Every Bit a Rogue Page 3

  “Do you find that appealing?” she asked.

  “No,” he admitted sadly, almost wishing he did. Such behavior could numb his mind, if only temporarily. It would never mend his heart.

  She nodded approvingly. “I must agree that sort of behavior is unlikely to bring you any solace.”

  She spoke with the calm authority of personal experience and he wondered how she might have gained it. She wasn’t a recently-out-of-the-schoolroom girl in her first blush of youth, but she was hardly old. He judged her age to be a few years older than Dianna and several years younger than his own of twenty-eight.

  Then he realized by society’s standards she could be considered old for a woman, and as an unmarried female she was squarely on the path of becoming a spinster. A most unsavory fate.

  Jon straightened his shoulders. “Now that we have agreed that I shall not fall into the depths of depravity, I suppose I should return so that my mother can assure herself of my well-being.”

  As he stepped forward his foot collided with the empty champagne bottle. It skidded, spinning wildly as it glided across the slate floor, coming to rest at Miss Ellingham’s feet.

  “Yours?” she asked, raising her brow. “The bottle is empty. I presume it was full when you brought it in here?”

  “’Twas only champagne,” he said defensively. “I’m not drunk.”

  “I know.” She glanced down at the empty bottle. “Yet there is no harm in waiting a few more minutes before returning.”

  Jon rubbed his forehead, then nodded in agreement. He was a tad light-headed, and any excuse to avoid returning immediately was welcome. He looked through the foliage out the window. The wind was starting to swirl. No doubt the rain would soon follow.

  He and Miss Ellingham didn’t speak for several moments. It was a comfortable silence, devoid of awkward glances, soothing in its simplicity.

  “Are many guests still here?” Jon asked.

  “A few. My brother-in-law, the Marquess of Atwood, and I are among those who remain. We would have departed with my sisters when they left a half hour ago, but your mother asked me to look for you . . .”

  Miss Ellingham’s voice trailed off. Jon nodded. They should return. He was sober—well, sober enough to face the few nobles that remained and keep his wits about him.

  “I cannot imagine the comments and opinions about me that have circulated among my guests,” Jon remarked, acknowledging to himself that he was curious. “What did you hear?”

  She lowered her chin demurely. “Gossip has never been an interest of mine, my lord.”

  “Nor mine,” he answered. “But I find that I am curious. Indulge me. Please.”

  She chewed her bottom lip meditatively for a moment. “Many are in agreement that Lady Dianna’s actions have been extremely foolish.” Miss Ellingham cleared her throat. “One woman even suggested that she was insane.”

  His brow lifted. “Yes, I suppose for some people throwing over a viscount for an untitled gentleman is the height of madness.”

  “Apparently that kind of behavior is only mildly frowned upon if one does it for what is considered to be an acceptable reason,” she said.

  “Like landing a marquess instead of a viscount?” he quipped.

  Emma eyed him mischievously. “Or even better—a duke.”

  “Ah, yes,” Jon agreed, feeling the tension in his shoulders relax for the first time in hours.

  Her mouth turned up in a subtle grin. “Forgive me. I do not mean to make light of the situation.”

  Jon shrugged, easing more of his natural restraint. For some incomprehensible reason he felt comfortable in Miss Ellingham’s presence, even though she was a stranger. Or maybe because of it?

  She had a kindness about her that struck him as genuine, and he appreciated how she held her gaze steadily upon him when they spoke. She did not appear to view him as a pathetic, misfortunate creature as so many others had today.

  Still, Jon cautioned himself to tread carefully. Given the disastrous circumstance with Dianna, it was apparent that his instincts about females could be dreadfully wrong.

  * * *

  The viscount gained her side and Emma found herself craning her neck to look at him. Watching him from a distance in the chapel she had not realized that his shoulders were quite so broad, his jaw so chiseled, his eyes so dark.

  Catching herself gawking at the poor man, Emma shifted her gaze and focused her attention on his elaborately tied cravat. It soon captured her genuine attention, and her artist’s eye appreciated the intricate folds that reflected the light and shadow of the cloth.

