The Lord Pretender, page 24
She closed her eyelid and remained still while concentrating on the sound of his voice. What was he saying?
“She is of no consequence to me now. I will uphold my duty to her, but nothing further.”
“Dodie holds no fondness for the woman. Nor do I.”
Emma squirmed in the wake of the crushing confession, drawing a gasp from Jess. “She is stirring!”
Emma rose to her elbows, and with help from Jess, reached a sitting position. One downward glance told her that she’d returned to her natural body. However, Simon’s callous words robbed her of what should have been pure euphoria. She lifted her gaze to find him smiling down at her as if he’d just offered her praise instead of humiliation.
The duplicitous scoundrel!
Simon knelt before Emma and grasped her hand. His smile grew wider. “Miss Watts. In light of our very public kiss, I must offer for your hand. It is only right that I do so.”
She blinked rapidly, recalling his words.
“I will uphold my duty to her, but nothing further.”
She yanked her hand free as rage carved a channel through her soul. She pushed him away and rolled to her feet with the aid of Jess. When Simon approached, she planted a palm to his chest.
“Not another step, my lord.” The channel spilled over into restrained but quivering words. “I refuse to live as the object of duty. Of obligation. Of pity.”
“But—”
“I am not finished!” When the seemingly shocked Simon clamped his mouth shut, she claimed a small measure of victory. Let him be silent. Let him hear me. “I would rather die a spinster in a crumbling townhouse than become the subject of another’s misguided and apathetic sense of responsibility. You are just what I thought you were, Lord Blackburn. A callous and uncaring man at ease with the manipulation of others. No different from your mother.”
He leaned away from her then, his eyes wide with incomprehension. “See here, Emma.”
“I am Miss Watts to you, my lord.” She swept past him, nearly stumbling from vertigo. When he caught her elbow, she yanked it free and strode away. “Do not follow me. Ever.”
Pain welled up inside Emma as she walked, and none of it physical. In her mounting grief, she barely remembered to aim for Number Thirty-Seven rather than stalk all the way to Mayfair. His coldhearted proclamation revolved through her mind, echoing louder with each turn.
She is of no consequence to me now.
He had betrayed her completely! The accidental collision in the street? The chance encounter in Finegold’s bookshop? She groaned with anguish. She had been right all along. He had manipulated her like a pawn on a chessboard, all part of his grand plan to expose her. His kind words these past weeks had been but a ruse meant to control her long enough to regain his body. And she had fallen for it, foolish girl that she was! Only the unfortunate public kiss had muddied his plan, inconveniently forcing an offer of marriage. How it must gall him!
She shouldered open the door and pushed her way into Aunt Gertie’s house. The deathly silence spoke of its yawning emptiness. With the floodgates opening, she hurried upstairs to her chambers, threw herself on the unmade bed, and began to weep.
Chapter Thirty-One
The next morning, Simon paced back and forth in front of Number Thirty-Seven Red Lion Square while chasing wildly careening thoughts. Now returned to his original body, he found pacing easier, due to the longer stride and lack of a skirt, though he did miss the comfort of going without pants. With the sun at high noon, he certainly could have used a bonnet instead of his nearly useless beaver hat. Who had decided that wearing a phallic symbol on one’s head was somehow the height of fashion, and why hadn’t that person been publicly flogged? He shoved aside the wayward musing to again examine Emma’s reaction the previous day when she’d awakened from the truly earth-shaking kiss. He had offered his hand, and she’d slapped it away, just like when they’d first met. What had she been thinking? Had she just been using him? He needed to know or otherwise lose his mind.
Simon paced back and forth twice more before inhaling a deep breath and mounting the steps to the door. He raised the knocker and let it fall. Hopefully, Emma was at home. Hopefully, she wasn’t. He couldn’t decide. The door creaked open and Elise peered out. A smile of delight began to form on her face before she must have remembered to take offense. She dropped a minor curtsy.
“My lord. How might I be of service?”
“I have come to call on Miss Watts.”
“She is not taking callers just now. Perhaps you might try again next year.”
Simon stifled a smile at Elise’s admirable defense on behalf of her sister. The smile became a memory as he realized the underlying meaning of her words. Emma did not want to see him.
At all.
He nearly bowed and took his leave, but caught himself. He was the Earl of Blackburn! He would not be dismissed by a fifteen-year-old girl still wearing bows. When he instead loomed over Elise, she lost the mission and smiled admiringly at him. He cleared his throat.
“Miss Elise, please inform Miss Watts that Lord Blackburn wishes a conversation with her and will not leave until she makes an appearance.”
There. He said it. That should do.
“Very well,” she said. When he began to step through the door, she slammed it against his foot and raised a palm. “But you must wait here, my lord.”
He blinked with surprise and did as he was told, though he glanced up to check for a cauldron of boiling oil. At least they hadn’t gone that far to keep him away. Surely a positive sign, no? He spun his hat in his hands and waited. And waited. And waited longer. He was huffing like a horse by the time the door opened again.
