Bewitched Page 7

  “Austere”—that was the word that came to Emily’s mind as she viewed the woman. Indeed, everything about her, from her ramrod straight posture to the rigid perfection of her severely coiffed white hair bespoke a nature of exacting formality. Even her jewels, which sparkled from each of her gnarled fingers, her wrinkled throat, her ears, and both bony wrists, seemed calculated to intimidate rather than dazzle the observer with their glitter and flash.

  And here she’d been thinking that her grandmother was a terror! Why, compared to the dowager duchess of Sherrington, her grandmother looked as harmless as a newborn lamb.

  As she watched, the lamb plopped down on the settee next to her bosom-bow, wagging one plump finger beneath the duchess’s high-bridged nose as she scolded her for spoiling their beloved Michael. The duchess snorted and responded in a voice far too low to carry to where she stood. Whatever it was the woman said apparently had something to do with Emily, for in the next instant both gazes were turned upon her.

  Her grandmother promptly frowned, as she usually did when she observed her granddaughter, while the duchess’s sharp-eyed gaze swept Emily’s length, her thin lips pursing as if she didn’t at all approve of what she saw. When that gaze came to rest on Emily’s face, her steely gray eyes narrowed and she ejaculated, “Really, Effie. I simply cannot imagine what could have possessed you to allow the chit to go about looking so.”

  “Looking how?” her grandmother inquired, visibly perplexed.

  “Like a dollymop. Why, just look at her!” The duchess flung her hand in Emily’s direction, the enormous gems in her rings exploding with fire as they flashed through air. “She’s painted brighter than a Covent Garden harlot. If you cannot see that for yourself, then you’re in worse need of spectacles than I suspected.”

  “My granddaughter most certainly does not paint. She doesn’t have to,” her grandmother rebutted, looking genuinely offended. “Like all the women of my blood, Emily is a natural beauty. If you cannot see that, then I suggest that you get spectacles.”

  “Natural? Bah! My sight isn’t so far gone that I don’t know rouge when I see it.”

  Rouge? Emily raised her hands to her face. Oh, my! She’d completely forgotten about the problem of her cheeks, but of course they were a horrid shade of red. They had to be after all she’d endured in the past few moments. Prompted by her embarrassment to explain, she blurted out, “It’s true, your grace. My color is natural. My cheeks blush like this whenever I am in any way overwrought.” As an afterthought, she curtsied.

  “Indeed?” The duchess seemed to consider her words, then beckoned for her to approach with a brusque flick of her index finger. Obediently, Emily did as she directed. When she stood before the woman, the duchess icily inquired, “Do you also always speak so rudely out of turn when you are overwrought?”

  Emily started, taken aback by the woman’s censure. Not quite certain what else to do, she stammered, “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Truly I didn’t. I just wished to explain about my cheeks.”

  “Did I ask you to explain?” the duchess quizzed, eyeing her as if she were an insect she wished to squash.

  “No, but—”

  The woman cut her off with a stabbing hand motion. “There you go again, speaking out of turn. If you will recall, I did not ask you to explain, I inquired as to whether or not I had asked you to explain about your cheeks, to which the correct response is a simple no.” She transferred her hateful gaze back to Emily’s grandmother. “I see that I was correct in assuming that her father had neglected her training. She is an utter hoyden.”

  Emily’s back went up at the horrible woman’s criticism of her beloved father, and she felt her cheeks burn yet hotter.

  “Of course, it is to be expected that she be somewhat gauche,” the duchess continued in her cold, clipped voice. “She is, after all, an American, and everyone knows that Americans are barbaric creatures. Add that unfortunate fact to the even less auspicious one that she was raised amongst men, and it is a wonder that she doesn’t take snuff and curse like a sailor.”

  Gauche? Barbaric? “How dare you say such dreadful things about Americans!” Emily exploded, filled with patriotic indignation. “Why, we are no more barbaric than you English with your arranged marriages and your archaic social order. In many ways we are far more civilized. In America—”

  “Silence!” her grandmother barked. “You will bridle your tongue this instant, and apologize to her grace.”

