Rapture Becomes Her Read online

  Ignoring the rain, he asked Emily, “How far do you have to travel?”

  “Only about four miles.” Testily, she added, “If you will help us free the wheel, we can be on our way.”

  He looked at the horse, the obviously wet and miserable woman before him and the small huddled driver and made a decision. “Windmere is less than a mile away. It will be far better if you take refuge there for the time being.” He thought a second and aware of the treacherous roads, added, “Once you are warm and dry, I shall send you home in one of my carriages. Meanwhile your horse can be stabled and seen to. She is welcome to remain in my stables until her lameness is gone.”

  “Oh, thank you, my lord!” exclaimed Anne before Emily could say a word. “Sunny is a good little mare and would do her best to get us home, but I fear we might cause her great harm. You are too kind to not only shelter us, but to think of our dear Sunny, too.” And when Emily remained silent, she prodded gently, “Don’t you agree that it is very kind of his lordship, Emily?”

  Emily didn’t know why she was so reluctant to accept his offer or why he aroused the contrary urge within her to do just the opposite of what he proposed. It was a sensible solution and if it had been anyone else other than Lord Joslyn she wouldn’t have thought twice about accepting his hospitality. Ashamed and a little surprised by the stubborn desire to defy him simply because of who he was, Emily muttered, “Yes, it is very kind.”

  “Since that is settled,” Barnaby said, “I think, for your mare’s sake, that it would be better if my Blazer were harnessed to your buggy. He’s an excellent driving horse and I suspect he will be able to free the wheel by himself.”

  He got no argument from Emily. She knew Blazer of old and she was more worried about Sunny than she cared to admit. Having a common goal, Emily and Barnaby worked quickly together and in minutes, Blazer was in harness and Sunny, her head hanging low, was standing at the side of the road, wearing Blazer’s large halter and lead rope.

  At Anne’s command, Blazer leaned into the harness and with one powerful lunge freed the wheel and pulled the buggy back onto the roadway.

  Emily squeaked when Barnaby’s hands closed around her narrow waist and he tossed her into the buggy beside Anne. Flustered and breathless, she stammered, “T-t-thank you.”

  He grinned at her, his teeth gleaming in the shadows. “Entirely my pleasure.”

  After mounting his horse, holding Sunny’s lead rope, he looked at the two women in the buggy and said, “You go on ahead and alert my butler that I shall be arriving shortly behind you.” He glanced back at the mare. “Your, er, Sunny and I shall travel a bit more slowly.”

  His thoughtfulness toward the mare touched Emily, and her voice, far warmer than it had been so far, she said, “Thank you, my lord. I’m very sorry we are causing you such inconvenience.”

  “It is my pleasure, Miss Townsend. Now be on your way. I shall be right behind you.”

  Barnaby with Sunny in tow arrived at Windmere ten minutes after the ladies. By the time Barnaby rode out of the darkness and into the flickering light from the torches at the front of the house both women had already been whisked inside by Peckham. Of Blazer and the buggy there was no sign and he assumed rightly that they had been taken to the stables. A pair of stableboys waited under the magnificent porch for him and ran out into the rain to take both horses from him the instant he dismounted.

  Inside the grand foyer, Peckham and Tilden hovered like lightning bugs around him. “The ladies are upstairs in the blue bedroom,” Peckham said, taking Barnaby’s soaked greatcoat. “Mrs. Bartlett is seeing to their needs.” He hesitated. “I thought perhaps it would be easier if they were served in the morning room rather than the formal dining room.”

  Barnaby nodded. “Excellent choice! If they are down before I am, tell them not to wait for me. I doubt any of us wish to stand on ceremony tonight.”

  “I have warned Lamb that you would be arriving any moment and would be in need of a change of clothing,” chimed in Tilden. He coughed behind his hand. “I took the liberty of sending one of the footmen to The Birches with a note explaining the ladies’ delay and warned John Coachman to have the smaller coach readied for travel tonight.”

  Nodding his approval, Barnaby took the marble steps two at a time and upon reaching his rooms, the instant the door shut behind him, began stripping off his wet clothes. His cravat, jacket and shirt had been discarded by the time he strode into the dressing room.

