regulars.” His eyes narrowed. “And what did you offer him, eh?”
Emily ignored the disgusting insinuation, though she could feel her cheeks heat. “A guinea a day,” she said crisply. “His normal fee, I believe.”
“And he just said yes,” scoffed Sir Henry. “I don’t know what deep game you’re playing, my girl, but if you bring shame on us I’ll wash my hands of you, damned if I don’t.”
Emily had had enough. She headed for the door.
“And keep away from Verderan,” Sir Henry shouted. “You’re not up to his weight. He’s doubtless bored, and if you show your ankles once too often he’ll break them for you!”
At the implication that she’d end up with a bastard, Emily gave in for once to her baser urges and slammed the door.
She stormed down to the stables. What she needed was space and time to come to terms with her pain. She stopped in the shrubbery and pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. She had felt warmly about Piers Verderan. Had it been so obvious to everyone? To him? Had it unconsciously translated into pathetic seductive gestures? Had she been the source of that uproarious laughter?
She wanted to die.
She’d seen women simpering and fluttering around an attractive man. Had she done that without even being aware of it? Even so, did he have to laugh?
She went on to the stables, desperate only for escape. She managed to present a calm face as she mounted Corsair and rode out, then muttered and cursed for a good two miles, berating herself for being such a ninny and him for being a conceited, arrogant swine.
Eventually she steamed herself dry and could no longer summon the passion. She wearily concentrated on her duties instead. She rode into the village to inspect some leaking roofs.
That accomplished, she found that anything was better than returning home, so she rode a slow circuit to see how the last of the harvest was coming. The dry weather would soon break, but another day should see all the crops in. All seemed well with her world, as far as estate management went, at least. But, passion was returning, accompanied by intense embarrassment, and she was torn between a desire to avoid Piers Verderan for life or to seek him out in order to drive a long sharp knife into his cold, arrogant heart.
Returning to the Hall, she gave in to an impulse and stopped at the vicarage to see Margaret.
Over tea, she soon found herself telling the whole story of the day’s events and then sketching in some of the previous excitement.
“Heavens above!” Margaret exclaimed, her cup of tea cooling untasted. “I never thought things like that happened in our country backwater. Perhaps Hector is right and having a rake in our midst will cause all sorts of commotions. What fun!”
Emily shuddered. “It wasn’t fun at the time, Margo, I assure you.”
“I suppose not,” said her friend unrepentantly. “But it makes a wonderful story. Just like a novel. And,” she said with a playful frown, “I haven’t missed the fact that you have apparently been hobnobbing with our local viper without a word to me.”
Emily looked a guilty apology. “There just didn’t seem a good time.”
“Now is an excellent time,” said her friend implacably. “Not, I gather, flea-bitten and on his last legs.”
“Definitely not.”
“Seedy? Debauched? Sallow and bloodshot from constant dissipation?”
Emily shook her head.
Margaret’s silence demanded an answer.
“He’s very good-looking,” Emily said feebly.
“Details,” demanded her friend.
“Tall, dark, and handsome,” retorted Emily crisply. “The man’s a walking cliché.”
“Handsomer than Marcus?” asked that gentleman’s betrothed.
“Perhaps not in your eyes, Margo, but yes, I would say so.”
“Handsome is as handsome does,” quoted Margo. “What of Hector’s nasty stories? Is he a seedy reprobate?”
Emily gave this much thought. She could have given a lecture on the subject, but in the end she just said,
Emily ignored the disgusting insinuation, though she could feel her cheeks heat. “A guinea a day,” she said crisply. “His normal fee, I believe.”
“And he just said yes,” scoffed Sir Henry. “I don’t know what deep game you’re playing, my girl, but if you bring shame on us I’ll wash my hands of you, damned if I don’t.”
Emily had had enough. She headed for the door.
“And keep away from Verderan,” Sir Henry shouted. “You’re not up to his weight. He’s doubtless bored, and if you show your ankles once too often he’ll break them for you!”
At the implication that she’d end up with a bastard, Emily gave in for once to her baser urges and slammed the door.
She stormed down to the stables. What she needed was space and time to come to terms with her pain. She stopped in the shrubbery and pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. She had felt warmly about Piers Verderan. Had it been so obvious to everyone? To him? Had it unconsciously translated into pathetic seductive gestures? Had she been the source of that uproarious laughter?
She wanted to die.
She’d seen women simpering and fluttering around an attractive man. Had she done that without even being aware of it? Even so, did he have to laugh?
She went on to the stables, desperate only for escape. She managed to present a calm face as she mounted Corsair and rode out, then muttered and cursed for a good two miles, berating herself for being such a ninny and him for being a conceited, arrogant swine.
Eventually she steamed herself dry and could no longer summon the passion. She wearily concentrated on her duties instead. She rode into the village to inspect some leaking roofs.
That accomplished, she found that anything was better than returning home, so she rode a slow circuit to see how the last of the harvest was coming. The dry weather would soon break, but another day should see all the crops in. All seemed well with her world, as far as estate management went, at least. But, passion was returning, accompanied by intense embarrassment, and she was torn between a desire to avoid Piers Verderan for life or to seek him out in order to drive a long sharp knife into his cold, arrogant heart.
Returning to the Hall, she gave in to an impulse and stopped at the vicarage to see Margaret.
Over tea, she soon found herself telling the whole story of the day’s events and then sketching in some of the previous excitement.
“Heavens above!” Margaret exclaimed, her cup of tea cooling untasted. “I never thought things like that happened in our country backwater. Perhaps Hector is right and having a rake in our midst will cause all sorts of commotions. What fun!”
Emily shuddered. “It wasn’t fun at the time, Margo, I assure you.”
“I suppose not,” said her friend unrepentantly. “But it makes a wonderful story. Just like a novel. And,” she said with a playful frown, “I haven’t missed the fact that you have apparently been hobnobbing with our local viper without a word to me.”
Emily looked a guilty apology. “There just didn’t seem a good time.”
“Now is an excellent time,” said her friend implacably. “Not, I gather, flea-bitten and on his last legs.”
“Definitely not.”
“Seedy? Debauched? Sallow and bloodshot from constant dissipation?”
Emily shook her head.
Margaret’s silence demanded an answer.
“He’s very good-looking,” Emily said feebly.
“Details,” demanded her friend.
“Tall, dark, and handsome,” retorted Emily crisply. “The man’s a walking cliché.”
“Handsomer than Marcus?” asked that gentleman’s betrothed.
“Perhaps not in your eyes, Margo, but yes, I would say so.”
“Handsome is as handsome does,” quoted Margo. “What of Hector’s nasty stories? Is he a seedy reprobate?”
Emily gave this much thought. She could have given a lecture on the subject, but in the end she just said,
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