void. The duke would be shamed. Ah, that would be interesting indeed.
And furthermore…
If Lord Blakely were to marry an unsuitable lady, in defiance of the Duke of Waters, the scandal would cause all other scandals to pale in significance! And then perhaps the ton would forget Rhoda’s indiscretions, whatever they might be.
Could Lord Blakely be convinced to marry Rhoda?
Although her heart protested, as she considered the plan thoroughly, her head assured her this might be a most excellent remedy.
Emily would speak with Lord Blakely in private. A scheme such as this would require the utmost discretion and possibly haste. The two could travel to Gretna Green and return a married couple.
Rhoda would be a countess!
But Emily couldn’t speak of any of this in front of Sophia and Prescott. Sophia would likely be amenable, but Emily didn’t know the duke all that well.
She would wait until the timing was right.
And, she supposed, Rhoda must be amenable as well.
She returned to musing about whether his father had in fact, ordered a man murdered. Had the matter ever been investigated?
She pursed her lips.
Maybe she ought to look into this as well. Aside from the expected ducal arrogance, he’d not seemed so diabolically evil as all that.
He had come across as quite desperate though.
But why?
Someone ought to verify the facts behind the earl’s feud. Lord Blakley would do well to know the truth.
What if the duke was innocent and their estrangement was due to a misunderstanding? Over the past year, she’d come to believe anything was possible.
Emily had been staring out the window for quite some time, contemplating the Duke of Waters and all possible outcomes of her plan for Lord Blakely when the familiar sights of Kent came into sight.
When Emily had visited Eden’s Court for the wedding a few months ago, winter had still held the world in a tight grasp. The trees had been bare and the flowers in hibernation.
But with the arrival of spring, everything was coming to life.
As they turned down the long drive to the majestic estate, Emily couldn’t help but lean forward to peer out at the bursts of colors lining the drive. “Sophia!” Her friend had awakened and was taking the baby from her husband’s arms. “The gardens are absolutely splendid!”
What would it be like to go walking in these gardens with Marc—with Lord Blakely? Emily allowed herself to wonder for only a moment. What was she thinking? She was going to marry him off to Rhoda! The gardens would be the perfect place for a proposal…
Sophia stifled a yawn. “Eden’s Court must have been carved from heaven itself.” She gave a secret glance toward the duke. “We enjoy the gardens almost daily when the weather allows.”
Oh, bother. Being with these two was enough to cause any girl to become syrupy with romantic nonsense. That must be what it was.
Nothing to do with the man sitting beside her.
Nothing at all.
At least she had her spectacles again. That feeling of not being able to see never failed to leave her spiraling inside, as though the world was spinning out of control. Emily reached up and touched the frame near the lens.
“I’m not certain it will hold for long.” Lord Blakely’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “I tightened the screw, but it’s stripped.”
She would have to be careful. She’d packed a second pair… somewhere. “Thank you.” She’d love to ignore him, go on watching the passing scenery, but his presence was just so damn… commanding. “Thank you.”
He nodded but then turned his back to her. It was his turn to stare out the window, leaving Emily free to lean forward nonchalantly and inhale his aroma. His hair had dried by now, a little curlier than normal. She hadn’t realized how bronzed his neck was. Must be from all the riding he did. She’d heard on more than one occasion how mad he was for horses.
“Do you think your mount is well enough?” Emily asked, making an attempt at normal conversation. “He does not spook easily in storms?”
“She,” he grunted. “No, she trained for battle. Loud noises don’t faze her.”
Emily wished she’d trained for battle. “What’s her name?” Good heavens! She was making ordinary conversation. It must be ordinary, because he showed every indication of boredom.
“Aminta.”
“Aminta? That’s Greek, you know.” Such an appropriate name for a horse that didn’t spook. “It means the protector.”
She finally captured his attention. He turned away from the window, his gaze falling on her with a questioning look. “You really are a bluestocking, aren’t you?”
He spoke the word somewhat disdainfully. Why would she wish to help such an arrogant fool? Oh, yes! Rhoda. Perhaps if she married him off to Rhoda, she herself would stop obsessing over his wonderfulness.
The pig.
Damn him.
She lifted her chin. “Any man who is put off by an educated woman isn’t worth the minerals of which his body is composed.”
