The Lord Pretender, page 8
Something was wrong with him.
Terribly. Wrong.
Simon fell deathly calm and opened his eyes to find slender wrists clutched in the older woman’s hands. He swallowed hard and flicked his eyes downward to view the rest of his body. His breeches, coat, and riding boots had disappeared, replaced by a…dress? A pale green dress? He knew someone who’d worn a pale green dress. Who was that? His brief speculation over who would clothe him in such a way was interrupted by the sight of his chest. Gone was the muscled expanse he expected to see. In its place were softly rounded protrusions split by, by, by…cleavage. In the most genteel manner possible, he turned his head aside and vomited onto the pillow.
A hand tapping his cheek woke him again. He must have passed out after seeing the…
He crushed the thought to ward off encroaching black spots in his vision. Instead, he closed his eyes and counted to twenty while voices whispered to one another around him. He opened his eyes again and expelled a long, cleansing breath.
“I am fine,” said the voice of his goddess. He searched for her briefly before realizing he had uttered the words. He risked a glance again at the body before gazing intently at the woman holding his wrists. She seemed to be the one in charge. “You may unhand me now. I will be still.”
Relief swept over the woman’s features and she let a single sob escape. She released the wrists. “Oh, Emma. We were so worried when it happened.”
Emma. The goddess is called Emma.
“What,” said Simon, “happened? Exactly.”
“Elise saw everything through the window. You were standing in the pouring rain in the middle of the square, arguing with a strange man. Then lightning struck the monument and you were both sent flying.”
“And the man was a peer! An earl!” said the young woman, still gripping Simon’s ankles. “Can you imagine that?”
The ferret-faced man crowded toward Simon. “And I would like to know precisely why you were with an earl. It seems such a lack of propriety given our potential agreement.”
The middle-aged woman shouldered the man away. “Mr. Birkenhead, Elise. That is not important now. It only matters that Emma was not killed and still has her wits. That she is apparently fine.”
Simon disagreed. I am not fine at all. Rather, he was shocked, terrified, and indignant all at once. What the devil happened? Did my mother arrange this somehow? Was she really a dragon, or some lesser mythical creature capable of black magic? He gathered his wits as if chasing a pocketful of coins that had scattered across a wooden floor.
“Where is the earl?” he said in that alto voice that simultaneously thrilled and appalled him.
“Mr. Simmons from Number Twenty-One hauled him to wherever he lives,” said the man. “With help from his son. A calling card in the young lord’s pocket gave the direction.”
Simon held a breath for several beats of his yammering heart. “Is he dead?”
“Mr. Simmons?”
“No.” He inhaled calmly. “The earl, you infuriating man. Is the earl dead?”
“He was not dead when they took him, Emma,” said the middle-aged woman. “But that was an hour ago.”
Simon squeezed his eyes shut. “Leave me. I require a moment to reflect.”
“Oh, no, my dear,” said the woman. “We must tend to you.”
“Of course, we must stay,” said the girl.
“We could not possibly leave you alone,” said the man.
Rage boiled up in Simon. He was terribly unused to anyone countermanding a clear order. “Get out this instant, or I will have the lot of you tossed out!”
His order echoed through the space in the voice of the goddess, but by God it sounded like him. The force of the command drove the three women from the room as if blown by a gale. The man stumbled toward the door with surprise, but stopped in the open doorframe.
“Never fear, Miss Watts,” he said with a grim smile. “I will take care of you. Despite possible damage to your person and reputation, my offer still stands.”
Simon wondered what the offer was, but the man closed the door firmly behind him as he left the room. After a moment of blessed silence, Simon sat up again. Lord. The woman’s body is still here. When he swung the legs over the side, they failed to touch the floor until he slid off the bed. He was so tiny! Despite a spinning head, he stumbled toward a small wall mirror hanging over a bureau. Graceful hands found the edges of the piece of furniture to hold him upright and he stared into the mirror.
