Page 6 of The Forbidden Lord (Lord Trilogy #2)

Chapter Three

Fetters of gold are still fetters, and the softest lining can never make them so easy as liberty.

— MARY ASTELL, ENGLISH POET AND FEMINIST, AN ESSAY IN DEFENCE OF THE FEMALE SEX

Since it was the servants’ day off, the rectory was still and the kitchen deserted in the wee hours after dawn. Emily stood at the stove heating watered-down brandy, glad for the solitude on this spring morning as she prepared her father’s breath-sweetening tincture.

She touched her finger lightly to the glassy surface of the liquid.

Good. It was finally warm enough. Turning to the table, she poured the hot brandy water over the cloves, wild sage, and marsh rosemary she’d crumbled in the bottom of a china bowl.

As a crisp, festive herbal scent wafted through the kitchen, it roused memories of mulled wine and wassail .

.. and feasts served at elaborate masquerade balls given by wealthy nobility.

Sticking her tongue out at the bowl, she dropped into a chair.

Oh, why couldn’t she banish that wretched night from her mind?

Two months had passed since the ball, for pity’s sake.

Her period of mourning was over, and she’d been invited to countless dinners and parties since.

A young man or two had even paid her some attention.

By now she should have forgotten the entire incident.

Lord Blackmore had surely put it out of his mind the very next morning. Although she’d foolishly hoped he might pay her a visit in the days that followed, he hadn’t taken any more notice of her.

Of course he hadn’t. He’d made it quite clear that it had meant little to him.

He’d even thrust her away from him as if she were some troll.

Obviously her lack of experience had disgusted him.

She was the only one foolish enough to dwell on their kisses and savor the memory of his mouth locked to hers, his hands pressing her down on the seat of the carriage. ..

Oh, wretched, wretched imagination! Why was she so tormented with embarrassing memories?

Because it had been her first kiss. She blushed. No, her first and second and third. How many more might there have been if he hadn’t stopped? She’d been ready to let him ruin her right there in that carriage! The man certainly knew how to make a woman’s first kisses memorable.

Curse him for that. Until then, her life had been content, an ordered procession of small cares, light duties, and casual friendships.

She attended church and paid morning visits and tended house for Papa.

Did it matter if she sometimes felt a breath of dissatisfaction in her preordained existence?

If she occasionally found the tedium overwhelming?

Her life was better than many people’s, and she’d been taught to thank God for it.

Then Lord Blackmore—Jordan—had entered her placid world, disturbing its unruffled surface and forcing her to see what she’d missed. She hadn’t known a man could startle a woman’s heart into joyous beating or inflict upon it a pain so intense, it was almost akin to pleasure.

Now she understood the poet Thomas Gray’s words, “Where ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise.” She’d been happy in her ignorance. Gaining wisdom, or experience, about men had indeed been folly of the worst kind.

“There you are.” Her father strode into the kitchen. “I should’ve known I’d find you here.”

Edmund Fairchild was a tall, thin man who’d never looked like a clergyman.

Until Mama died. After that he’d taken refuge in his work, always citing the most restrictive scriptures, the most solemn verses.

The mouth that once had always worn a smile now seemed tugged perpetually downward with the weight of his grief.

The hands that had often hugged her now fell stiff at his sides.

Guilt settled sickly in her as she surveyed his rumpled clothes and blue eyes fogged by sleep. “I’m so sorry, Papa, did I wake you? I couldn’t sleep, but I tried to be quiet.”

As he sat down, he threaded his fingers through his disheveled graying hair, and for once a smile softened his hard features. “You didn’t wake me. Didn’t you hear the carriage drive up outside? Before they could ring the bell, I came down to see who was calling at this unreasonable hour.”

“So who was the rude creature?” When her father frowned, she added, “I do hope it wasn’t the mayor’s wife, asking for birch leaf tea again.

I’ve told her repeatedly to visit the apothecary, but she insists I’m the only one in Willow Crossing who can help her with her rheumatism.

If it was her servant, please tell him my answer is still no. ”

“It wasn’t her.” Her father concentrated on rubbing his bony, arthritic legs.