  The rest of his attire was tasteful and elegant, yet far more conservative. She wondered if he had made the more fashionable effort on his cravat for his bride’s sake.

  How unfortunate that she was not here to witness it.

  Lord Kendall turned to Emma, offering her his arm. “Shall we return, Miss Ellingham?”

  “Yes.” She placed her gloved hand lightly on his forearm. It felt like iron beneath her fingers, clearly betraying his inner tension. “I’m sorry that I am forcing you to return.”

  He shrugged. “You need not be. This situation was not of your making.”

  “Nor yours,” she muttered beneath her breath.

  The corners of his mouth rose ever so slightly. “Are you trying to make me feel better, Miss Ellingham?”

  “I would never be so bold or impertinent, my lord,” she replied, feeling a burst of delight at being able to lighten his mood, if only for a moment. “I am merely being honest.”

  “Thank you,” he said simply.

  As they walked through the solarium, Emma unobtrusively studied him. Being someone who valued privacy, she had felt bad disturbing his peaceful solitude. He had received a shocking blow this morning that he was struggling to make sense of, to understand. The last thing he needed was an intrusion from a stranger, even if she was acting on behalf of his mother.

  Under the circumstances it would have been perfectly understandable if he had been terse and ungracious toward her, even downright rude.

  But he had not.

  She admired that kind of inner strength and fortitude. It showed character and resilience. Traits he would need in the coming weeks and months.

  His steps were slow and deliberate, his expression pensive as they swept into the ballroom. The remaining guests stopped what they were doing to stare at them. Emma felt the hair at the nape of her neck start to rise when she realized they were gawking. She drew in a sharp breath and quickly glanced at the viscount.

  His face was stony, his lips pressed tightly together, but his shoulders were straight and square and his head held high. Emma was surprised to see there were more people than she originally thought who had not yet departed. She was hoping, for the viscount’s sake, that only a few would be in the ballroom.

  Lady Sybil crossed the room to meet them. The viscount bowed and greeted his mother graciously, no doubt attempting to assure her that he was not brooding. His mother favored him with a wan smile and placed her hand on his arm, running a soothing hand over it as though he were a lad.

  Apparently, Lady Sybil was not fooled by her son’s show of bravado.

  The viscount attempted to smile at his mother, but something lurking in the depths of his eyes revealed the intensity of his pain. The sight caused an ache in Emma’s chest, though she had no idea why his feelings should affect her so strongly. She barely knew the man.

  Then again, the idea of anyone suffering was difficult for her to witness without experiencing some form of empathy. A stark reminder of her own heartbreak, perhaps?

  Emma felt a presence at her elbow. She turned and discovered her brother-in-law Carter at her side, his handsome face marred by an expression of faint disapproval.

  “I cannot fathom why so many people are lingering. ’Tis most inconsiderate. I think the biggest kindness we can offer Kendall and Lady Sybil is to shame the rest of this rabble into departing,” the marquess declared.


  Emma nodded in agreement.

  Lady Sybil tilted her head. “I—rather, we—would be grateful if you could somehow accomplish such a feat, Lord Atwood.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Lady Sybil let out a small sigh of relief. “I always said that you had a sensible head on your shoulders. Got it from your father, I believe.”

  “I’ll be certain to mention that to the duke the next time I see him,” Carter replied.

  Then, true to his word, Carter began circulating among the crowd, dipping his head and speaking in a low voice. Before long, Lord Kendall’s very proper butler was ushering the last of the guests out the front door.

  “Most impressive. Thank you, Atwood.”

  Viscount Kendall offered Carter his hand and the two men shook hands in farewell. Then with a polite bow in Emma’s direction, Lord Kendall quit the room.

  “We’ll show ourselves out,” Carter told a clearly exhausted Lady Sybil, who was leaning heavily on the back of a brocade chair.

  “Wait!” The older woman moved forward and gave Carter a swift hug, then embraced Emma, pressing her cheek briefly against hers. “I will not soon forget your kindness today, nor that of your sisters.”