Brilliant green eyes framed by raven eyebrows stared back in shock.
So, it was true. He occupied the body of the goddess. Miss Emma Watts, or so it would seem. He’d known another Watts, a baron. But surely not…
He continued staring, first in fascination, and then in horror. This was all so terribly wrong! Where was his body? Where was the mind of Emma Watts? How had this happened? A hundred unanswered questions later, Simon realized he must collect his disintegrating wits and find a way to rectify the bizarre situation. He pushed away from the mirror and walked carefully to the door with foreign strides and an odd swinging gait. When he tried the handle, he found the door locked.
Snakes!
He took three steps back and threw his body—rather, Emma’s body—against the door with the intent of breaking it down. Instead, he bounced off the solid panel and fell sprawling to the floor. He remained flattened for a moment to rub an injured shoulder and hip.
“Let! Me! Out!” he shouted, the last word rising high enough to perhaps shatter glass.
“We cannot, Miss Watts,” said ferret-face from beyond the door, “until a doctor has been fetched. It is for your own good.”
Simon’s rage boiled over to consume anyone foolish enough to stand in his incendiary presence. No one dared imprison the Earl of Blackburn. He scrambled to his feet—her feet—and attacked the door in earnest with every limb, nail, and invective at his disposal. After perhaps five minutes of no success, he collapsed against the door and slid slowly down its face into a green-clad heap. His shoulder, hip, feet, fists, and knees ached from the pounding. His head spun with the raging headache. His throat was raw from yelling. And the door remained thoroughly locked and unmoving.
Simon Pike, Seventh Earl of Blackburn and peer of the realm, had never felt so powerless in his entire life.
Chapter Thirteen
Emma arrived at Red Lion Square both amazed and gasping for air. The speed of Blackburn’s long legs had carried her swiftly, as if on the wings of an eagle. And she had managed not to plant her face—his face—into the pavement. He would certainly disapprove if she broke his nose or otherwise marred his perfect features. She skidded to a halt upon noticing the crowd milling about the obelisk in the aftermath of the storm. Several people she recognized as neighbors. Three in particular—Jess, Diana, and Kit. Her new friends noticed Emma’s arrival and stared at her across the street. She was sure they’d recognize her immediately, realize what had happened, and begin shouting alarm. However, their gazes held only curious fascination. She dipped her chin to them and hurried up the steps of Number Thirty-Seven. Decorum required that she scratch the door and hope someone heard it. Borderline panic caused her instead to rudely pound the door three times with a huge fist. There. That ought to do it. Within seconds, the door opened and Elise peered up at Emma. Her sister’s eyes went wide and she dropped a frantic but not inelegant curtsy.
“My lord,” she said.
Emma frowned. How did she know Lord Blackburn? Then she remembered that he’d been recognized by his calling card. Of course, Elise would have recognized the earl’s face.
“Miss Elise,” Emma said before realizing her mistake. How would Lord Blackburn know the girl’s name? Before Elise’s quizzical expression could find words, Emma crowded the threshold. “May I come inside?”
“Of course, my lord.” Elise practically scraped the floor with her forehead as she curtsied again and opened the door wider. The reaction grated on Emma briefly. Elise was the daughter of a baron and should not have to grovel before Blackburn as if a housemaid. However, Emma remembered how far her family had fallen and realized Elise’s strategy. They had lost the luxury of hauteur. Every member of the ton they met might someday provide an avenue for returning to respectable Society. Elise had already learned that lesson. Why hadn’t Emma? When Emma stepped inside to the small foyer, Elise waved a hand toward the stairs. “My family is in the drawing room.”
Emma had begun walking toward the stairs before the instructions were given, but she slowed the long strides to cover yet another mistake. She climbed the stairs and turned left at the top to enter the drawing room with Elise in her wake. When she entered, three people rose to their feet—her mother, Aunt Gertie, and…
Good lord. What is Mr. Birkenhead doing here?
