“Goodbye? What the devil . . . where are you going, Emily? Are you quite sure you’re all right? You’re not ill, are you?”
“As a matter of fact, I think I’m about to be quite ill indeed,” she told him sharply, her pain transforming into anger. How could he pretend to be so ignorant of her feelings? How could he act as though he hadn’t the faintest idea of how she felt about him? It suddenly infuriated her that he had been so careless, so selfish, and so unfeeling. It wasn’t like him . . . or was it? Had she just not seen how thoughtless he could be?
“I have to go, Adrian—I’m sorry. Please excuse me.” Snatching her hand away from his, she fled, her mind set only on getting away from him, Kate, and the rest of Hardington’s inhabitants.
Adrian watched as she ran down the steps and disappeared into the garden. He wondered for a moment if he should run after her. After all, she had said that she was feeling ill. Then again, for whatever reason, it seemed as if she wanted to be alone. He got up slowly, his eyes unwillingly searching for her in the darkness, but she was gone.
As he walked back inside, light notes of music floated out to greet him. He studied the ballroom for a moment, looking for Kate. Instead he located his mother and Emily’s sisters, who appeared to be deep in conversation with one another.
“Ladies,” he greeted them, interrupting their conversation. “I merely wish to inform you that Emily appears to have taken ill. She wished to be alone for a while and, well . . . in fact, I believe she may have gone home.”
“Dear God, Adrian!” his mother exclaimed. “And you let her leave, just like that? You should have offered her a carriage.”
“I would have, Mother,” he said, his voice betraying his annoyance. “However, she hurried off before I had the chance to suggest it.”
“And why was that, Adrian?” Lady Carroway asked, her eyes narrowing as she studied her son.
“How the devil should I know?”
“You mean to tell me that you didn’t even ask her why she was suddenly unwell? After all, she was fine before she left to dance with you. In fact, she was radiant . . . no sign of impending illness whatsoever. What did you tell her, Adrian?”
Adrian held his mother’s gaze. “Just that I have asked Kate to marry me. I wanted her to be the first to know,” he said as all three women drew sharp breaths and stared at him in horror. “She congratulated me and wished me well, as unlike you—as it is becoming increasingly clear—I know that I can always count on her for support.”
“You’re a damn fool, Adrian,” his mother snapped. “Beatrice and Claire, I must apologize for my son’s obvious lack of tact. Come quickly . . . we must find Francis. He’ll know what to do.”
“Perhaps I could . . .”
“Thank you, but I do believe that you’ve done quite enough.” Without offering her son another word, Lady Carroway turned on her heel and hurried off. Only Beatrice managed a quick goodbye, though her eyes now seemed to be filled with anything but compassion for him.
What the hell is going on?
Adrian watched them go. He’d be damned if he ever understood what went on in women’s brains. It all seemed to be one big muddle to him. With an exasperated sigh he glanced around once more in search of Kate. Finding her, he picked up a glass of wine from a tray held by a waiter, then made his way over to where she was standing.
They spotted Francis in the card room, where he was having a friendly game of bridge together with Lord Hutton, Mr. Birkley, and Lord Carroway, the latter being his partner. Lady Carroway quietly requested that Claire and Beatrice wait for her by the door. She then approached her husband.
Beatrice and Claire watched Lord Carroway’s reaction as his wife spoke to him, her voice but a whisper, close to his ear. As she straightened, he ran a hand through his hair. He made no attempt to hide his obvious concern as he threw his cards down onto the table. “Gentlemen, it appears that we are done here. Lord Dunhurst, please go with my wife. There seems to be a pressing matter that needs your immediate attention. . . . She will explain it to you.”
Without the slightest display of emotion, Francis finished the remainder of his cognac. He then rose to his feet, gave a polite nod to his companions, and followed Lady Carroway from the room.
“How may I be of service?” he asked. He had followed the women into the parlor, where they had each taken a seat. He had remained standing, his elbow resting against the mantle of the fireplace. The three women clearly looked disturbed by something. He couldn’t help but wonder what it might be, though he was sure that he was about to find out.
“I’m terribly sorry to trouble you with this, Francis, but it’s a delicate matter that needs handling with some care,” Lady Carroway began.
“Emily’s run off,” Beatrice blurted out, her voice filled with distress. Lady Carroway placed a staying hand upon her arm, held her gaze for a moment, and then turned once again toward Francis.
He appeared unmoved by the information, save for a slightly raised eyebrow. “Why does that worry you?” he asked. “She may have been tired and decided to leave early. Perhaps she simply wished to get some fresh air and will be back at any moment.”
Beatrice’s eyes ignited with fury. “How can you treat the situation so lightly, sir? Clearly we would not have troubled you unless we had good reason to.”
