Scandal

Chapter 2

Emily wished the floor of Rose Cottage would open up beneath her chair and swallow her whole. She was mortified. She was humiliated. She was in the throes of excruciating emotional anguish. She would have given anything to be able to succumb to a fit of the vapors. Unfortunately, her sensibilities were not quite that delicate.

Above all, she was furious. It was absolutely intolerable that the great love of her life should have snuck up on her and caught her so woefully unprepared for such a momentous occasion.

She took a sip of tea to calm her nerves, listening as the ladies of the local literary society made a desultory effort to discuss the latest articles in a recent edition of the Edinburgh Review. There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm attached to the project.

The cup rattled in the saucer when Emily replaced it. The sound made her realize how strained her nerves were. At this rate it was just a matter of time before she spilled tea all over the carpet.

"I suppose I should not have been surprised by the review of Southey's latest effort." Simon's cool, deep voice cut through a fluttering conversation on John MacDonald's

rather tedious work, A Geographical Memoir of the Persian Empire. "As usual, the editors are entirely off the mark in their comments. They simply do not know how to take Southey. Of course, they do not seem to know how to take Wordsworth or Coleridge, either, do they? One would think they had a vendetta against the Lake poets."

The weak discussion, which had had a difficult time getting started in the first place, promptly ground to a complete halt. Again.

Simon sipped his tea and glanced around the room expectantly. When no one spoke, he tried valiantly to restart the conversation. "Of course, what can you expect from that lot of Scotsmen who call themselves reviewers? As Byron pointed out a few years ago, the Edinburgh critics are a petty, mean-spirited lot. I'm inclined to agree. What does your little group think?"

"You are referring to Byron's verses entitled English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, my lord?" Miss Hornsby managed to inquire politely.

"Correct." Simon's voice crackled with impatience now.

Miss Hornsby blanched as if she'd been bitten. One or two of the other members of the literary society cleared their throats and looked at each other nervously.

"More tea, my lord?" Lavinia Inglebright demanded bravely as she seized hold of the pot.

"Thank you," Simon said dryly.

Emily winced at the earl's obvious annoyance and frustration as the conversation trailed off into nothingness once more. But she could not resist a fleeting grin. Simon's thoroughly chilling effect on the Thursday Afternoon Literary Society was amusing in some ways.

It was rather like having a dragon in the parlor. One knew one ought to be extremely polite, but one did not know quite what to do with the creature.

Seated in a place of importance near the hearth, S. A. Traherne appeared to take up all the available space in the tiny, frilly, feminine room. In fact, he overwhelmed it with his overpowering, subtly dangerous masculinity.

Emily shivered with a strange excitement as she studied him covertly. The earl was a big man, hard and lean and broad-shouldered. His strong thighs were clearly outlined by his snug-fitting breeches. Emily sensed Lavinia Inglebright casting anxious glances at the dainty chair in which the earl sat. Poor Lavinia was probably afraid the fragile piece of furniture would collapse. Social disaster loomed.

Now, the earl sitting amid the ruins of Lavinia Inglebright's chair would be an interesting sight to see, Emily told herself. In the next breath she decided she must be getting hysterical. Would this interminable afternoon never end?

She stifled a groan and squinted a little, trying to locate the nearest table, where she could safely set down her rattling cup and saucer. Everything was a colorful blur without her spectacles. She had, of course, whipped them off and stuffed them into her reticule as soon as the earl had set her on her feet. But the damage had been done. He had seen her in them.

After all these months of secret hopes and anticipation, she had at last encountered the great love of her life and she had been wearing her spectacles. It was simply too much to be borne.

Nor was that the end of the disaster. Blade had also seen her riding astride instead of sidesaddle. And he had caught her wearing an unfashionable bonnet and her oldest riding habit. And of course she had not bothered to dust powder over her freckles before leaving St. Clair Hall this afternoon. She never bothered with powder here in the country. Everyone around Little Dippington already knew what she looked like.

Dear lord, what a fiasco.

On the other hand, Simon Augustus Traherne, Earl of Blade, was quite perfect, just as she had known he would be. It was true that she had been somewhat taken aback by the coldness of his strange, golden gaze, but a certain cool glitter was only to be expected from a dragon's eyes, she told herself.

