Her husky whisper was meant only for his ears. "What do you really want to do, Justin? Kill me … or
kiss me?"
He wanted to kiss her, all right, long and hard and rough. He wanted to mate her mouth with his teeth
and tongue until he'd wiped away her teasing smirk. He wanted to carry her upstairs to his bedroom and lock the door against them all. He wanted to peel off her damp clothes and drown her beneath the unrelenting weight of his body until neither of them could think or walk straight.
Then he'd kill her.
She'd done it again, he realized. With barely a flutter of her silky lashes she'd committed the unpardonable sin of shattering his composure and making him feel alive again. More alive than he'd felt since he buried her father.
His hands dropped from her throat. He unbuttoned his coat and with a sweeping motion laid it over her shoulders.
"I must apologize for the inconvenience, gentlemen," he told the bobbies. "I fear my ward is a bit high-spirited."
"Nothing a good beating wouldn't cure," Harold muttered, still sulky from being rousted from his bed.
His bluster wilted beneath Justin's glacial stare. He slipped behind Edith's skirts.
Justin linked his hands over his waistcoat, every inch the affable lord of the manor. "I'm sure you know how trying children can be."
The bobby ducked his head. "That we do, Your Grace. Got eight of 'em between us, don't we, Ned?"
"Aye, Clarence. And a feisty lot they are."
Justin divided a wad of pound notes between the two men. "Buy yourselves a round of ale when you
get off duty. For your trouble."
As the men climbed onto the wagon, still singing the praises of the generous duke, Justin commanded
his own driver to take the dog to the stables. Penfeld mopped his brow with Emily's sash, thankful to
be relieved of his monstrous burden. Justin refused to look behind him.
"Mother, would you please escort Emily to her room?"
"That won't be necessary." Emily's words rang out in the crisp air.
He pivoted to face her. She hugged his coat closed at her throat like a queen's mantle. She wore her dignity well, but not well enough to disguise the stricken look in her eyes-eyes darkened by his casual betrayal.
"Thank you, but I'm not so young I can't toddle up the stairs unassisted." As she brushed past him, a whiff of vanilla tickled his nostrils.
"If you want to be treated like an adult," he said softly, "you might try behaving like one."
She hesitated, then moved up the shallow stairs into the house, her shoulders set at proud angles.
"Coming, dear?" his mother crooned as the others filed after Emily, the husbands grumbling and the
wives murmuring soothing lullabies.
Justin jammed his hands deep into his pockets. "Later."
Penfeld stood before him, his face folded in miserable lines of defeat. "If you wish to dismiss me, sir,
I understand. I'd appreciate a reference, but if you don't feel I deserve it . . ."
Justin sighed as sudden exhaustion overtook him. He felt as if he'd been master of this house for
centuries instead of months. "Go ring for a bath, Penfeld."
"You wish to bathe at this hour?"
He straightened the valet's crooked tie. "Not for me. For you."
"Aye, sir! As you wish." Penfeld bowed his thanks and went scurrying for the house.
Justin stood alone on the barren stretch of lawn, staring up at Emily's window until the light fluttered and went out, leaving the glazed pane a square of black. He shivered as from somewhere behind the house came the mournful baying of a dog.
* * *
In the next few days Justin was to regret his cool rebuke. With the stubborn conviction of a woman wronged, Emily became exactly what he had requested.
She seldom smiled, and if she did, it was a watery imitation of her infectious grin. Lily used an iron to tame her wayward curls to rigid ringlets. The stench of scorched hair hung in the musty air of the house. Millicent taught her to embroider and Edith to bang out Beethoven's "Minuet in G" on the piano with military precision. She practiced each evening for hours until Justin's head throbbed from gritting his
teeth. Penfeld became her unofficial lady's maid, pressing her childish pinafores to starched perfection. Her crinolines appeared so stiff that Justin found it a marvel she could sit without them flying up over
her face.
When Justin entered a room she'd make some snippet of conversation about the weather or the dinner party his mother was planning at the end of the week. His sisters would chime in about the upcoming New Year's ball and he'd be left gazing at the smooth cap of Emily's head as she bent back to stitching the family crest on his handkerchiefs with slavish devotion.
She was a perfect lady.
Justin hated her.
He couldn't decide who he despised more-this new Emily or himself. Unable to bear this pale shadow
of his vibrant Emily, he shut himself in the study, immersing himself in Winthrop Shipping business with an enthusiasm that made his father seem a rakish wastrel. He glared at reports until his vision blurred. His insomnia returned with savage force, but even pounding the piano until dawn did not ease it. His temper flared without provocation, and the servants scurried to avoid him. They whispered among themselves that it was as if the gruff ghost of Frank Connor had returned to stalk the halls of Grymwilde.
Armed with a tumbler of his father's Scotch, Justin emerged from the study one evening. He veered
away from the smoking room where the men had retired for brandy and cigars. Last night he had
severed himself from their company and reduced poor Harvey to nervous snivels by snapping that he ought to consider seeking a job instead of living off his wife's dowry like a spineless slug.
As he passed the parlor, the siren song of badly struck piano keys and feminine chatter lured him in. He knew his brooding presence made his sisters nervous. Edith and his mother lapsed to whispers. Millicent hummed under her breath while Lily's trembling ringers dropped stitches all over the place. Only Emily seemed undisturbed by his crude intrusion. She continued her graceless thumping on the spinet.
Even Emily's bulldog seemed drained of spirit. He lolled on the rug at Emily's feet, his massive head stretched out on his paws and his spiked collar replaced by a garish pink bow. As Justin sank into the chair beside the piano, the dog rose and slunk out the door.
Justin leaned back in the chair, nursing his Scotch and eyeing Emily through narrowed eyes. She sat in a luminous halo of lamplight, her skirts spread in a perfect bell around the piano bench. Her piquant face glowed with serenity. Justin shifted his weight and rolled the amber liquid in the bottom of his glass. He had done in one careless night what Miss Winters had failed to do in seven years-made a lady out of Emily Claire Scarborough. So why did he want to yank her up by her ridiculous ringlets and demand some show of spirit?
Emily could feel Justin's smoldering gaze on her, but she willed her fingers to continue their mechanical pounding, knowing she was slowly driving him insane. The fact that she'd just ripped out his initials and sewn Homer onto all of his handkerchiefs inspired her to continue.