Elise stepped around Emma. “Lord Blackburn has come to call.”
The women curtsied and Birkenhead bowed, but he wore a barely restrained scowl. Emma began to drop a curtsy, caught herself, and dipped her forehead instead. She remained standing just inside the doorway. “Please, be seated. I have come to inquire after the health of Miss Watts after our unfortunate…incident earlier.”
The others remained standing as well, and Birkenhead clenched his fists. “She is resting just now. You need not have concerned yourself.”
Emma became aware of thumping emanating from the floor above, followed by muffled shouting. My! Is that what I sound like? The stream of rage might or might not have included a few choice words Emma would never utter. However, the voice saying them was hers, though it did sound odd. She recalled how her father might have reacted to an upstart attempting to dismiss him. Emulating her father’s frosty nobility, she glared at Birkenhead until he sank into his chair. Meanwhile, the thumping and cursing continued unabated. Emma pointed at the ceiling.
“It would seem to me…” She spoke from low in her throat, as her father would have, to fill every corner of the room. “That Miss Watts is not resting and sounds quite healthy. I will see her now.”
When the others remained frozen, she added menace to her demand. “Miss Watts. Here. Now.”
Emma’s mother and sister fled the room, slipping past her with apologies, and pounded up the stairs. Aunt Gertie merely grinned as if enjoying a private joke. When Emma frowned, the old woman shook her head. “Apologies, my lord. My black humor has run amok.”
Emma stepped farther into the room and watched the door. Overhead, the thumping grew brisker and the shouting spread to encompass three female voices. At one point, she was certain someone was dragging someone else across the floor. Then the shouting stopped. Indistinct but harsh whispers drifted down the stairs. Seconds later, heavy footfalls sounded on the staircase and Emma’s body stalked into the room like she owned it.
Emma blinked and wished briefly for support to keep from falling over. However, she managed to steady herself while exchanging a stare of unmitigated shock with, with, with…herself. She noted the disheveled state of her body. In a flash of judgment, Emma saw all the worst of herself through another person’s eyes. The nearly black hair running riot over her shoulders and down her back. The too-strong chin and eyebrows. The way her hips and breasts strained the pale green muslin dress instead of allowing it to fall like a graceful curtain to the tops of her shoes. Why Blackburn had kissed that, she couldn’t say. Meanwhile, Emma’s face stared back with a look of dawning horror. Emma decided to break the stalemate before one of them shattered.
“Hello, Miss Watts. Are you well?”
Her head nodded once. “I am. And you, uh, Blackburn? Lord Blackburn, that is.”
“I am also well. No apparent damage. To anything.”
The body of Emma relaxed slightly with apparent relief. It cut its eyes toward her mother and sister and slightly lifted the palms in the universal sign of, “who are these people?”
Of course! Emma had experienced the same ignorance when waking up with a crowd of strangers hovering overhead. “I see that your mother, Lady Heathkirk, and your sister, Miss Elise Watts, are taking good care of you, along with your Aunt Gertie. Apparently assisted by your…” She coughed as if hacking up phlegm. “Neighbor, Mr. Birkenhead.”
Emma watched in fascination as her eyes widened slightly before the brow drew down over green eyes and one side of the mouth twitched upward. “Oh, of course. Perfect care.”
Emma nearly laughed. Sarcasm. And delivered in a way she recognized as Blackburn’s. She dipped her forehead imperceptibly and mounted a test of her guess.
“Miss Watts. I suppose we are both still rattled by what I am told was a lightning strike. I wonder—have you read that curious volume about electricity by the American, Franklin?”
A smile slowly grew on the Emma facing her. “I have. In fact, I only recently recommended it to a young lady of my acquaintance at Finegold’s on Bond Street. Perhaps you know the place?”
“Indeed. I hear they carry a fine assortment of books for young readers, including the Shakespeare volume by the Lambs.”