  “I will do no such thing!” Emily shot back, too incensed to be checked. “I am tired of being ordered about, and insulted, and treated without the least bit of consideration, just because I happen to be young and an American. For your information, I am exceedingly proud of being American—doubly so now that I have seen your polite English society. Indeed, I can now see why America fought so hard for its independence.” “Emily—” her grandmother growled. But Emily wasn’t finished yet. Far from it. Ignoring her grandmother, she continued, “Never in my life have I seen such a rude, narrow-minded, insufferably pretentious group of people as you English nobles. You and your kind have made me despise it here! So much so, that had I any choice at all in the matter, which of course I haven’t, I would return to Boston this very moment. Boston might not be as elegant as London, or have as many comforts and amenities, but at least I was treated with respect there and allowed to speak my mind. In truth, I pity you aristocratic English women—” “Emily—” her grandmother interrupted again. “No, no, Effie. Do not hush her. I truly wish to hear her out,” the duchess interjected. Rather than look insulted, she seemed almost pleased by Emily’s outburst. Nodding, she added, “Pray do enlighten us as to why we are so pitiful, Miss Merriman.”

  Emily nodded back. “I pity you because you are raised to be little more than shallow, supercilious ornaments; ornaments who are afraid to speak your minds or follow your hearts for fear of breaking one of the stupid, oppressive rules set forth by your society. Those rules, which you follow so blindly, leave you utterly impotent, something that frustrates you so much that you must empower yourselves in the only way allowed by your noble circle: by controlling and meddling in the lives of those more vulnerable. You prey upon women younger, or poorer, or more inexperienced than yourselves, using your petty gossip, snubs, and civilized threats as weapons of intimidation to bend them to your will. What saddens me most is how easily those women bend. Having been raised to view expulsion from the ton as a fate worse than death, they honestly believe it better to tolerate your bullying than to take a stand and risk having to face the frightening unfamiliarity of freedom.” By now she was out of breath, having spoken in an impassioned rush.

  As she caught her breath, the duchess inquired rather drily, “Are you quite finished?”

  Emily shook her head. Gulping in a deep breath, she added, “Furthermore, on the point of my brothers and father, unlike your fine English noblemen, they never once took snuff or cursed in my presence. They always behaved in a manner befitting the title gentleman.”

  There was a chuckle behind her, then a very masculine, very genteel voice drawled, “You must concede that she does have a point there, Grandmother. We British noblemen do have a most regrettable habit of cursing in front of the ladies.”

  Emily gasped and swung around, her cheeks burning almost to the point of incineration at the sight of the man standing just inside the door. The duke, of course. It could be no one else. Her mouth went as dry as it had been the time she’d sampled a sea biscuit. Goodness! Was everyone in Dartmoor so very tall? Though he wasn’t as tall as Grimshaw, the duke of Sherrington stood at least two inches above six feet.

  “Michael, my dearest boy. Do come and give me a hug. It has been a very long while since I last saw you, and I have missed you dreadfully,” a dulcet voice cooed.

  Emily frowned. Surely that wasn’t her grandmother’s voice she was hearing, so kind and full of warmth? Stunned by the very no
tion that the tyrant could sound so benevolent, she glanced quickly at her grandmother. She now stood with her arms outstretched and her plump face soft with doting affection. When the duke strode over and dutifully obliged her with the requested hug, she positively glowed with delight.

  “My dearest, darling love. Whatever have you been doing with yourself? You are so very thin,” her grandmother tenderly scolded, enfolding him in her eager embrace.

  He is thin, Emily thought, noting the hollows at his temples and beneath his cheekbones as he swooped down to kiss her grandmother. Far, far too thin. And pale. Why, his skin was positively ashen, as if he were desperately—

  Ill? Her breath caught in her throat. Of all the flaws she had imagined the duke might have, it had never even crossed her mind that he might be an invalid. Now that she saw him, she perceived that that very well might be the case.