“My apologies, Miss Rutherford, but given the fact that your sister is to be engaged to Adrian—I’m not completely oblivious to the goings on around here, you know,” he said as he saw that his aunt was about to protest. “Would it not be more fitting if you asked him to ride about in search of her? Besides, if she is seeking some time alone, I very much doubt that I would be a welcome companion for her.”
Beatrice’s first reaction was to retaliate, but she knew that he was probably right. He would be very unwelcome indeed. However, it was late and the sky was already showing signs of rain. She knew how devastated Emily must be, and she couldn’t help but worry about her being out there on her own, even if she was on her way home.
“The situation is as follows,” Lady Carroway said. “It appears that Adrian has misled us all as far as his true intentions are concerned, though I cannot believe that he would do something like this without a word of warning to any of us. But apparently he has already proposed to Kate and has just asked Emily for her blessing.” Francis’s eyes seemed to darken, his jaw clenched ever so slightly. “My son, it seems, never felt anything more than friendship for Emily, but what is truly astounding is how ignorant he seems to be of her feelings toward him. I just don’t understand how we could have been so wrong in our assumptions. And I cannot imagine why Kate’s father has not broached this subject with my husband. I must speak to him and Adrian about this, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is that Emily became ill, so to speak, and ran off as a result of Adrian’s desire to share the delightful news with her.”
“I take it she did not find it so delightful,” Francis murmured, his face set in stone.
“Indeed, we may be quite certain that she did not,” Beatrice said, her voice filled with resentment. Then in a more agreeable tone she added, “We would be forever grateful if you would please find her, my lord.”
“Let us not waste any more time then,” he said, his voice filled with steel as he strode toward the door. “Remind me to have a serious talk with Adrian once I return.”
With that, he was gone.
CHAPTER FIVE
A misty drizzle filled the air as Francis swung himself up into the saddle and kicked his five-year-old gelding into a furious gallop.
He cursed his cousin beneath his breath for his idiocy. He never should have allowed Emily to leave in such a state. Why had he not run after her and insisted that she take a carriage, if indeed she had wished to go home? Walking about on country roads in this weather—and clad in a light summer dress—was pure madness.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been forced to clean up one of Adrian’s messes, he recalled as his jaw tightened. This would be the last, he vowed. Nothing was more disagreeable than having to come to the rescue of a woman who so clearly resented his very existence.
How had it come to this? They had been friends once. Now, she could barely stand the sight of him.
The drizzle became a sudden downpour, and Francis’s eyes narrowed as heavy drops of water ran down his face. He was soon soaked through, his cloak doing little to keep him dry. Emily . . . he thought for a moment of her cheerful smile and infectious laughter. Some people just weren’t meant to suffer, he thought, as he pushed her image from his mind and rode on.
He saw the cottage emerge through the darkness, the rain beating loudly as the wind threw torrents against the walls. Tying his horse loosely to the fence, he ran up the muddy path and proceeded to hammer on the door as water cascaded down his back. Not a single sound answered him. . . . There wasn’t even the faintest glow of light coming from within, as there should have been, had she been home.
His alarm rose. Where could she be? He knew he hadn’t passed her on the way. Cursing her recklessness, he paused to think, ignoring the cold, wet fabric of his clothes.
A faint memory came to mind. “This is my favorite place in all the world,” she had once told him. It had been many years ago . . . before her parents had died. He had gone to the estate that had been her home and that now belonged to her cousin. He’d wanted to see if she wanted to go rowing. Beatrice had told him where to find her.
With eyes as dark as the night sky and his mouth drawn tight in anger, Francis reared his horse around and set out once more. If anything bad had happened to Emily as a result of this . . . so help him God, he’d have a fine time beating some sense into Adrian himself.
Leaving the road behind, he made a sharp turn out into the fields. The soft swell of the hills rose in the distance, silhouetted against the gray clouds that thundered overhead. Wiping the rain from his face with the palm of his hand, he paused for a moment to look around. He soon spotted the outline of a partially torn-down farmhouse, resting below a towering oak. Francis nudged his horse onward.
When he reached the top of the hill, he sighed inwardly as he rode around the dilapidated stone building. She didn’t appear to be there either. Dismounting, he walked toward the house; the walls were still partially in place, though the roof was mostly gone, and the windows and doors gaped blindly at him through the darkness. Stepping carefully over some fallen bricks as he steadied himself against the doorframe, he entered.
The minute he spotted the slight figure, huddled against the far corner of what had once been the sitting room, Francis rushed forward. His chest contracted as he knelt beside her, wrapping his cloak around her delicate frame. Her hair hung in wet streaks around her face, her mud-stained dress clung against her body. She trembled slightly as he scooped her up in his arms, turning pain-stricken eyes toward him.
“How could you have been so stupid, Emily?” His voice harsh with fear for her.