Nor could she hold the unexpected harshness of his features against him. It certainly was not Blade's fault that there was no hint of gentleness or softness in that bold nose, high cheekbones, and grimly carved jawline. It was a face of great character, Emily thought. A face that reflected enormous strength of will. An exceedingly masculine face. The visage of a paragon among men.

How unfortunate he had turned out to be an earl. The gulf between them was now much wider than it had been when he had been simply S. A. Traherne.

The cup and saucer in her hand clinked precariously as Emily leaned forward.

"Let me take that cup for you, Miss Faringdon." Simon's strong, warm fingers brushed hers as he deftly removed the saucer from her grasp.

"Thank you." Emily bit her lip and sat back. Her mortification knew no bounds now. Obviously she must have been about to set her cup and saucer on someone's lap, possibly on his lap. Bloody hell She sent up a desperate prayer for escape from this waking nightmare.

"I suggest you put on your spectacles, Miss Faringdon," Simon murmured in an undertone as the ladies began to argue halfheartedly about the fairness of the Edinburgh reviews. "No sense going about half blind. We are old friends, you and I. You don't need to worry about fashion around me."

Emily sighed. "I suppose you have the right of it, my lord. In any event, you have already seen me in them, haven't you?" She fumbled in her reticule for her spectacles and put them on. Simon's grimly hewn face and oddly chilling eyes came into sharp focus. She realized he was studying her very intently and she thought she could read his thoughts. "Not quite what you expected, am I, my lord?"

His mouth quirked in brief amusement. "You are even more interesting in person than you are in your letters, Miss Faringdon. I assure you, I am not in the least disappointed. I only hope you can say the same."

Emily's mouth fell open in astonishment. She closed it quickly. "Disappointed?" she stammered. "Oh, no, not in the least, Mr. Traherne, I mean, my lord." She blushed, reminding herself she was twenty-four years old and not a silly schoolgirl. Furthermore, she had been corresponding with this man for months.

"Good. We progress." Simon sounded satisfied. He took another swallow of tea and something about the twist of his mouth made it subtly clear he did not approve of the blend.

Determined to behave like the adult she was, Emily forced herself to participate in the labored conversation that was going on around her. The others had finally managed to develop a somewhat uninspired discussion of the influence of the Lake poets and Emily did her best to assist the effort. The earl sipped tea in silence for a while.

Emily was feeling much more her normal self when, out of the clear blue sky, Simon put down his teacup and dropped a bombshell into the small parlor.

"Speaking of Byron and his ilk," the earl said calmly, "has anyone here had a chance to read Lord Ashbrook's latest piece, The Hero of Marliana? I thought it rather a poor imitation of Byron, myself. Which is certainly not saying much. Fellow simply is not as interesting as Byron, is he? Lacks a solid sense of irony. But there is no question that Ashbrook is quite popular in some circles at the moment. I am curious to hear your opinion."

The impact of the seemingly innocuous comment was immediate. The Misses Inglebright gasped in unison. Miss Bracegirdle's mouth trembled in shock. Miss Hornsby and Miss Ostly met each other's eyes across the room. Emily looked down at her hands, which were folded very tightly in her lap.

Even Simon, for all his cool sophistication, looked slightly startled by the leaden silence that descended on the parlor. This silence was quite different from the others that had preceded it. Those had been awkward; this was downright hostile and accusatory.

Simon glanced around with an expression of mild concern. "I take it you have not had a chance to read the Ashbrook epic, then?"

"No, my lord. We have not." Emily averted her eyes, aware of the fierce heat in her cheeks. She reached for her cup and saucer again in a desperate effort to occupy her trembling fingers.

"No great loss, I assure you," Simon said languidly. His golden eyes were dangerously curious, those of a dragon who had spotted possible prey.

The ladies of the Thursday Afternoon Literary Society suddenly came to life. As if the mention of Ashbrook's name had galvanized them into action, they took complete charge of the conversation. Their voices rose loudly, filling the parlor with a long, prosy discussion of a recent work entitled Patronage by Maria Edgeworth. Even the Edinburgh, which normally fawned on Miss Edgeworth, had had difficulty finding good things to say about it. The ladies of the Thursday afternoon salon tore it to shreds.

With a cold, unreadable smile, Simon leaned back in his chair and let the discussion rage around him. "Forgive me," he murmured to Emily. "I seem to have said something unfortunate."

Emily choked on her tea. "Not at all, my lord," she got out between quick gasps for air. Her eyes watered. "It is just that we are not very familiar with Lord Ashbrook's works here."

