“Would you like to read the society page?” More surprise laced his words.
“Perhaps later. I was wondering how Wellington is doing in Spain. He would have taken Badajoz last spring, but I forget where he went from there.”
Thurston’s shock abruptly shut her mouth. Again she had forgotten her role, speaking aloud without thinking, annoyed because she couldn’t recall the sequence of battles and hadn’t thought to check the newspaper for herself. Was Wellington in Madrid yet? It didn’t matter. If she was to carry off this masquerade, she must hide her research, suppress her knowledge of current events, and concentrate on pursuing Emily’s goals. That would require thinking every comment through before uttering it. Especially around Drew, whose image of Emily must remain unchanged if the girl was to return. Unfortunately, after weeks of receiving his personal attention, she felt far too relaxed with him, which made it hard to remain aloof. She should not have stayed in the library to read. Books always made her lose track of time and place.
He swallowed a couple of times, then apparently decided to humor her. “I do not know what Wellington is doing right now. He does not announce his plans in advance, and the papers are still printing arguments over the sack at Badajoz.” He glanced at the
Times
. “Parliament is debating Wellington’s latest request for supplies. They will doubtless refuse to increase the amounts.”
She tried to ignore him and remain silent as Emily would have, but he wouldn’t let her.
“Come on,” he urged, meeting her eyes. “You’re dying to say something. Out with it.”
He was right. “How shortsighted to keep the army on poor rations,” she scoffed. “How can anyone expect him to win if they deny him the men and material he needs?”
“True. But many people believe that victory is hopeless and we should forget the whole thing.”
“Nonsense. Napoleon is not invincible, as his asinine move into Russia proves.”
“He is winning there,” he said softly.
“For the moment. It is only July.”
“What does that mean?” He was clearly puzzled.
“Have you ever been to Russia?”
“Of course not!”
She tried to drop the subject, but the expectant look on his face prompted one last comment. “It gets very, very cold there. No one unaccustomed to the weather can stand the winters.”
“Napoleon is not stupid,” he countered sharply.
“But he expects his troops to live off the land. They will never find food and clothing for six hundred thousand men.”
Thurston surged to his feet. “Where did you hear that?” he demanded. “No one knows how many troops the Emperor sent to Russia!”
Cherlynn swayed, feeling the blood drain from her face. “I-I don’t know,” she said finally, falling back on her supposed amnesia. Fleeing to the window, she gazed at the gardens.
Damn you, Emily!
I’m going to screw this up. You can’t expect me to ignore a topic so dear to my heart. Couldn’t you at least give me an idea of how to go on in this plagued world? Look at me! Five minutes with Drew and I’ve already blown my cover. At this rate, he’ll despise you by morning!
Emily remained silent.
“Damnation,” he muttered so softly she barely heard the epithet. He slipped up behind her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he gently turned her to face him. “Forgive me, Em,” he said soothingly. “You did nothing wrong. I shouldn’t have ripped you up. But you’ve never evinced an interest in world affairs before. I was surprised.”
“Is knowing about the world in which I live so terrible?” she asked in return, shivering at his touch. “This void in my mind is frustrating. I have to learn the rules all over again. And they make no sense! How can anyone stand to live in ignorance?”
“Don’t think about it now,” he urged. “The memories will return. And you needn’t hide your interests completely. Ladies like your mother disparage learning – which explains why you’ve hidden it so well – but I know several bluestockings who get along quite nicely in town.”
Cherlynn shuddered. She should not have attached that label to Emily. But it was too late. Hopefully Drew would not bandy his knowledge about and would be relieved when Emily returned to her uneducated self. This masquerade was going to be harder than she had imagined. Breaking from his grasp, she fled.
* * * *
Drew watched Emily leave the library, then returned to his seat. He was still in a state of shock, for she had never given the slightest hint that she read anything beyond
La Belle Assemblée.
Despite loving her, he suddenly felt that he did not know her at all. Did amnesia induce alien traits? Or had it merely stripped away a facade of pretense, allowing the real woman to shine through?