  Lamb awaited him and as he continued stripping, Barnaby related the events of the afternoon. A brisk rub with a towel and he was stepping into the pair of breeches Lamb handed him and a second later slipping into a fine linen shirt—both mercifully dry and warm.

  “I saw the two ladies as they came up the stairs,” Lamb said idly, but the expression in his azure eyes was anything but idle. “A sprite and an Amazon,” he continued. “Which one has caught your fancy?”

  “Neither,” Barnaby replied, tucking in his shirt. “Considering the situation, offering them shelter seemed the gentlemanly thing to do.”

  “And that’s all that prompted your actions? Politeness?” Barnaby grinned at him. “Why, what else could it have been?”

  Lamb snorted and handed him a freshly laundered cravat. “There is certainly a bevy of females in your life lately. First those Gilbert women and now these two damsels.”

  “Happenstance. But don’t forget I owe the Gilberts a huge debt. Not only for nursing me, but now they’ve helped me recover Blazer.”

  Watching critically as Barnaby hastily tied his cravat in a simple arrangement, Lamb asked, “Do you believe this Faith’s story? That she just happened to find your horse in the hands of a horse trader?”

  Barnaby glanced over his shoulder. “It makes sense. I think whoever tried to murder me sold Blazer at a bargain price to the horse trader. And I don’t doubt that my gig is in various pieces scattered between here and London or has been repainted and refurbished and is being driven around London by a new owner thrilled with the exceptional buy he made. So to answer your question, yes, I believe Faith’s story.” His eyes gleamed. “You’ve not yet had the privilege of meeting any of the Gilberts. I think you will find Mrs. Gilbert, er, impressive and her daughters charming.”

  “You trust them?”

  Barnaby nodded as he sat down and began pulling on a pair of gleaming black boots. “I do.” Standing up, he shrugged into the bottle-green jacket with brass buttons that Lamb handed him. “And since you seem to doubt my judgment,” he added with a grin, “you should meet them and form your own opinion.”

  Following Barnaby as he walked from the room Lamb muttered, “I intend to do just that.”

  The previous squire and the seventh viscount had been good friends and both Anne and Emily had been frequent visitors to Windmere. Aware of the many grand rooms housed within the huge mansion and despite having repaired the worst of the damage from their ordeal, feeling worn and bedraggled, both ladies were relieved when Peckham showed them into the morning room.

  A cheery fire burned on the old brick hearth and the soft shades of the rugs and chintz-covered furnishings created a cozy atmosphere. A teapot and a silver urn full of hot coffee sat at one end of the golden oak sideboard and several plates covered with a variety of meats, cheese, breads, pickles and relishes were laid out along its length. An oyster stew prepared for milord’s return this evening filled a big tureen at the opposite end of the sideboard.

  Peckham hovered over them. After seating them at the table and pouring cups of coffee, he filled two bowls of oyster stew and placed them with a flourish before the women. Without asking their preferences, he piled two plates high with items from the sideboard and set them on the table.

  He would have continued to wait on them, but longing to be left alone, Emily said firmly, “Thank you. We can see to ourselves.”

  He bowed and murmured, “If you are sure . . . ?”

  “No, thank you,” Anne said politely. “We’ll be fine.” A
fter he left the two women exchanged glances. “I must say, he seems very . . . efficient,” Anne said kindly.

  “I much preferred Bissell,” Emily said, taking a sip of coffee.

  “He is a dear man, isn’t he?” Anne said. “I still don’t understand why Mathew thought he should be replaced after his great-uncle died. I would have thought that should have been the new heir’s decision.”

  “You forget—Mathew thought he was the heir. And it wasn’t Mathew who suggested that Bissell retire—it was Thomas.”

  Anne frowned slightly. “Isn’t Thomas the middle brother? Or is he the youngest one? They all look so much alike I can never remember which one of the previous viscount’s great-nephews is which.”

  “Tom is the middle one. Simon is the youngest—and my favorite,” Emily answered. “Probably because he was kind to me when I was a child and I used to tag after him when he and his brothers came to visit their great-uncle. Mathew and Tom ignored me, but Simon . . .” She smiled warmly. “Simon always stuck up for me.”