"I see." Simon reached over and quite casually slapped Emily between the shoulders.

Emily rocked beneath the force of the blow and then caught her balance and her breath. "Thank you, my lord," she managed.

"Anytime." With a sardonic tilt to his mouth, the earl rose to his feet. Instantly another hush fell over the parlor, this time a distinctly hopeful one. He raised a brow. "If you will forgive me, ladies, I must be on my way. I told Lady Gillingham I would be back early. I trust I shall have the great pleasure of meeting you all again. I assure you, this has been a most informative afternoon."

There ensued a few minutes of polite chaos as Simon was hastily shown to the door of the cottage. He bowed politely and walked down the little path to the gate where his stallion was tied. He mounted, tipped his hat, and cantered off down the lane.

Relief immediately swamped Rose Cottage. As one, the other five women turned toward Emily.

"Thought he'd never leave," Priscilla Inglebright muttered as she flopped down into her chair. "Lavinia, pour us all another cup of tea, will you?"

"Certainly." Her sister lifted the pot as the others resumed their seats. "Such a shock when Lord Gillingham sent word that Blade wished to visit today. One could hardly refuse. Gillingham told me the earl is an extremely powerful man in London."

"Blade is well enough in his way, I suppose," her sister said, "but he hardly fits into our little group."

"Hardly." Miss Hornsby sighed. "It was rather like having to entertain a large beast that had somehow wandered into the parlor."

"A dragon," Emily suggested softly.

"A dragon is a very apt description," Miss Ostly agreed at once. "Blade is a rather dangerous-looking man, is he not? There is something about those odd eyes of his that makes one extremely cautious. Very chilling, those eyes."

"We should be quite flattered that an earl came to call and I am sure we all are, but, quite frankly, I am enormously relieved to have him gone. Men like that do not suit little country parlors such as ours," Priscilla Inglebright declared. "So exhausting having a man like that underfoot."

"His family used to live in the neighborhood at one time, I believe." Lavinia frowned thoughtfully.

Emily was startled. "Are you certain?"

"Oh, yes. It has been more than twenty years, now. Priscilla and I had only recently moved here. The earl's family owned a fair amount of land around here, as I recall." Lavinia suddenly broke off with an odd expression in her eyes. "But, as I said, that was twenty years ago and I really do not recall the details."

"Well, I must say, it was especially disconcerting to have him show up today of all days," Miss Hornsby remarked. "Here we have been waiting this age for a report from Emily and we had to spend the last hour discussing the latest literary reviews. Extremely frustrating. But now at last we can get down to business." She turned faded, expectant eyes on Emily. "Well, my dear? How did it go?"

Emily pushed her spectacles more firmly onto her nose and picked up her reticule. She felt much more clearheaded now that S. A. Traherne was gone. "Ladies of the Thursday Afternoon Literary Society, I am pleased to bring good news." She fumbled around in the reticule while she spoke, drawing out some papers. "The navigable canal shares we bought have been sold at a respectable profit. I received Mr. Davenport's report in the morning post. He has already taken the drafts to the bank and deposited them in your account."

"Oh, my," Miss Bracegirdle said, her eyes glowing. "I might just be able to afford that little cottage at the foot of the lane, after all. What a relief to know there will be a roof over my head when the last of my charges goes off to school next year."

"This is so exciting," Miss Hornsby declared. "Just think, Martha," she added to Miss Ostly, "we are well on our way toward securing a decent pension for ourselves."

"Just as well," Martha Ostly retorted, "seeing as it has become quite clear neither of our employers is going to be bothered to supply us with one. What a relief not to have to contemplate an old age spent in genteel poverty."

"At this rate, Lavinia and I will soon have enough money to open our seminary for young ladies," Priscilla Inglebright said happily. "It seemed like an impossible dream for so long and now it is almost within our grasp."

"Thanks to Emily," Lavinia Inglebright added with a warm smile for the youngest member of the group.

"I shudder to think what would have become of all of us if you had not suggested this marvelous plan to pool our money and invest in shares and funds, Emily." Miss Hornsby shook her head. "I, for one, was dreading having to become the companion of one of my aging relatives. They're a miserable lot, my relatives. Every last one of them. Make one grovel for every scrap of charity."

"We are saved and we owe it all to Emily," Miss Bracegirdle said. "And if there is ever any way we can repay you, Emily, you must tell us at once."

