Page 5 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke
Josie’s eyes darted to the uniformed trio, then back to Emma. Her grimace spoke volumes.
“I should rather converse with Sir Thomas about the merits of rose gardens than feign being besotted by some young officer merely because he sports a commission and a title.”
“Then let us seek out your gallant knight and lose ourselves in this crowd as we do,” Emma whispered conspiratorially. Shetugged Josie’s hand, drawing her into the tide of satin and lace, giggling as they went.
“Emma! Papa will be in a taking!” Josie exclaimed.
“Let him,” Emma said gaily.
They slipped through the sea of silk and perfume, heads ducked, until they nearly collided with a man dressed in a perfectly cut coat of forest green. He was tall and lithe, with hair that gleamed pale gold in the candlelight and eyes the precise shade of spring grass after a storm. He swept an elaborate courtly bow, to which Josie clapped her hands in delight.
“Lady Josephine, what an unexpected delight to see you here,” Sir Thomas Donovan greeted.
He took Josie’s hand and kissed it tenderly before turning to Emma.
Emma gently disengaged from her sister, offering her gloved hand to be kissed, and then stepped aside. “A pleasure to see you again, Sir Thomas. I must dash, though; I am rather thirsty and in search of punch. May I entrust my sister to your care?”
Josie blushed, smiling demurely as Sir Thomas gaped for a moment. Then, he recovered himself with a broad and hearty grin.
“Why, of course, Lady Emmeline. I shall protect her with my life.”
Emma gave a bow of the head and promptly slipped back into the crowd. Seeing her sister in the company of a man she adored was rather gratifying. Another matter she added to her ever-growing list of familial chores was persuading her father to allow his daughter to marry a man without rank.
She made her way to the edge of the gathered crowd of guests, feeling relieved when she could step between two marble columns and be somewhat hidden from view.
A portrait hung on the wall behind her depicting a tall, dark-haired man with a stern, handsome face. It was too brutal and cruel to be genuinely attractive, but the features held an exotic appeal. She recognized Redmane Manor in the backdrop and wondered if she were looking at a portrait of either the current or one of the former Dukes. The style of the clothing, suggestive of fashions twenty years old, made her think that if it was not the current Duke, it could not be that of any other but his immediate predecessor.
The eyes of the man were icy blue and seemed to root Emma, gazing out of the painting as though it were in some way alive. She forced herself to look away, shuddering at the intensity of that painted gaze. The artist had certainly been talented enough to capture such charisma. Emma hoped it was not the current Duke, the Duke to whom she had linked herself by whispered rumors.
She did not wish to come face to face with those icy blue eyes.
Alivingman caught her eye then, though not for the reasons that her sister had hoped. It was the figure of Charles, who was striding swiftly around the fringes of the crowd, headed for a door in a corner of the Great Hall.
Emma frowned as she watched him go, casting frightened glances over his shoulder as he went. She moved in his direction, wondering what had her brother thusly apprehensive. She was even more afraid that she might know. Indeed, his debts should have been discharged this time. The brooch had been worth more than any of her siblings thought simply due to its three-hundred-year antiquity.
She reached the door through which Charles had disappeared and followed him. Ahead, she caught him vanishing around the corner of a corridor paneled in dark wood.
“Charles? Come back! Whatever is the matter?” she whispered urgently.
But either he did not hear or chose to ignore her.
She picked up her skirts and scurried after him. By the time she reached the corner, he was out of sight, but a door in the corridor ahead was swinging shut. She hurried to it and opened it into a dark room lit only by a shaft of light from a door opposite. The figure of a man was briefly outlined before that door was closed too.
Emma started gingerly across the dark room but stumbled over a stool, crashing to the floor clumsily. She clutched at a bruised shin and returned to her feet, backing into a chair and stumbling again. Her heel snagged at the edge of a poorly placed rug, and she fell down heavily on the floor with a thump.
Charles,she groused viciously, teeth clenched.When I get my hands on you…
She had been so caught up in trying to follow Charles that she had not heard the footsteps approaching the door through which her brother had disappeared. When the sound of the door opening reached her, she assumed he had heard her and returned.
“Charles! What are you about? Please come and help me up. I am on the floor because of you!” Emma grumbled, looking towards the figure of a man who stood silhouetted in the doorway.
She then realized that it was not Charles at all.
The man who stood, rendered faceless by the light behind him, was taller and broader than Emma’s wayward brother. His coat was black, but not mourning-black—black like ink still wet, fitted like armor. His waistcoat was patterned, faintly, like scales. Yet his cravat, beyond all reason—the color of flame.
For a moment, he stood unmoving and silent. Then, he flashed into the room, momentarily lost to the darkness.
Trueterrorcurled in Emma’s chest.
