Late one night the drowsing peace of the house was fractured by the crash of heavy furniture and breaking glass. A herd of feet stampeded to Emily's door.
Harold's fist rattled the mahogany panels. "Hullo there, gel. Open up! What's going on in there? Are
you all right?"
Emily swung open the door, her cheeks burning, to face a nightcapped mob that included Penfeld,
Justin's entire family, and a few of the bolder servants.
She brushed back her tousled curls, laughing nervously. "I'm my clumsy old self, I fear. I must have
been having a nightmare. I seem to have fallen out of bed and overturned the nightstand." She reached
up to smooth the ribbons of her nightdress, then realized in horror they were trailing down her back because her nightdress was on backward.
One of the wide-eyed housemaids tried to peer around her at the carnage. "I'll fetch a broom, miss, straightaway, and clean up the mess."
"Oh, no," said Emily hastily, narrowing the crack between door and wall. "That won't be necessary.
I'm really quite exhausted. You may clean up in the morning."
Justin's mother rested her fists on her ample hips.
With her iron-gray ringlets wrapped in rags, she resembled a matronly Medusa. Emily lowered her eyes, fearing the duchess's accusing gaze might turn her to something worse than stone.
"Where's my son?" she demanded. "I would have thought a crash like that would have brought the dead running."
Penfeld quickly piped up with "My master is a very sound sleeper."
They all stared at him. Emily couldn't stop her own mouth from falling open at that preposterous falsehood. But even in his tasseled nightcap and long nightshirt, Penfeld's dignity was so profound that
no one dared challenge him.
"Harrumph," pronounced the duchess skeptically.
She charted a course for her chambers, the skirts of her brocaded dressing gown frothing in her wake. One by one the others trailed away.
Penfeld was the last to go. He gallantly tipped his nightcap to Emily and gave her a knowing wink.
She closed her door and twisted the key. "Why, that pompous little scoundrel. He's known all along."
She clapped a hand over her mouth to smother her giggle.
The door of her wardrobe swung open and Justin emerged, her satin dressing gown wrapped around his waist. He plucked a stray ostrich feather out of his hair.
"Don't look at me like that," she said. "I didn't lie. I did fall out of bed."
He wagged the feather at her. "Like you fell off that boat in New Zealand?"
"Oh, no. That wasn't the same at all."
"Thank God." He bent to graze her lips. He trailed the feather down the curve of her back and she moaned softly. "I despise this need for silence. I wish we were in New Zealand now, lying on the beach with nothing but the moon and stars to hear us." His voice lowered to a husky whisper. "I'd like to spend all night making you scream."
She buried her mouth in his chest. "What did you have in mind? A complete recitation of Penfeld's tea collection?"
"Why don't I just show you?" He gently guided her around until she was kneeling in the plush cushions
of the window seat. The curtains of Brussels lace tickled the tip of her nose.
Her voice caught on a tremulous note. "Justin?"
"Mmm?" he answered, kneeling behind her and pushing the backward nightdress up.
"If we fall out the window, I'm going to leave the explanations to you."
"My pleasure, darling."
As the dressing gown fell in a shimmering satin pool around their knees, Emily arched against him, knowing the pleasure was all hers.
Justin wrapped a gossamer curl around his finger, then freed it, watching it spring back against Emily's cheek. She mumbled something in her sleep and wiggled deeper into the pillows.
* * *
The watery light of dawn crept across the tangled sheets. Justin despised its arrival. He hated dragging himself out of the warm cocoon of blankets and sneaking through the drafty old house to his own barren bed. A pain seized his heart. Emily looked so sweet and warm with her cheeks rosy with sleep and her curls rumpled. He didn't want to leave her. He realized with a shock that he never wanted to leave her.
He wanted the right to spend all night and all day in bed with her if he chose. He wanted to escort her
to the countess's fete that afternoon and show the whole world that she belonged to him.
"Oh, David," he whispered. "What have I done?"
David had once given her to him. After all those years of self-imposed exile, would he still find him worthy of such a prize? Justin knew if his friend were alive today, he would have gone to him on
hands and knees if necessary to beg for her hand.
He smoothed back her curls and tenderly kissed her brow before climbing out of the bed. When she moaned a protest, he slid a pillow into the hollow his body had left. She pulled it into her embrace and tucked it under her chin, sighing in content.
Stepping over the carnage from the previous night's mishap, he dressed quickly, fearful his resolve to go might weaken. He wondered what his ever-so-proper servants would do if he simply jerked the tasseled cord hanging from the ceiling and ordered eggs and kippers in bed for him and his ward. He grinned at
the thought.
His smile faded as he opened the door to find his mother leaning with arms crossed against the opposite wall.
Chapter 30
But I fear we have a serpent in our paradise,
poised and ready to strike. . . .
Olivia Connor was no less intimidating in dressing gown and slippers than she was armored in a full ball gown and bustle. Justin reached behind him and pulled Emily's door shut.
He faced his mother squarely, trying to ignore the flush he could feel creeping up over his cheekbones.
He forced a wry smile. "Why do I feel like I'm six years old and I've been caught dipping into Gracie's cookie jar?"
Her steely gaze raked him, taking in his unbuttoned shirt, the rumpled folds of his trousers. "It seems you've been caught dipping into much more than that."
Summoning the remnants of his grace, he leaned against the door and crossed his arms, mirroring her posture deliberately. "Guilty as charged. So what are you going to do? Disinherit me again?"
"Have you forgotten? You're the duke now. I can't disinherit you. But you may pack me off to a
dower house if you desire."
"Ah, but that would imply there was another duchess waiting in the wings."
She nodded toward the door. "Isn't there?"
Justin raked a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling less six than sixty. "I'm afraid not."
"More's the pity. The two of you would make pretty children together." She lifted an eyebrow.
"That is, if you haven't already."
A muffled oath exploded from his lips. He strode a few paces away and stood with hands on hips, his back to her. A bitterness he'd pushed deep down clawed its way to the surface. "You were never there for me before, Mother. What makes you think I'd confide in you now?"