"You have all repaid me a thousandfold by being my friends," Emily assured them earnestly. "I will never forget what you did for me after I made a fool of myself five years ago."

"Nonsense, my dear," Miss Bracegirdle said. "All we did was insist you continue to attend our little Thursday afternoon group as usual."

And thereby made it clear to one and all that the decent folk of Little Dippington were not going to ostracize the Faringdon girl simply because of the Unfortunate Incident, Emily thought with a rush of affection. She would always be grateful to the ladies of the Thursday Afternoon Literary Society.

Lavinia Inglebright got to her feet, eyes sparkling. "Do you know, I believe this calls for a celebration. Shall I fetch that bottle of claret we have been saving, Priscilla?"

"A lovely notion," Priscilla exclaimed.

Simon was obliged to walk his stallion aimlessly among the trees for the better part of half an hour before his quarry had the grace to appear.

The earl fumed silently. Matters had not gotten off to the smooth start he had anticipated when he had arranged to attend the Thursday afternoon salon. Obliged to stage a strategic retreat, he had decided to lay in wait for Emily as she rode back to St. Clair Hall.

He had fully expected the literary society meeting to break up shortly after he took his leave but obviously the good ladies of the group had finally found something to talk about after he'd gone. He was getting damn cold, although it was an unseasonably warm afternoon. There was no getting around the fact that it was late February, after all.

Lap Seng whickered softly and pricked up his fine ears. Simon stopped pacing and listened. In the distance he heard he sound of a horse trotting down the lane.

"About time," he growled as he remounted. Then he frowned as he heard Emily's voice lifted high in a cheerful, off-key song sung at full volume.

"What good is a man, now, I ask you, kind ladies? If we had any sense, we would send them to Hades. They say there's a use for each creature, e'en leeches, But to discover the use of men, my dears, A woman must look in their breeches."

In spite of his foul mood, Simon found himself grinning. Apparently the members of the society had gotten into something a bit stronger than weak tea after his departure.

He tightened the reins and urged Lap Seng out of the trees and into the center of the road. He was ready a moment later when Emily's dappled gray came bouncing around the bend.

Emily did not see him at first. She was concentrating too intently on her bawdy song. Her spectacles sparkled in the sunlight and her red curls bobbed in time to her tune. Simon was seized with a sudden desire to know what that mass of fiery hair would look like if it were unpinned and allowed to fall around her shoulders.

"Damn it to hell," he muttered under his breath as he waited for Emily to realize he was directly in her path. The last thing he wanted to do was find himself physically attracted to the woman. He needed to keep a clear head for what he intended. Cold-blooded revenge required coldblooded thinking.

"Good afternoon, Miss Faringdon."

With a startled expression Emily brought her horse to a shambling halt. "My lord, what on earth are you doing here?" Her face was flushed and there was anxious alarm in her elfin eyes. "Did you lose your way? The Gillinghams are directly over that little rise. You merely turn left at the stream and go straight up the hill."

"Thank you," Simon said. "But I assure you, I am not lost. I was waiting for you. I had begun to fear you had taken another route home."

She looked at him blankly. "But you said you were expected back early at the Gillinghams."

"I confess that was an excuse to enable me to leave early. I received the distinct impression my presence was having a dampening effect upon the good ladies of the literary society."

Emily blinked owlishly. "I fear you are right, my lord. We are not accustomed to entertaining dragons—" she looked horrified and immediately tried to recover, "I mean, earls on Thursday afternoon."

"A dragon, hmm? Is that how you see me, Miss Faringdon?"

"Oh, no, my lord," she assured him quickly. "Well, perhaps there is a faint resemblance about the eyes."

Simon smiled grimly. "What about the teeth?"

"Only the smallest degree of similarity. But it does not signify, I assure you, my lord. You are exactly as I had pictured you from your letters."

Simon exhaled slowly, holding on to his patience with a savage grip. "Would you care to walk with me for a ways? We have much to discuss."

"We do?"

"Of course. We are old friends, are we not?"

"We are?"

"Correct me if I am mistaken, Miss Faringdon, but I had the impression we have been corresponding for several months."

She was instantly flustered. "Oh, yes, my lord. We most certainly have. Definitely." Emily's red curls bounced beneath her bonnet as she nodded her head in swift agreement. "I feel I have known you for ages."