  “My one regret is that it was needed,” Emma replied. “Please send word when you are ready to receive visitors and Dorothea and I will come to see you.”

  Lady Sybil smiled.

  Carter’s carriage was waiting when they stepped out onto the portico. Emma accepted the footman’s assistance as she ascended into the vehicle and settled herself on the forward-facing seat.

  Sitting with her back to the horses sometimes caused a queasy stomach, and though it was a short ride home she had no wish to test fate. They had already experienced far too much drama for one day.

  “Thank you for staying and helping,” Carter said as the carriage drove through the open wrought-iron gates. “Dorothea did not wish to abandon Lady Sybil in her hour of distress, but it was obvious that my wife was tiring. The only reason Dorothea finally agreed to go home was because you offered to stay.”

  “I’m glad that Gwen and I were finally able to convince her to go. The only thing that worked was reminding Dorothea that a woman in her condition needed to be thinking of her health and the precious bundle she carried.”

  The marquess coughed loudly and color seeped into his cheeks. Was that a blush? From her powerful, aristocratic brother-in-law?

  Hiding her smile, Emma glanced down at her lap.

  “Yes, well, I should have surmised that Dorothea would share this news with her sisters, even though the doctor warned her it is still early stages and the possibility of complications exists.”

  Emma’s head jerked upward at the thread of deep concern edging Carter’s voice. “Dorothea has told us she is feeling wonderful, in fact even better than with her other pregnancies. Both Philip and Nicole were healthy babies and remain so as they have grown older. There’s no reason not to expect the same outcome this time.”

  Carter smiled. “’Tis true my son and daughter are rarely ill, even with a cold. However, ’tis not the babe’s health that worries me, but Dorothea’s. She was a younger woman when they were born. Philip is six and Nicole will soon be five.”

  “Dorothea is still a young woman!” Emma insisted, yet she did understand Carter’s point.

  Much to the disappointment of Dorothea and Carter, there had been no other pregnancies since Nicole’s birth five years ago. Her sister confessed that she had nearly given up hope that she would ever bring another child into this world, making this pregnancy all the more surprising and joyful.

  “Nevertheless, we must watch Dorothea carefully and make certain she does not overtax her strength,” Carter said solemnly. “’Tis another reason that I am so pleased that you have decided to stay with us. I know that I can count on your assistance.”

  “The promise of another child means everything to my sister,” Emma said. “She will be sensible.”

  A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed swiftly by a loud crack of thunder. Emma and Carter exchanged a look.

  “We shouldn’t be surprised this day is ending in a storm,” Carter quipped, as a blast of wet mist blew in through the open window.

  “It has been rather horrid,” Emma agreed as she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head to avoid getting her face wet. “Poor Viscount Kendall. I still don’t understand how any woman with a conscience could act so cruelly toward a man she had agreed to marry.”

  “I don’t know Dianna Winthrope very well, however I suppose ’tis possible that she will come to her senses, regret her actions, and return here one day, full of apologies and regret,” Carter speculated.

  “To what end?” Emma questioned. “I cannot think that any man would be kindly disposed toward a woman who rejected him in a most humiliating, public way.”

  For some reason the idea of Dianna returning disturbed Emma. She believed in forgiveness, but seeing Viscount Kendall’s raw pain made an impression on her that was not easily forgotten.

  Carter shrugged. “I have long given up trying to understand the oddities of male and female relationships. ’Tis challenge enough keeping myself in your sister’s good graces.”

  “Keeps you on a short lead, does she?” Emma teased, knowing that was far from the truth. Dorothea loved her husband deeply and he returned that love and affection tenfold.

  Theirs was a marriage of equals, the type of relationship Emma would have wanted if she could have married the man she loved.

  Carter burst out laughing. “I do believe that you, Emma, are the boldest of the three Ellingham sisters. And that, indeed, is certainly an extraordinary accomplishment.”