  Was this arranged marriage, then, not a wish on his part, but a necessity due to his ill health? As he straightened up again and stepped from her grandmother’s arms, she judged the answer to be yes. At the same time, she also couldn’t help noticing that her grandmother hadn’t lied about his looks. The duke of Sherrington was indeed a handsome man. Beautiful, really, or at least he would have been had his comeliness not been marred by the effects of his illness. Nonetheless, he was still more attractive than any man had a right to be. Aware that she stared, yet too fascinated to stop, Emily gloried in the splendor of the man before her.

  His hair was a dark, rich brown, the kind of brown that captured the light and gleamed with molten highlights of copper and gold. Though he wore it longer than the current fashion, it waved and curled over his high, starched collar in a way that gave it a distinctly romantic air. One thick curl had tumbled over his forehead when he’d dipped to kiss her grandmother, and now called attention to his eyes.

  Not that she could have missed those eyes. Fringed with the longest, most enviably lush lashes she had ever seen, those eyes were the brilliant, blue-tinged green of fine jade. They were, without a doubt, the most gorgeous eyes she’d ever seen. Framing them to perfection was a pair of thick, but finely arched eyebrows.

  True, the face that surrounded those remarkable eyes was far too thin and pale. Yet, despite that detraction, it was still stunning with its straight nose, high cheekbones, and strong jaw. As Emily traced the line of that jaw with her gaze, she noted that his chin had a shallow cleft. The sight of that charming feature quickened her already racing heart. She’d always had a weakness for cleft chins—and nice mouths, she added, shifting her attention to his lips. And the duke of Sherrington had a very nice mouth indeed.

  Suddenly wondering what ailed this magnificent man, Emily dropped her gaze from his face to inspect his form. His clothing, while of excellent material and cut, had clearly been made for a man with more flesh. As she eyed his loose tobacco-brown coat and green striped waistcoat, she summoned up a picture of how he would look if they fit.

  Hmmm. If they had been tailored for him when he’d been in health, it was apparent that he’d once been a fine figure of a man. Perhaps he would be so again when he recovered from whatever sickness had left him so wasted.

  Perhaps. But what if the nature of his illness was such that he never recovered? What if it was chronic … or even fatal? That last, hideous notion spawned a new and very distressing thought: Could the haste of the marriage be due to the fact that the duke was dying, and that he wished to secure his title with an heir before he expired? The tragedy of that theory wrenched at her heart, and she abruptly turned her head, not wanting him to see the tears that had suddenly flooded her eyes.

  What Michael saw was what he had seen countless times in London following his spell at Lady Kilvington’s picnic: a beautiful woman staring at him with morbid fascination, then turning away in disgust. It was the sort of reaction that had at last driven him to hide away in Dartmoor. Though it had thus been almost two years since he’d last suffered such a response, the resulting sting hadn’t lessened with absence or time.

  “Michael, love. As you have no doubt ascertained, this fetching young lady is my granddaughter, Miss Emily Merriman,” Euphemia cooed, clearly oblivious to what had just passed between the couple. “Emily, this dashing fellow is Michael Vane, the duke of Sherrington.”

  “Your grace,” Emily mumbled, dropping into a curtsy.

  Bloody hell! The chit was so repelled that she couldn’t even look at him to acknowledge the introduction. Worst yet, she sounded on the verge of tears. Silently, he damned Euphemia Merriman. Judging from the vehemence of the girl’s reaction, it was clear that she’d spilled every last, unsavory detail about his spells. Either that, or he looked even worse than he believed.

  His mouth hardened into a bitter line. Whatever the case, it was obvious that she was no more thrilled about this marriage than he. Then again, why should she be? She was being forced to marry a man whom no one in England would wed.

  Though Michael knew he should sympathize with her plight, he couldn’t. Her reaction had reminded him far too painfully of how undesirable he’d become, cutting him in a way that was impossible to ignore. Exactly why he should be so stung by her aversion to him, he couldn’t say. It wasn’t as if he actually cared what she thought of him, or anything else, for that matter. He was marrying her simply because his grandmother had given him no choice.