"The feeling is mutual."

"The thing is, I never expected to actually meet you in person."

"I see. What do you say to a stroll down by the stream?" Simon dismounted and strode determinedly toward her, leading Lap Seng.

She looked down at him with unconcealed longing. "I should like that very much, my lord, but I fear it would not be quite proper."

"Nonsense. Who will see us? And even if someone did notice us together, he can hardly complain too loudly. After all, we have just been quite properly introduced at a local meeting of the literary society."

Her momentary hesitation vanished immediately. She gave him a glowing smile. "You are quite right, my lord. I must tell you, I can hardly believe we have finally met. It is the culmination of all my hopes."

She started to slide down off the mare and Simon reached up to assist her. This time she did not lose her balance and tumble into his arms. He realized he was a little disappointed. A part of him wanted to feel that soft, lithe, feminine body against his own hard one again.

"I am sorry for catching you unawares this afternoon," he said as he led the horses into the trees. "I had hoped to surprise you. I know how you like surprises."

"That was very thoughtful of you," she assured him. "I do like surprises." She paused. "Most of the time."

He smiled wryly. "But not always."

"It is just that I would have liked very much to have been looking my best when we met," she admitted. "You cannot imagine how I have been agonizing over this event since I got your letter this morning. I assumed I would have weeks to prepare. Not that it would have made all that much difference, I suppose."

He looked down at her and realized she only came to his shoulder. She was small but there was an entrancing, airy grace about her movements. "You must allow me to tell you that you are in excellent looks, Miss Faringdon. Indeed, I was charmed the moment I saw you."

"You were?" She wrinkled her nose, clearly amazed by this pronouncement.

"Absolutely."

Her eyes gleamed with pleasure. "Thank you, my lord. I assure you I was equally charmed. By you, I mean."

This, thought Simon, was going to be almost too easy.

"But I would not have willingly upset you or the ladies of the literary society. You must forgive me."

"Yes, well, you see, we had not actually planned to discuss poetry or the latest reviews today," Emily explained as she stepped lightly along beside him.

"What were you intending to discuss?"

"Investments." She gave a vague little wave of dismissal.

He glanced shrewdly at her. "Investments?"

"Yes. I realize that must strike you as terribly dull." She looked up at him anxiously. "I assure you that today was rather unusual. I had some excellent news to report in regard to the investments I have made on my friends' behalf. They are all most concerned with their pensions, you see. One can hardly blame them."

"You are seeing to their future pensions?"

"I have some ability in financial matters, so I do what I can. The ladies you met today have all been very kind to me. This is the least I can do to repay them." She gave him a reassuring smile. "But I promise you that normally we devote ourselves to a lively discussion of the latest books and poetry. Why, just last week we were involved in the most intense analysis of Miss Austen's book, Pride and Prejudice. I was going to write you a letter on the subject."

"What did you think of the novel?"

"Well, it is all very pleasant in its way, I suppose. That is to say, Miss Austen is certainly a very fine writer. Wonderful gift for illuminating certain types of character, but…"

"But?" He was curious in spite of himself.

"The thing is, her subject matter is so very commonplace, don't you agree? She writes of such ordinary people and events."

"Miss Austen is not Byron, I'll grant you that."

"That is certainly true," Emily agreed in a rush of enthusiasm. "Her books are quite entertaining, but they lack the exciting, exotic qualities of Lord Byron's works, not to mention the spirit of adventure and the excess of passion. The literary society just finished The Giaour."

"And enjoyed it, I take it?"

"Oh, yes. Such marvelous atmosphere, such remarkable adventures, such a thrilling sense of the darker passions. I adored it fully as much as Childe Harold. I cannot wait for Byron's next work."

"You and most of London."

"Tell me, sir, have you heard precisely how the G in Giaour is to be sounded? Hard or soft? We spent a great deal of time discussing the matter last Thursday and none of us could be certain, although Miss Bracegirdle, who has an excellent command of ancient history, believes it should be soft."

"It is a topic which has not yet been resolved, to my knowledge," Simon hedged. He had not yet had a chance to read the poem and had no plans to do so. He had only dipped into romantic literature and poetry long enough to bait his trap. Now that the trap was about to close, he did not care if he ever read another epic poem of passion and adventure. He had far better things to do with his time.

"Not that it matters greatly, I suppose," Emily assured him tactfully. "About the G, I mean."