  The viscount walked into the room and the smile still curving her lips, Emily glanced in his direction.

  Barnaby had known that he was intrigued by his boy-who-was-not-a-boy, but he was stunned by his visceral reaction when he caught his first real sight of Emily Townsend. Hair the color of moonlight framed an arresting face that made his heart thud like a war drum. She wasn’t pretty, a part of him acknowledged, but by God, he’d swear she was the most attractive woman he’d ever seen in his life. Her features were intensely feminine, yet strong and spirited, her jaw stubborn and her mouth too wide and full for true beauty, but he was only aware that he’d probably kill to feel those lips soften beneath his, and that smile . . . That smile filled him with a fervent zeal to do whatever it took to keep her looking at him precisely as she was at this moment.

  As the seconds passed, Emily’s smile faded and as her long-lidded, gray eyes widened and fixed on his, something powerful and fierce sprang to life within him. It was all he could do not to stride across the room and sweep her into a crushing embrace. Dazed, feeling as if he’d been poleaxed and not very pleased about it, Barnaby wrenched his gaze away and looked blankly at the small dark-haired woman seated next to Emily.

  Her pansy-brown eyes smiling, Anne said, “My lord, we cannot thank you enough for your kindness.”

  Anne’s voice cleared his head and putting aside his primitive response to Emily Townsend, he forced a smile and advanced into the room. Once more in command of himself—at least he hoped to hell he was—he said, “I trust that my staff has treated you well and seen to all your needs.”

  “Indeed,” replied Anne, “everyone has been most kind.” Avoiding looking at Emily yet vibrantly aware of her, he said to Anne, “But you’ve hardly touched your food! Isn’t it to your liking? If you wish, I can have Cook prepare something more to your liking.”

  Emily heard their voices, but the sound was like bees buzzing around in her head. She was conscious of her surroundings, but the world had tipped on its axis the second her eyes had fallen upon Lord Joslyn. She was dizzy, her chest felt tight and she fought against an insane desire to leap to her feet and run as fast as she could. But which direction? she wondered faintly. To him or away from him?

  He was very tall, but so much bigger, darker and formidable than she remembered. Entering the room, he dominated it and she could not drag her eyes away from that dark, harsh-featured face and those powerful shoulders and arms. He looked nothing like a Joslyn, she thought stupidly. The Joslyns were handsome, polished men, but this man . . . She swallowed. This man looked like a savage—a brigand—and perfectly capable of swinging a woman up into his arms and carrying her away, to do what he willed. An odd sensation curled low in her stomach at the idea of being at his mercy.

  She buried her nose in her cup, taking a long swallow, appalled and angry at her reaction to him. Good God! She didn’t even like him. Through lowered lids she judged him, trying to decide what there was about him that had the power to rock her world. He was not traditionally handsome, she decided, but he possessed an undeniable virility, an unmistakable attractiveness that women would find hard to resist. Staring at that bold face, watching the mobile mouth as he smiled at Anne and hearing the lazy drawl of his voice, she shivered.

  She was afraid of him, Emily realized with a start. Instinctively, she knew he wasn’t a bully and a braggart like Jeffery, or a poseur and a fop like Ainsworth, nor was he a doting, if indifferent man, like her father. She thought of kindly Vicar Smythe puttering about in his garden and nearly laughed. No, Lord Joslyn was nothing like Vicar Smythe. She glimpsed the arrogance of Mathew Joslyn in him, but standing next to this man, Mathew would fade into the background. No, heaven help her, Lord Joslyn was like no man she had ever met in her life.

  “Miss Townsend? Are you all right?”

  His words jolted her and she looked up to realize that both he and Anne were staring at her.

  “Emily? Is something wrong?” asked Anne worriedly. “Lord Joslyn has asked you twice if you’re certain there’s nothing else you need.”

