Chapter 17
By the time Hart closed the door on his brother’s departing figure, his thoughts were disordered. Glancing again at the tall-case clock, he made up his mind that he would go immediately to Chesterfield Street to speak to Emeline.
And say what, exactly?
Monte followed close at his heels, clearly intending to be included in his master’s plans. “No, you are not going with me,” he informed the dog. “You will remain here with William… That is, if he has the consideration to ever return from his errand.”
Just then, the garden door could be heard closing, and Hart’s pulse quickened. When William came into the stair hall, he looked surprised to see both Hart and Monte waiting for him.
“Is anything amiss, my lord?”
He couldn’t help himself. “You were able to deliver Miss St. Briac safely to her door?”
“I was,” replied William, brows aloft.
Remembering Emeline’s cool demeanor when they parted, Hart wanted to know more.
Had she betrayed any emotion during the carriage ride to Chesterfield Street?
Anger? Hurt? But if he pursued this line of questioning with William, who had known him since he was in short coats, he would be revealing too much.
“Fine. Thank you,” Hart said, avoiding the older man’s keen gaze. “And now, I need you to wait here, with Monte, while I see to some…business.”
“Of course, my lord.” William nodded, still watchful. “And you will recall that many of the new furnishings will be delivered within the hour, so I was already planning to remain here to receive them.” He paused. “You will return to advise where you would like the items placed?”
Bloody hell. This entire situation, which of course included Emeline, began to feel like a runaway horse. “Yes. I’ll return, but I can’t give you a time.”
With that, Hart left through the rear door. The last thing he wanted today was to encounter anyone else on the street outside his new home.
He had walked a short distance before he realized he had neglected to pick up not only gloves and walking stick, but also his hat.
With each breath, it felt as if a steel band was squeezing his chest, and his thoughts were conflicted.
A part of him wanted to go to Emeline and not only ask her forgiveness for losing control that day in the library…
but also tell her—what? That his existence had not been the same since she rushed into it and now, he couldn’t live without her?
This made his mouth go dry as dust.
Lost in his own jumbled thoughts, Hart narrowly missed colliding with an old woman selling apples.
“Watch yerself, son!” she cried.
He drew out some coins and gave them to her without even looking at them. Overjoyed, the old woman pressed an apple into his hands. “Bless ye!”
Hart was too preoccupied to thank her. Passing a young boy in tattered clothes, he gave him the apple and continued on.
His mind seemed at last to clear as he thought about the house he had so impulsively purchased.
Was he going to lie to himself about the reason?
Better to face facts. It hadn’t been for Monte, but for Emeline.
And for him, with her! Some mad part of him had begun to dream of a life he had never allowed himself to imagine.
But then, no sooner had Hart brought her through the door, than he had succumbed to lust and ravished her. His body felt hot at the memory of those stolen moments, of her unashamed passion, of how damned close he had come to stealing her innocence forever.
Surely the alternative was impossible. Emeline deserved a proper courtship, but her father would never accept him as a suitor, let alone a son-in-law!
And even if St. Briac should agree, it would mean that Hart must change his entire way of life.
Scrub away the stains of the past and emerge a different man.
He gave a cynical laugh. Absurd!
And yet…in the deepest recess of his soul, he yearned to believe.
He saw Emeline’s radiant face, gazing up at him in the shadows, and her parting words came back to him: “Perhaps when next we meet, you will be saner.”
Turning onto Chesterfield Street, Hart paused, leaning against a railing of a wrought-iron fence.
He drew a deep breath, imagining himself telling her the truth of how he felt.
Truth. A cold chill ran down his back, and suddenly nearly three decades fell away.
It was the twins’ fifth birthday, and he was standing next to Austell in Caversham Castle’s gothic library, facing their father, the duke.
“It’s time you boys knew the truth,” intoned His Grace, even more impassive than usual.
“Yes, you are twins, but Austell came into the world first, and he will inherit the dukedom.” Something akin to a smile had caused his thin lips to twitch as he patted the smaller twin’s shoulder.
“Austell, you shall henceforth be known as the Marquess of Hartcliffe and be expected to comport yourself accordingly.”