And there stood Emma, looking just as fine as he remembered, all curves and raven hair and flashing green eyes. She wore the same black dress she’d worn when he had knocked her to the pavement. And fallen in love with her at first sight, he only just realized. She let the door drift fully open but remained six feet behind it.
“Lord Blackburn. Do you wish me to hail you a cab?”
“No.” He kept his tone civil at great expense to his pride. “I wish to have a word with you.”
“Consider it had.” She began closing the door but he stopped it halfway with the slap of his palm.
“We need to talk, Emma.”
“You may call me Miss Watts.” The flare of her nostrils told Simon that her reaction was more than simple disregard. She seemed to now hate him again. He clenched his jaw, feeling like a cigar butt tossed into the gutter after serving its purpose. However, there was something more to this. But what?
“You are angry. That much is clear.”
“Bravo, my lord. You can read facial expressions nearly as well as any toddler.”
His civility began to slip and he took a theatrical step backward. “Pardon me while I retreat to avoid the spray of your acid tongue.”
“You have not yet seen my fire.”
“Perhaps you should temper your passion, then.”
He’d hoped his reply would call her into challenge, to draw her into frank conversation. However, he watched with dismay as the fight bled from her eyes and she dropped them to regard the floor.
“You would never say that to a man,” she said sadly. “What earns a man leadership renders a woman a witch.”
The pain of her accusation pricked him, and he reached forward with one hand. “I did not mean to insinuate…”
She held a palm to him and looked away. “No, my lord. I could never trust a man who would toy with my emotions and then consider me of no consequence. I cannot respect a man who has spent weeks as a woman and yet learned nothing. Your dragging of my father to the horse races pales in comparison to your destruction of me. You should go now.”
She closed the door slowly, and this time, he stayed his hand until the latch clicked. He closed his eyes and envisioned her final expression. Hurt. He had wounded Emma, but he wasn’t sure how. Of no consequence to him? Dragging her father to the races? How could she believe such things?
With creeping insight, the possible truth came to him. Though he had encouraged and supported her, he had never spoken to Emma the words of a lover. Since the day he’d learned who she was, he had never revealed his passion to her because he couldn’t forget that she wore his face. He hadn’t been able to grasp her by the lapels and smother her with kisses until she knew in the deepest recesses of her soul that he loved her fiercely and forever would.
Simon glanced up again, hoping for boiling oil. Still none. He punitively jammed his hat on his head, descended the steps, and began wandering toward no destination in particular.
…
After closing the door, Emma made it as far as the staircase before losing her barely maintained resolve. She plopped onto the bottom step, buried her face in her hands, and wondered how.
How could I fall for a man who used me?
How could I have believed that an attractive and titled man could fall for me?
And why isn’t he as decent as his best friend?
She had almost forgiven the Prometheans for Simon’s sake. Instead, he had turned out to be the worst of the lot. And yet she loved him—despite what he’d done to her family. Hatred would have proven far superior to love, for animosity would not ache so deeply and permanently. She recalled the stolen kisses, the tender touches, the bewildering improbability of wearing his body and falling for him even as he wore hers. That improbability had led her inexorably toward a deeper hope—that she could be loved by him, no matter what.
She had been wrong.
And she would forever regret her mistake.
Emma sat for a time on the step, waving away the concern of Elise, her mother, and Aunt Gertie. Eventually, the older women gave up and left Emma to her grief. Elise lingered, though. She took a seat on the step and hugged Emma ferociously.
“I’m glad you’ve returned,” she whispered.
Emma blinked with surprise. “What do you mean by that?”
“I’m not sure.” Elise stood and began climbing the steps. “But I mean it nonetheless.”
“Thank you,” Emma said to Elise’s back. The girl waved a hand and disappeared into the drawing room at the top of the stairs. Finally left alone, Emma returned to the noxious stew of her sad revelations and dismal regrets, content to spend the rest of her life perched on the bottom tread of Number Thirty-Seven. However, the world conspired to intrude. After an indeterminate period, the clack of the knocker roused her. She lifted her head, waited, and the knocker thumped again.
Was Simon back? So soon? She quashed rising hope and instead gathered anger to envelope her like a poison fog. Rising from the step, Emma crossed the small foyer and yanked open the door, ready to fling her grief at the one who’d caused it. The stranger at the door stalled vengeance in its tracks. He was older, finely dressed and clutching a walking stick, and backed by an ornate coach with two drivers and a pair of footmen. She recognized the seal on the coach’s door.
The infamous Lord Velator!
She curtsied deeply, understanding how he valued obeisance, particularly from women. “How may I help you, my lord?”
One side of his upper lip quivered as he assessed her briefly. “So, it appears you know who I am.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And you are Miss Watts?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are the one who would ruin my little club and, in doing so, tarnish your father’s memory?”
A shiver rattled through Emma. Was this Simon’s revenge? To send the chief Promethean to her very doorstep? To do…what? Instead of wilting before Velator, as most would, Emma stretched her spine and blocked the threshold. She would not make him welcome regardless of his lofty status. She was getting very practiced at that skill.
“Why have you come, Lord Velator?” She was pleased with the chill of her words. He lifted an eyebrow and his features pinched—a harbinger of a coming set-down. However, he managed to force a smile, oily though it was.