Emma’s body winked at her. The motion was subtle, but entirely unlike anything Emma would do. However, it gave her certainty.
Lord Blackburn inhabited her body. And she his.
What a disastrous mess.
Only then did she become aware that her family and Mr. Birkenhead were staring with blinking confusion, flipping their baffled attention between the two. But what to do? Simon—in the guise of Emma’s body—rode to the rescue.
“Lord Blackburn,” he said in her voice. “Did you return to finish discussing our agreement?”
Oh, God, she thought. No. Surely he will not force me to offer marriage—to myself. “Er…agreement?”
“Yes, my lord. About the tutoring position for my…your niece.”
Emma wondered if he even had a niece, but then recalled the young girl at her bedside when she’d awakened earlier. She played along. “Oh, yes. Of course. My brain is still a bit muddled from the, uh, whatever happened. Are you willing to tutor my niece, uh…”
“Dodie.”
“Yes, Dodie. Will you tutor Dodie every day for one or two hours until such time as she no longer requires it? As you are the daughter of a baron, I do not wish to presume that you’d accept so unlofty a position.”
“Thank you. I accept.” Blackburn dropped the worst imitation of a curtsy Emma had ever witnessed. She grimaced, as did her mother and sister. Blackburn seemed to understand the level of his ineptitude and rolled his eyes. “Apparently, my brain also remains muddled, for I have quite forgotten how to curtsy.”
“That is understandable,” said Emma.
They remained that way, peering at each other with the still-baffled audience looking on, before Simon leaned his head forward expectantly. Emma blinked. What was she supposed to do? Simon smirked. “Perhaps, Lord Blackburn, you might send a coach at ten o’clock tomorrow morning to retrieve me. The walk to my…your house would be quite strenuous in these ridiculous shoes.”
“Of course,” Emma blurted. “Ten o’clock. I will be waiting with, with…”
“Dodie.”
“Dodie, yes. Until then, I bid you good day.”
Emma strode past her Simon-inhabited body but stopped before the doorway. She spun to face the others. Once again calling upon her father’s memory, she stretched the lanky frame taller still and lifted her chin to stare down her nose.
“If I hear that you have locked up Miss Watts again, I will toss you all in my dungeon. For as an earl, surely I possess a dungeon.”
As she turned away, Emma felt more powerful than she had in her entire life. And then she smacked the top of her forehead against the door lintel. She exited her aunt’s home while rubbing a growing knot on her skull. Blast this ridiculous height! How did Blackburn still have a functional brain?
…
Watching his body exit the room set Simon’s head to spinning again. The inexorable pull to follow the departing form, as if he was drawn along by an invisible tether, left him briefly disoriented and bereft. He closed his eyes to pretend that his body was still in the room and recalled what he’d noticed when it had arrived earlier. The mannerisms were all wrong—elbows tucked tighter than he would hold them, steps smaller than he would take, a stance that settled onto one hip rather than dead center. Despite that, he still recognized the image he presented to the world. A tall man, a powerful man, a present man. But his face caught Simon by surprise. It looked haughty, bordering on cruel. Is that how he appeared to others? As if he might at any moment set them down, cut them, or slap a glove across their cheek? It was not an appealing image. However, he had realized quickly that it was his goddess, the mysterious Miss M, now revealed as Emma Watts, who inhabited his body. The daughter of Heathkirk, whom he’d failed badly. To his shame, he had never educated himself about the man’s family. He chuckled, though, when he remembered her attempt to protect him with the remark about the dungeon. It was exactly the sort of wit that had drawn him to Emma in the first place. But now he would need to build a dungeon or be called a liar.
“Is everything all right?”
Simon opened his eyes to find Emma’s sister standing before him. What was her name? Oh, yes. Elise. “Why do you ask, Elise?”
“Because you have not moved so much as an inch for half a minute, and then you began laughing to yourself.”