Turning to Hart, the duke had raised his quizzing glass, waiting.
“Nothing to say to it, Jasper?” His father gave a low snort of amusement, and Hart hadn’t been able to speak.
As the duke stared at him, his words seemed to freeze in his throat.
“Perhaps it is fortunate that Austell is the heir!” sneered his father. “It wouldn’t do to have a silent duke.”
Damn him. Up until that day, the brothers had somehow assumed that Hart, who was taller, stronger, and bolder, must be the first born. The future duke.
After the old duke’s announcement that day, Austell had waited until the two of them were alone, outside in the woods, before he burst out, “Why didn’t they tell us sooner, Jasper? Why was it kept a secret?”
But Hart’s younger self could only shrug, his eyes stinging, unable to utter a reply to his brother’s question.
It wasn’t that, even at five years of age, he wanted to be the one, but it hadn’t felt right.
Something cold in the duke’s eyes had made it seem he had chosen Austell…
and rejected Hart. Of course, that couldn’t be.
They were twins! Austell simply must have been born first.
Drawing a painful breath, Hart closed his eyes for a long moment and shoved the past back into the mental cave that he had long endeavored to block off.
The creamy ivory facade of the house on Chesterfield Street was only a few yards away. Straightening, Hart envisioned Emeline’s face, her shining eyes searching his face, her lips parted to welcome his kiss, and he went forward.
It wasn’t until he was in front of the house that he recognized Viscount Melford’s elegant carriage. No surprise, of course. Perhaps Emeline had left something behind during her hasty departure with Hart, and Melford was returning it.
Hart turned toward the house, but before he could start down the walk, a movement in the bow window caught his eye. He stopped, and his heart jumped. Inside the parlor, two figures were clearly visible.
Viscount Tobias Melford and Emeline.
They were standing close together, smiling at one another. As Hart watched, Melford gently put a hand on Emeline’s cheek. She covered his hand with hers. God, how right they look together. A memory flared: watching as Louise wrote Viscount Tobias Melford at the top of Emeline’s Bridegroom List.
Hart’s gut clenched as he grappled with another kind of truth: That is the sort of man she deserves.
Kind, titled, intelligent, wealthy, respectable.
A solid pillar among the ton, not an outcast like Hart.
And although Melford might lust after Emeline, he behaved as a gentleman.
Of course, she would deny that she wanted such respectful treatment, but clearly her judgement was impaired.
Another snippet of conversation came back to him: We are both rather misfits in London society, don’t you think so?
Hart shook his dark head. Emeline didn’t understand that she was above him. She deserved so much more.
Turning away from the house before he was noticed, Hart took a few steps in the opposite direction and paused. How close he had come to doing something mad, to taking Emeline’s hand and leading her down a road that was certain to bring her pain in the future.
Even if Melford did not court and marry her, it was clear now that someone else with the same fine attributes would. Hart just needed to get out of the way.
As he retraced his steps back to Wigmore Street, he felt the storm inside him begin to calm…then go blessedly silent. He had spent years practicing ways to flatten those turbulent emotions, and it was a relief to know it was still possible.
Hart knew a second surge of relief as he realized he didn’t need the blasted house after all.
He would go to Lisbon, as planned! Once there, he could find myriad ways to forget about this London debacle.
It was a lesson, after all, not to allow himself to become embroiled in the lives of others.
If he hadn’t surrendered to an urge to help Austell, which led to the agreement to help St. Briac with his captivating daughter, none of this would have happened.
The misplaced key was distance—and had been since Jasper the little boy withheld his words for a full year to remain at a distance from his father.
Think of Lisbon, he told himself, seeking distraction. He waited for the familiar rush of anticipation that always accompanied the move to a completely different place, with new ways to sin, yet even as Hart quickened his pace, he felt nothing.
“I know you hesitate to invite the attentions of a gentleman,” Tobias said earnestly. As he spoke, he brought one hand to her cheek. “But I beg you to consider. I admire your intelligence and ingenuity. I will give you the freedom you need to pursue your own interests.”