It was a frightening thought. If he could know someone so well, yet be so wrong about her core, how could he judge anyone? And why had she hidden her interests from him? Didn’t she trust him? Pain stabbed his heart at her betrayal. Despite her protestations of love – which had surpassed all bounds of proper behavior – she had shared none of herself with him. It hurt.
Charles arrived, pouring himself a glass of wine before taking the chair Emily had just vacated.
“Anything noteworthy in the
Times?
” he asked.
“Emily just asked the same question. She had some startling – but astute – observations on Napoleon’s campaign into Russia.”
Charles’s glass landed on the floor, spattering wine in all directions.
“So you didn’t know, either.” He felt better knowing that even Charles was ignorant of her interests.
“Impossible,” Charles snapped. “The girl hasn’t a thought in her head beyond clothes, gossip, and music.”
“So I thought. But not only is she
au courante
on the war, her understanding of tactics surpasses that of many gentlemen.”
“Fine praise, indeed. I know how much you chafe at being the heir, Drew. Wellington could use you.”
Drew stared at the fire to hide the pain that twisted his face. “My last hope of a commission died with Randolph. I must secure the succession and stand ready to assume the title. Father is not well. McClarren believes he will be gone within the year.”
Charles raised a questioning brow.
Bitterness filled Drew’s voice. “He has suffered numerous spells since the one at William’s funeral, though no one bothered to inform me.” And that was intolerable. Anger flared. It was time to assert his rights. He had been in a fog since Randolph’s death, too morose to question even glaring insolence from the servants or the secrecy that had left him in the dark for so long. “Something is amiss with his heart. Since each attack is worse than its predecessor, it is only a matter of time before one proves fatal.”
“My condolences. Did Emily mention how she learned so much about the war?” he asked, moving the conversation away from the emotional pit over which it hovered.
Drew was glad to set aside his problems. Not even Charles would stand by him if the full truth emerged. His deceit weighed more heavily every day. If not for the succession, he might have ended his life by now. “She recalls nothing,” he reminded his friend. “I can only assume that her memory loss is why she is exposing her foibles. She no long realizes that such interests are unladylike.”
“Then she must be a better actress than I had suspected. She has always been a model young lady with never a hint of anything more. Perhaps she has been slipping into my study to read the papers while I was otherwise occupied. But it is odd that even the servants have never caught her at it. Humphreys would have heard if anyone had seen her there,” he added, naming his valet. “But I cannot understand why she would bother. Or, if she is truly interested, why she would hide it from me. I have never disapproved of anything she has done.”
Only because she’s never done anything unconventional, at least nothing you know about.
“Your mother would,” he said aloud with sudden understanding. “How often have I heard her condemn others for something as innocuous as mentioning a well-known poet. She even criticized Lady Peabody one afternoon for allowing her daughter to read Maria Edgeworth’s
Improving Tales for Young People,
claiming that reading and writing should be restricted to invitations and letters between close friends.”
Charles sighed. “I had best talk to Emily. She will have forgotten Mama’s intolerance. McClarren fears that any upset could worsen her condition, but Mama will ignore that if she thinks Emily’s behavior is unacceptable.” He hurried after his sister.
Drew summoned a servant to clean up the wine, then frowned, again pondering Emily’s secrecy. He had thought them even closer than siblings. She had loved him with an intensity that sometimes stifled him. Yet despite meeting him scores of times without a chaperon, she had never said a word about reading for pleasure – an activity far less damning. It hurt.
His hands tingled where they had grasped her shoulders. His love burned as hot as ever, now accompanied by an unexpected lust. Did that arise because she was now forbidden fruit?
He tried to accept that explanation, but her accident had allowed more than her intelligence to surface. Her eyes revealed a spark of passion he had never noticed before. It animated her, adding seductive grace to every movement. Touching her had been a mistake, sending heat into his loins that awakened powerful desires. They had no future, a fact his body had better accept.
Swearing, he headed for the stables.