  Well, at least no real choice. Sly old dragon that she was, his grandmother had guessed that he’d do anything to escape returning to Bamforth Hall, even take a wife who was bound to abhor him. And she’d been right, of course. Though he hardly relished the thought of a lifetime spent suffering Miss Merriman’s snubs, it was a far more pleasant prospect than what he knew awaited him at the asylum.

  It was remembering the asylum and the misery he had suffered there that made Michael mask his resentment and cordially utter, “Welcome to Windgate Abbey, Miss Merriman. I do hope you will be happy here.” After all, as his grandmother had pointed out, the chit was his last hope for a proper marriage. She had also warned him that she would swiftly, and without further, discussion, make good her threat to commit him to Bamforth Hall should he do or say anything to turn the chit from the match. Michael didn’t doubt her word for a moment.

  As he now gazed at Miss Merriman, waiting for her to respond to his greeting, he was struck with a sudden and chilling realization: His whole future rested upon this girl agreeing to wed him. And agree she must. She must freely speak the words that would bind her to him forever, and nothing—nothing!—in either his or their grandmothers’ powers could force her to do so if she was truly set against the marriage. And if she refused to say “I do”—

  Gripped with a sickening panic at exactly what would happen in such an instance, he frantically scrambled for something more to say, anything that might make her view him with even a modicum of favor. When his mind remained paralyzed, he saw no choice but to resort to banal pleasantries. Praying that it would be enough, and that his voice wouldn’t betray his desperation, he said, “I realize how very difficult this situation must be for you, my dear. Thus, if there is anything I can do to make matters easier, anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask. As I said before, I wish you to be happy here.”

  The chit actually looked at him then. After several beats, during which her brow creased and she worried her full lower lip between her small, white teeth, she murmured, “In truth, your grace, there is something you can do.”

  Almost afraid to ask, certain that she was about to cry off from the wedding, he stiffly replied, “I believe that I said that you weren’t to hesitate to ask for whatever it is you wish.”

  “So you did. All right then. What I wish is to know if—if—” Where she had looked distressed before, she looked a hundred times more so now as she shook her head over and over again, visibly grappling for her words. Her already flushed cheeks darkening to a rich, velvety crimson, she finally stammered out, “Your g-grace, I un
derstand that this is an indelicate question, but I really must know: Are you—dying?”

  “Dying?” Michael and his grandmother echoed in shocked unison.

  “Of course he’s not dying,” Euphemia snapped. “I cannot even begin to imagine what could have prompted you to ask such an unseemly question.”

  The girl’s cheeks blazed yet brighter. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—I thought—” She shook her head again and made a helpless hand gesture. “I mean, he looks so ill that I couldn’t help wondering if perhaps the haste of this marriage is due to the fact that he is dying, and that he wishes to sire an heir before he dies.”

  Rather than be offended by her question and its suggestion that he looked bad enough to be at death’s door, Michael was relieved. The very fact that she would ask such a thing was a sure sign that she was at least considering his suit. By the same token, her question rather perplexed him, making him wonder if perhaps—

  “Good heavens, Effie! Do not tell me that you failed to inform the chit of Michael’s condition?” his grandmother expelled, eyeing her friend with consternation.

  Michael, too, stared at Euphemia. His question exactly.

  “W-e-l-l …” Euphemia shifted uncomfortably beneath their querying regard. “I really saw no reason to mention it.”

  “Condition?” Miss Merriman glanced first at him, then at her grandmother, clearly seeking an explanation.

  “Yes, condition,” Euphemia confirmed. “And the reason I didn’t say anything about it is because it is hardly worth mentioning. Michael hasn’t suffered a spell in ever so long.”

  “Nonetheless, you should have told her, if only to save Michael the discomfort of having to explain matters,” his grandmother rebuked.

  “What sort of spells?” Miss Merriman interjected, frowning.

  Euphemia and his grandmother stared at her for a moment, then looked at him, as if uncertain what to do. When he merely returned their gaze, his eyebrows slightly raised, Euphemia sighed and muttered, “They are the sort of spells where he falls to the ground and thrashes about. Since it is impossible to predict when one will occur, they have been known to transpire at some rather … ur … inopportune moments. Needless to say, such moments are distressing for both Michael and those around him.”