He laughed. Ah, yes, he would find amusement from her once again. “Miss Goodnight, if you’d listen carefully, you’d comprehend that I did not say that I couldn’t appreciate bluestockings. I simply verified my initial assessment.” He raised his hands defensively, as though she were a pugilist who would attack him. “Never let it be said I’m put off by educated women. Good God, I fear you might have my body broken down into its simple substances!”
Sophia and Prescott both chuckled at that. When Emily met Sophia’s gaze, however, she had the good grace to pinch her lips together in disdain.
Just then the carriage jerked to a halt.
They’d arrived.
Marcus waited for Prescott to climb out and then assist the duchess and their child. Miss Goodnight waited beside him, patiently holding some sort of carpet bag on her lap. It likely contained books.
Not many guessed at the meaning of Aminta’s name. Leave it to the minx to make the observation.
As the doorway cleared, he gestured to Miss Goodnight to precede him. Her brown eyes flew open wide, as though she’d not expected gallantry. Even with the blasted spectacles, he noticed her eyes now. She rose, crouched over, and edged sideways to make her way past him. Just as she did so, the carriage jostled and with nothing to grasp to regain her balance, she tumbled onto his lap, dropping her bag onto the floor.
“My apologies, my lord!” Her breath fanned against his throat as she gasped her regrets. Despite all her bristle and intellectual outrage, she was still a woman. Marcus couldn’t possibly ignore this fact with her squirming around on his lap.
Soft bum. Tiny waist. He’d not considered before what she hid beneath her petticoats and drab dresses. For one outrageous second, he imagined what her thighs would feel like wrapped around his waist. The tender skin between a lady’s legs never failed to arouse him.
When she pulled back to peer up at him, Marcus had to blink himself back to reality. Except… one of her eyes looked perfectly normal, but the other was hugely magnified behind the remaining lens.
The glass had fallen out again.
A little freakish, to be sure, but she also appeared adorably confused and more than a little… lost. Marcus couldn’t help but laugh.
Her face scrunched into a scowl, drawing even more hilarity from him. “Lord Blakely! I’m glad you find my handicap so amusing!” She turned her attention to his shirt front, lowering her face closer to it, and her curious hands began searching his person. “It must be here somewhere!”
It took him another moment to realize she wasn’t suddenly overcome with his masculine assets so much as to fondle him, but that she was searching frantically for her lens.
Tiny fingers explored down his sternum, past the waist of his breeches… Good God! Did the woman not know what she was doing? She’d dropped to the floor and now kneeled before him, her fingers probing still. His thighs, around his lap, the seat.
“Hold still, woman!” he finally ground out. And then…
Crunch.
“Oh, no!” She froze. Apparently, she’d forgotten all manners, all sense of social boundaries, as one of her hands rested on his no longer… well… uninterested—
“It’s moving!”
Ah… yes. Marcus wasn’t sure whether he ought to cover his face in mortification or turn the chit over his knees for a good spanking.
“Your mentula.”
“My what?”
“It’s… er… Latin,” she mumbled but hadn’t yet withdrawn her hand. In fact, she appeared somewhat mesmerized. As though she’d like to investigate further.
A swim in a frozen lake. Vomit. An unemptied chamber pot. It took all of Marcus’ imagination in order to conjure images so that he could bring himself under control.
“You.” His voice came out sounding strained nonetheless. “You crushed your lens. Have a care not to cut yourself.” Gripping her elbows, he lifted her ever so carefully from the floor. That dazed look on her face finally twisted into horror.
Marcus ignored it.
Instead, he bent over and retrieved what was left of the lens—all seven pieces of it. “I’m afraid you’ll have to locate that other pair, Miss Goodnight. This one’s quite beyond repair.”
She’d begun scrambling around, collecting the books that had spilled from her bag. Mostly romantic drivel, he saw… except for… Hell’s bells. Did her mother know the extent of this hoyden’s reading? The Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure?
He could not quite make out the author before she hastily stuffed it into the worn but sturdy bag.
“Can you see to walk with only one lens?”
She seemed disoriented, but he wasn’t sure if it was from her unanticipated examination of his mentula or her impaired vision.
“I’m fine. Quite fine.” She refused to look in his direction, choosing instead to feel around the door in order to climb out.
When she did so, the sunlight reflected off the remaining lens in her spectacles and nearly blinded him. The sensation reminded him of when one of the boys at Eton had used a magnifying glass to torture insects.
Marcus blinked and then, afraid she’d tumble to the pavement below, grasped her by the waist until he was certain she’d exited safely.