“You know, lately you refuse to help anyone asking for physic. You used to enjoy helping people with your medicines. Now you seem almost fearful of it, unless it’s something inconsequential like the elixir you made for his lordship’s daughter. ”

Rising suddenly from her chair, she turned her attention to the duck that needed plucking for dinner. Papa must never know the real reason she was afraid to dabble in medicines anymore. “I’m making breath sweetener for you, and that’s a help, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but it’s not the same thing as making physic.” When she said nothing, he added, “If this concerns your mother—”

“Of course not! I-I’ve merely lost my interest in doctoring.

” That he would even mention Mama surprised her.

They’d grieved apart, neither one encroaching on the other’s remembrances, as if speaking of Mama might make the world explode.

Their unspoken agreement had grown more strained of late, however.

Quickly, she changed the subject. “Who was it at the door?”

Papa slapped his head with his palm. “My word, I forgot! Lord Nesfield’s footman is waiting outside with his lordship’s carriage.”

“I thought Lord Nesfield was still in London for Sophie’s coming out.”

“So did I. But it seems he’s returned.”

She plucked the duck’s feathers with sharp strokes. “And of course, the first thing he did was demand your presence at a ridiculous hour. You’d think you were his blessed servant.”

“No, dear. He sent the carriage for you, not me. He wants you at Ormond. His footman said it concerns Lady Sophie. And you are her particular friend.”

Wiping her hands on her dimity apron, Emily stared at her father. Had something happened to Sophie? And if so, why would the marquess send for Emily when he thought so little of her and Sophie’s friendship?

Her father apparently misinterpreted her silence. “I know you don’t like him, but you should go, my child. He is my patron, after all.”

“Yes, of course.” She had no choice but to leap when Lord Nesfield snapped his fingers.

While Papa spoke with the footman, she changed into her sprigged muslin, the only one of her day gowns suitable for an audience with the marquess.

When she descended the stairs, Papa was pacing the hall, the lines in his face etched more deeply than usual.

“Don’t let Lord Nesfield’s ill humor rouse you to harsh words, Emily.

” He bent as she lifted her head to kiss his cheek.

“We owe him a great deal. He may be troublesome, but he’s still one of God’s creatures. Try to remember that.”

“I will, Papa. Don’t worry. I’m sure this is nothing.”

As the Nesfield carriage rumbled up in front of the ancient mansion set amidst acres of tenant farms and forest, she found it increasingly hard to be nonchalant.

The imposing facade of stone and brick with its myriad windows emanated an awesome power.

The Marquess of Nesfield held complete sway in Willow Crossing.

If he wanted to ruin her and Papa, he could do so with a snap of his cruel fingers.

She’d given him the wherewithal to do it, too.

When she entered the foyer to find Lord Nesfield himself awaiting her, she shuddered.

This must be terribly urgent. His lordship’s attire, usually extravagant and self-important, was casual, mussed, and grimy.

He looked as if he’d just arrived from London.

And he circled the foyer like some great vulture as his ivory cane beat a choppy rhythm on the marble floor.

As soon as he caught sight of her, his frown added more wrinkles to his aging brow. “At last! You took your sweet time, didn’t you, Miss Fairchild? Come with me. We have much to discuss.”

She bit back a hot retort. She would never get used to Lord Nesfield’s utter lack of courtesy toward anyone beneath him.

He clasped her by the arm, dragging her to the drawing room like a recalcitrant child.

Dear heavens, she’d never seen Lord Nesfield so agitated, and he made a profession out of agitation.

As soon as they entered the lavishly appointed room, he released her. She surveyed her surroundings, discovering to her surprise that A woman of substantial proportions awaited them, filling up a wing-backed chair like a great stuffed peacock.

And with such brilliant feathers! Emily couldn’t help but stare.

The woman’s expensive-looking satin gown was so vividly purple it made her pink-cheeked face look like a peony floating in a sea of violets.

Emily judged her to be about fifty, though it was hard to tell since she wore a turban of golden satin and the plumpness of her skin smoothed out any wrinkle that might dare crease its surface.

Only a woman with utter confidence in herself could wear such an outrageous ensemble.

Lord Nesfield broke the silence. “Ophelia, I present to you Miss Fairchild, my rector’s daughter. Miss Fairchild, this is Ophelia Campbell, the Countess of Dundee. Lady Dundee is my sister.”