Simon shrugged. "I imagine it does to Byron." They had reached the stream and were now safely out of sight of the lane. He turned automatically and began to head to the right, moving upstream.

Emily lifted the skirts of her faded riding habit with an artless grace that somehow imbued the aging costume with more style than it actually had. She glanced around curiously at the landscape. "Excuse me, my lord, but you appear to know where you are going. Do you remember this path from when you lived in the neighborhood as a child?"

Simon slid her a sidelong glance. Of course, she had been bound to learn that bit of information fairly quickly. "How did you know my family had a home here?"

"Lavinia Inglebright mentioned it."

"It has been a long time since I lived in this neighborhood," Simon said cautiously.

"Still, it is the most amazing coincidence, is it not? Just imagine, my lord, you began corresponding with me initially because you discovered quite by accident that I shared your great interest in romantic literature. And then we learn that you used to live near Little Dippington as a child. And now we have met. Most incredible."

"Life is full of strange coincidences."

"I prefer to think of it as fate. Do you know, I can just see you as a small boy running down here near this stream, perhaps with a dog. Did you have a dog, sir?"

"I believe I did."

Emily nodded. "I thought so. I myself come here frequently. Do you recall my poem entitled Verses on a Summer Day Beside a Pond?

"Quite clearly."

"I wrote them as I sat beside that little pond up ahead," she told him proudly. "Perhaps you recall a line or two?"

Simon took one look at the hopeful expression in her green eyes and found himself desperately wracking his brain to recall a few words of the sweet but otherwise forgettable poem she had carefully set down in one of her recent letters. He was vastly relieved when his excellent memory came to his aid. He made a stab at the first two lines.

"You remembered." Emily looked as thrilled as if he had just given her a fortune in gems. Then she blushed and added in a confiding tone, "I realize I ought to rework parts of it. I do not precisely care for the way 'dream here' rhymes with 'glitter.' Twitter or flitter would be better, don't you think?"

"Well," Simon began carefully, "it is hard to say."

"Not that it signifies at the moment," she told him cheerfully. "I am working on a major project and it will be some time before I get back to Verses on a Summer Day Beside a Pond."

"A major project?" Somehow the conversation was beginning to get away from him, Simon realized.

"Yes, I am calling it The Mysterious Lady. It is to be a long epic poem of adventure and the darker passions in the manner of Byron." She glanced up at him shyly. "You are the only one besides the members of the literary society whom I have told about it thus far, my lord."

"I am honored," Simon drawled. "Adventure and dark passions, eh?"

"Oh, yes. It is all about a young woman with hair the color of a wild sunset who goes in search of her lover who has disappeared. They were to be married, you see. But her family disapproved of him and forbade them to see each other. He was obliged to take his leave. But before he left he gave her a ring and assured her he would be back to carry her off and marry her in spite of her family."

"But something went wrong with the plan?"

"Yes. He has not returned and the heroine knows he is in trouble and needs her desperately."

"How does she know that?" Simon inquired.

"She and the hero are so close, so united by their pure and noble passion for each other that they are capable of communicating on a higher plane. She just knows he is in trouble. She leaves home and hearth to search for him."

"A rather risky business. Perhaps he simply used her parents' disapproval as an excuse to abandon her. Perhaps he had gotten tired of her and being kicked out by her family was a neat way to extricate himself from the embarrassment of an entanglement he did not want." As soon as he had said the words, Simon wanted to kick himself. The appalled expression on Emily's face was enough to touch what small bit of conscience he had left.

"Oh, no," Emily breathed. "It was not like that at all."

"Of course it wasn't," Simon said, forcing a grim smile. "I was merely teasing you. You must forgive me. How could I know the story behind your poem? You are the one writing it."

"Precisely. And I promise you it will have a happy ending. I prefer happy endings, you see."

"Tell me something, Miss Faringdon. If someone gave you ten thousand pounds today, what would you do with it?"

The otherworldly excitement vanished as if by magic. Behind the lenses of her spectacles, Emily's dreamy gaze turned abruptly shrewd at his sudden question. Razor sharp intelligence glittered like green fire in those elfin eyes. "I would buy several shares of stock in a new canal venture I have recently learned about, perhaps buy some bank stock, and then put some money into the four percents. I would be careful with the latter, however. The tiresome war against Napoleon will soon be over and the values of the funds might well drop. One must be ready to move swiftly when one is dealing with government money."