  Emily flushed. “I’m sorry. I—I—I guess that I’m a trifle wool-headed after today’s events.” With an effort she forced herself to look at him, her heart plunging right to her toes at the narrowed expression in those black eyes. Her gaze dropped to her bowl of oyster stew. “I’m fine,” she said. And picking up her spoon, babbled, “Doesn’t this stew look delicious? I’ve always enjoyed Mrs. Eason’s cooking.”

  Barnaby looked surprised. “You know my cook, Mrs. Eason?”

  “Oh, yes,” Anne answered. “Your Mrs. Eason and our cook, Mrs. Spalding, are sisters, and our butler, Walker, is your housekeeper, Mrs. Bartlett’s uncle. Bissell, who used to be the butler here, is married to Mrs. Bartlett’s oldest sister.”

  He shook his head. “I have had a hard time just remembering everyone’s name, much less that of their relatives.”

  “It must be difficult for you,” Anne said sympathetically, “being amongst strangers and in a different country than you were born.”

  “Not so different, and I have my man, Lamb, with me.” He smiled at Anne. “I’m adjusting and at least the language is the same.”

  Interested, Emily looked at him and asked, “Do you think you’ll like living in England?”

  His gaze seemed to reach out and caress her and he said softly, “Since I have met you two charming ladies, I find that I am liking it more and more by the minute.”

  “Oh, that was prettily done,” cried Anne, clapping her hands together in delight. “I can hardly wait for you to meet Great-Aunt Cornelia! She is going to flirt outrageously with you.”

  “Great-Aunt Cornelia . . . ?” Barnaby asked with a lifted brow.

  Despite the flutter in her chest that his look had caused, Emily couldn’t help smiling as she pictured Cornelia’s reaction to Lord Joslyn. “She’ll have you dancing to the tune of her piping in no time,” Emily said, a teasing gleam in her eyes.

  “That’s if she doesn’t eat you for dinner,” Anne added, grinning. “At eighty-nine, she is a remarkable woman. She’ll like you—especially if you stand up to her.”

  Having helped himself from the sideboard, he took a seat across from the ladies and motioning them to their food, joined them at the table. Conversation was scant and general as everyone concentrated on the food, but Barnaby learned a great deal about the neighborhood during the course of the meal. Vicar Smythe grew the most exceptional roses, Anne informed him. Sir Michael, his house steward’s father, was a dear, dear old man; Mrs. Featherstone, widow of a wealthy landowner, was a darling but a great gossip with a quiver full of daughters to marry off and by all means, Emily warned, never buy a horse from Lord Broadfoot.

  “I shall look forward to meeting all of them,” Barnaby said untruthfully as they finished up their meal and settled back to enjoy a final cup of coffee. He looked rueful. “I suspect it will be months before I meet all my neighbors and even longer before I can put
faces with names. I am not even familiar with the staff at Windmere—let alone my neighbors.”

  Anne smiled kindly at him. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Lord and Lady Broadfoot don’t come to call soon.” Her eyes twinkling, she murmured, “Cornelia says that Lady Broadfoot is already planning a soiree to introduce you to the neighborhood—her good friend, Mrs. Featherstone, has promised to help.”

  “Not the Mrs. Featherstone with the quiver full of hopeful daughters?” Barnaby asked, looking alarmed.

  “The very same,” Emily said, smiling. “And there are three Broadfoot daughters. While you have been hiding away here at Windmere, the ladies of the neighborhood have been all atwitter knowing that the American Lord Joslyn was finally in residence. According to Cornelia they have been badgering their husbands unmercifully to call upon you. Only a fast, fading sense of decency has kept them from your door but I expect within the next day or two you will have callers. . . .” She giggled. “And most of them with marriageable daughters.”

  Barnaby groaned and both women laughed.

  There was a tap on the door and Peckham popped his head inside the room. “My lord,” he began, “you have—”

  “Get out of my way, Peckham,” Mathew Joslyn said irritably from behind the butler. “It will be a cold day in hell before my brothers and I have to be announced to our cousin.”

  Chapter 6

  Mathew Joslyn, reputed by many to be one of the handsomest men in the country, stalked into the room. Thomas, favored by some to be even more handsome than his older brother, followed him. Trailing in the rear was Simon, the youngest and in the opinion of the largest contingent, truly the handsomest man in England.