  Chapter Three

  The following spring

  A persistent whimpering broke through the calm of the nursery. Emma, seated in a cozy chair near the open window, glanced down at the chubby babe on her lap. Harold James Joseph Grayson squirmed and fussed, arching his back as the whimpers emanating from the back of his throat grew louder.

  Emma grasped the infant under his arms and lifted her four-month-old nephew close to her face, gently pressing her nose against his. “What’s wrong, little man? Don’t you like me anymore? I believed that we had become the best of friends during our daily afternoon visits.”

  Harold grew quiet and smiled briefly at the sound of her voice, but then his features scrunched with distress and he let out another whimper. Emma held him tightly as he kicked his legs and shoved a closed fist into his mouth.

  “Oh, goodness, he looks just like Carter when he makes that face,” Dorothea said with a laugh.

  “A most unflattering observation,” Emma said. “Yet true.”

  Still laughing, Dorothea reached out and took her son. “He must be hungry.”

  With a sigh of motherly wisdom, Dorothea expertly cradled her son in one arm and opened her bodice with the opposite hand. She put the squalling infant to her breast and he instantly quieted, his noisy suckles of contentment filling the nursery.

  Fascinated, Emma watched her sister and wondered what it would feel like to do the same. To birth a child, to nourish, love, care for, and cherish this miraculous life you created. It must be an extraordinary feeling.

  Though he had his own nurse, an affectionate middle-aged widow who had also cared for Philip and Nicole when they were infants, Dorothea often tended to the babe’s needs herself.

  “Cousin Agatha would be scandalized if she saw you now,” Emma teased, referring to one of their very proper, distant relations.

  Dorothea smiled. “Well, it never took much to bring on her vapors and start a lecture on the importance of a woman maintaining appropriate behavior under any circumstances. A marchioness nursing her own child—unthinkable!”

  “Unfashionable,” Emma added, proud that her sister had the will to follow her heart and do what she believed was best for her children, no matter what others thought.

  “What I do in the privacy of my own home is of no c
oncern to others,” Dorothea stated firmly.

  “Except me,” Carter declared as he walked into the room. He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on Dorothea’s brow, then ruffled the few silky strands of hair on the babe’s head. “And I approve of all that you do, my love. How is my youngest son today?”

  “Hungry.” Dorothea grinned. “As usual.”

  “Hmm.” Carter leaned closer to his wife. “I find myself a bit envious of young Harold,” he said in a low, seductive tone.

  Dorothea blushed. Emma felt the heat bloom in her own cheeks and was glad she couldn’t hear the rest of their whispered conversation, since it was slowly turning her sister’s face a most impressive shade of red.

  “Shouldn’t you be meeting with the estate agent?” Dorothea asked breathlessly.

  Carter straightened. “Actually, there are several ledgers awaiting me in my study that require my attention. Though I can assure you, there are other places I would much prefer to . . .”

  Emma didn’t catch the last of the sentence and though it seemed impossible, Dorothea’s face grew even redder.

  “You had best be on your way, Carter,” Dorothea squeaked. She cleared her throat several times after her husband left, refusing to meet Emma’s eye.

  For a brief instant, Emma felt the urge to pick up a pencil or piece of chalk and begin sketching, intrigued with the notion of capturing her sister’s flustered, blushing expression. But as usual, the moment passed as swiftly as it came.

  Emma sighed softly. Her art remained an elusive, frustrating creature, impossible to seize. It saddened her, even scared her, but she had finally succeeded in pushing the loss of her artistic fire and passion into a dark corner of her mind. Obsessing over it had not been the solution—it had only made her more miserable.

  Instead, she had spent the past year analyzing her life and with steely determination succeeded in concentrating only on the positive.

  She liked living with Dorothea and Carter. They treated her with kindness and respect, never once making her feel as though she was a burden or intruding in their lives.

  She was a valued member of their family and was grateful for the love and generosity they bestowed upon her. Her nephew Philip and niece Nicole were a joy to be around. They were sweet, inquisitive, and high-spirited children and never failed to make Emma laugh.