"Excellent," he muttered under his breath. "I just wanted to make certain I had the right female. For a moment there I had begun to wonder."

Emily blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind. A private joke." Simon smiled down at her. "Your financial advice makes very good sense, Miss Faringdon. Your strategy and mine are very much the same."

"Oh. Do you gamble on 'Change?"

"Among other things. I have a wide variety of financial interests." He brought the horses to a halt and tied the reins to two nearby trees. Then he took Emily's arm and guided her over to a large boulder beside the pond.

He watched her sit down and gracefully adjust the heavy skirts of her habit. For a moment he was distracted by the movement of her hands as she dealt with the thick folds. Then he brought himself up short. Time to get back to the purpose at hand, Simon thought.

"You cannot imagine what this means to me," he announced as he sat down beside her and studied the pond. "I have often pictured this place in my mind. And when I did, I always pictured you beside me. After I read your poem I knew you appreciated this spot as much as I do."

She looked around, frowning intently at the grassy banks and shallow, pebble-lined pond. "Do you think I got it right, my lord? Are you sure you recognized this exact spot from the description in my verses?"

Simon followed her gaze, remembering all the times he had come here in his lonely youth, seeking refuge from his cold tyrant of a father and peace from the endless demands of his weak-spirited, constantly ailing mother. "Yes, Miss Faringdon. I would have known this place anywhere."

"It is so beautiful. I come here quite often to be alone and to think about my epic, The Mysterious Lady. Now that I know you were once accustomed to sit and meditate here, the place will have even more meaning for me."

"You flatter me."

"I merely speak the truth. It is odd, is it not?" She turned to him, her brows knitting together in an earnest expression. "But I have felt very close to you from the moment I read your first letter. Do you not find it the most amazing stroke of fate that we discovered each other through the post?"

"A most amazing stroke." Simon thought about how many weeks he had spent researching the best approach to take with Miss Emily Faringdon. A letter written to her on the pretext of having heard mention of her interest in poetry had finally seemed the quickest, easiest way to get a foot back in the door of St. Clair Hall.

"I knew from your first letter that you were someone very special, my lord."

"It was I who was struck by the impression that I was corresponding with a very special female." Gallantly, Simon picked up her hand and kissed it.

She smiled mistily. "I had dreamed so long of a relationship such as ours," she confessed.

He slanted her an assessing glance. Easier and easier. The woman was already half in love with him. Once again Simon slammed the door on that niggling sense of guilt that played in some distant corner of his mind. "Tell me, Miss Faringdon, just how do you view our relationship?"

She blushed, but her eyes were gleaming with enthusiasm. "A very pure sort of relationship, my lord. A relationship formed on a higher plane, if you know what I mean."

"A higher plane?"

"Yes. The way I see it, ours is quite clearly an intellectual connection. It is a noble thing of the mind, a relationship that takes place in the metaphysical realm. It is a friendship based on shared sensibilities and mutual understanding. One might say we have a spiritual communion, my lord. A union untainted by baser thoughts and considerations. Our passions are of the highest order."

"Hell and damnation," Simon said.

"My lord?"

She looked up at him with such inquiring innocence, he wanted to shake her. She could not be that naive, in spite of her poetry. She was, after all, twenty-four years old and here was that matter of the Unfortunate Incident Gillingham had mentioned.

"I fear you have sadly overestimated my noble virtues, Miss Faringdon," he said bluntly. "I did not come down here to Hampshire to foster a shadowy metaphysical connection with you."

The glow went out of her eyes in an instant. "I beg your pardon, my lord?"

Simon gritted his teeth and retrieved her hand. "I came down here with a far more mundane goal, Miss Faringdon."

"What would that be, sir?"

"I am here to ask your father for your hand in marriage."

The reaction was not at all what he had expected from a spinster with a clouded past who should have been thrilled to hear an earl was going to speak to her father on the subject of marriage.

"Bloody hell," Emily squeaked.

Simon lost his patience with the strange female sitting beside him. "That tears it," he announced. "I think what is needed here, Miss Faringdon, is a means of cutting through all that romantical claptrap about love on a higher plane that you have been feeding yourself all these months."

"My lord, what are you talking about?"

"Why, the darker passions, of course, Miss Faringdon." He reached out and jerked her into his arms. "I am suddenly consumed with curiosity to see if you really do enjoy 'hem."