“As you seem in the mood for frankness, I shall not stoop to pleasantries.”
He lifted his walking stick to grasp it with both hands. Emma leaned away and blinked, preparing for a blow to the head. Instead, he simply spun the stick before returning its point to the ground. “Lord Blackburn has convinced me to hear your grievance against the Prometheans. Do you accept?”
Emma balked. Was Simon trying to make amends? If so, she shouldn’t allow it. However, her treasonous heart leaped in her chest at the mere possibility of it, and before she could decline, her heart spoke.
“I accept.”
“Very well,” said Velator curtly. “Do you know the direction of our club?”
“I do.”
“Good. Present yourself there today, four o’clock sharp.”
He tapped the brim of his hat with the stick, spun about, and returned to his coach. Emma stared in disbelief as the vehicle departed Red Lion Square. Would she have her day in court? She closed the door, infused with hope. If she couldn’t ruin them, then at least she might revel in recounting their crimes in the very center of their precious citadel. Her rising smile melted as memories of Simon’s friends rambled through her thoughts. Middleton, Sir Peter, and Sir Christopher. And a few others who seemed decent. Many others, actually.
“Pull yourself together,” she whispered. “This is no time to wither.”
She marched upstairs to freshen up and to prepare her speech. Simon wanted her to temper her passion? To submit? She’d show him the opposite. She’d show them all.
Two hours later, Emma descended the stairs to leave. At the sound of footsteps behind her, she turned to find her mother following with a pinched brow. She caught Emma at the door threshold.
“You appear to be leaving the house.” The statement held a hint of incredulity and a heap of concern.
“Yes, Mother,” Emma replied. “I have business to attend to.”
“With Lord Blackburn?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Her mother touched Emma’s hair lightly. “You look well. Are you?”
Emma hugged her neck. “I will be. Don’t worry.”
She pulled away and touched the door handle before pausing to cast a final glance at her mother. “If you had known what was to become of Father, would you have married him still?”
The older woman tilted her head and sighed. “Of course. Without regret.”
“Why?”
“Because, my dear, no person is without fault. When we marry another, we pledge to cherish their best, forgive their worst, and learn to love everything in the vast middle. Your father’s worst was dismaying, but it does not erase the rest of who he was. If we judge one another solely by our worst moments, then we are all condemned.”
Emma blotted moisture from both eyes with the back of her hand. “Thank you.”
She slipped outside without another word. No sooner had she reached the pavement than Mr. Birkenhead strode up beside her, hat in hand. She put her head down as if he was no more than an apparition, but he blocked her path. She impaled him with an icy glare. She had no time for his advances. “May I help you, Mr. Birkenhead?”
He smiled and shook his head. “No, Miss Watts. It is I who may help you. Despite the taint of yesterday’s scandal in the square, I have decided to continue courting you.”
Emma’s ire began to rise. “I do not require your charity and you were never courting me.”
“See here,” he said while shaking a finger. “You will regret speaking to me in such a cold manner when we are married.”
The dam of Emma’s restraint burst with the force of the Thames in flood. She slapped away his finger to plant hers directly in the center of his chest. “Regret? Regret? Hah! What a lark. I have survived a lightning strike. Twice! I have overcome the death of my father and the loss of my home, stood before the beau monde unintimidated, and stared down a dragon without blinking. I will certainly survive the likes of you.”
“But, but—”
“I am not finished.” She removed her finger from his chest. “I am a lady still. You, Mr. Birkenhead, are a worm with no hope of leaving the dirt. If you dare speak to me again—even a word of greeting—I will rain fire upon you. I will bury you so deep that Cromwell’s headless ghost will be jealous.”
Emma stepped around the odious man and left him gasping in her wake. Her footfalls, which had felt so heavy before, barely touched the pavement. With one adversary set down, she was ready to face the rest. She walked briskly along Broad Street before turning left onto Compton as she angled toward Bond Street. Coaches, carriages, and horses clattered past her, settling into the background of her notice. Emma’s attention shifted when a coach halted after passing her and its door opened. Simon? Overcome by curiosity, she continued forward to peek inside. A familiar figure watched her from within, tall and wearing dark clothing.
The Clock Man!
He beckoned with a long finger. “Step inside, Miss Watts.”
No! Not now! She considered fleeing. However, if she had learned anything these past weeks as herself and as Lord Blackburn, avoiding problems only compounded them. She gathered her resolve and stepped to the coach door. The occupant offered a hand to lift her inside, which she declined as she climbed up. In the dim light of the interior, she saw a woman sitting beside the Clock Man. He motioned for Emma to sit on the opposite bench, which she did.
“Miss Watts.” He tilted his head toward the unknown woman. “Miss Gray. Miss Gray, Miss Watts.”
Emma dipped her chin toward the woman, who nodded in return. She was young, slim, as austere as the man by her side, and armed with a notebook and pencil. Emma met the Clock Man’s eyes. “Have you come to collect your debt? Your favor?”
The shadowy man folded his hands and tapped his thumbs together, a wisp of a smile on his face. “I have. Does the prospect disturb you?”