* * * *
Cherlynn looked over her shoulder. No one was in sight, so she ducked into a seldom-used sitting room and exhaled in relief. One of the unexpected aspects of Regency life was the plethora of servants. It wasn’t their existence that bothered her as much as their constant presence. Those who had grown up in the aristocracy didn’t even think about them, but she was aware of every one. No matter where she went, she was surrounded by people who watched her every move so they could serve her properly. But they provided no companionship, instead raising persistent worry about blowing her cover.
Drew’s shock yesterday had been bad enough. Charles’s had been worse. He had followed her back to her room, where he read her a lengthy lecture about Lady Clifford’s intolerance, then pressed her for details of where she had learned her information. Her claims of amnesia merely increased his irritation until she finally feigned a headache and all but passed out in order to get rid of him. Since the men of this era considered women to be weak, then weakness was her most powerful weapon. It put another twist on Regency relationships, but she preferred honesty to guile.
And it raised yet another question about Drew. How could he and Charles be close friends? Unless he was also horrified at the idea of female intelligence. It might explain his love for Emily.
She must be more careful. Remaining silent on the grounds that her amnesia left her uncertain of the proprieties might work. And acting demure. If she kept her eyes on her lap, she would avoid meeting Drew’s gaze. There was something about him that challenged her, making her forget Emily, forget the curse, and forget the years that would soon separate them.
In the meantime, she had to assuage her boredom. She had purloined a copy of
Tom Jones
from the library and sought out this unused room so she could relax for a while. Sighing in relief, she sprawled onto a couch and was soon engrossed in the lascivious tale.
She was chuckling softly when a knock sounded on the door. It opened as she dropped the book and bolted to her feet.
“My lord!”
As Drew sauntered into the room, she sat down atop
Tom Jones
and tried to compose her shattered nerves. The adrenaline rush from fright drove her heart into high gear and left her muscles quivering.
“What are you doing in here, Em?” he asked curiously. “Your mother is hysterical because you are missing.”
Damn! Lady Clifford hadn’t called on her in two days. Why now? Drew waited expectantly for her answer. “I was looking around and stopped to rest for a moment.”
Skepticism flared in his eyes. Recalling her plan, she dropped her gaze to her hands, realizing too late that in this context, the action made her appear guilty. Stronger invective raced through her mind. She had always been a rotten actress, even with a script. How was she to manage without one?
“You needn’t pretend with me,” he said softly, joining her on the couch. “You slipped away to read, I suppose. But despite your mother’s admonitions, there is nothing wrong with gothic novels like
Otranto
. Most of the girls who come out each Season enjoy such tales.”
“But Charles and Mama do not.” Thank God he hadn’t seen the title. She had collected
Otranto
from the library while the family was at dinner the night before, and finished it after dismissing Grace. Only then did she realize how starved she had been for mental stimulation. It was impossible to go back to staring at the walls, but there was little else to do. Lacking a Regency lady’s accomplishments, reading was her only time filler.
“I won’t tell.”
“But you already did,” she reminded him, making the mistake of meeting his gaze. He was staring at her with such longing that she nearly reached out to touch his cheek. But guilt rapidly filled his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Em. It wouldn’t have happened if you both hadn’t caught me by surprise. I’ll handle it better in the future. Trust me.”
“Can I?” She had meant the question as an innocuous comment, realizing only as he blanched that he would believe she referred to the entire Fay-Drew-Emily imbroglio. Heat washed over her face, making this second
faux pas
even worse. Emily had chosen her unwisely. She was going to fail, condemning Emily to bitter unhappiness, Drew to an early suicide, and herself to the Broadbanks curse.
He visibly pulled himself together. “Of course you can. But for now, you must return before your mother disrupts the entire household with her frenzy.”
Without warning, he grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet, then picked up her book. “I’ll slip this into your ro—” His voice died as he saw the title. “My God! You’re reading Fielding!”
“So?” The fat was in the fire anyway. She would
not
apologize.