Damned American chit. She was nobody. Not of aristocratic lineage. She wasn’t even a blood relation of the Earl of Worth, only to the countess, and if his memory served him right, Lady Worth had been born a mere miss.
Woodside stalked out of the tavern and back into the reception area of the inn. Pulling himself to his full height, he walked up to the front desk and rang the bell. A stocky man scurried over to help him.
“I think my wife checked in here earlier today,” Woodside said, smiling congenially. “I want to surprise her.”
“What’s her name, milord? I could look her up in the register.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I doubt she used her true name.” He leaned forward in a confiding manner. “We had a bit of a spat, you see, and I have come to apologize.”
“Ah, I see. Well, then, perhaps you could describe her to me.”
Woodside smiled. “If she’s been here, you’d remember her. Rather petite, with hair the color of fire.”
“Oh, yes!” the man exclaimed. “She’s here. In room number three. One flight up.”
Woodside thanked him and started to move away. After only a couple of steps, however, he turned around. “Actually, I really do want to surprise her. Perhaps you could give me a copy of the key to her room?”
“I don’t know, milord,” the innkeeper said uncomfortably. “We do have a policy of not giving out extra copies of keys. Security reasons, you know.”
Woodside smiled again, his pale blue eyes twinkling merrily. “It would really mean a great deal to me.” He put a few coins on the counter.
The innkeeper looked at the money and then at Woodside, contemplating the likelihood of two unconnected aristocrats appearing in Harewood on the same day. He took the money and pushed the key across the counter.
Woodside nodded his head and pocketed the key, but when he turned around to head up the stairs, his eyes were no longer twinkling. They were two cold chips of ice.
Emma and Belle had been holed up in their room for about four hours when hunger got the best of them and they sent Shipton down to the kitchen for some food.
“What do you suppose is keeping Alex?” Belle asked, absently thumbing through the copy of Hamlet that Emma had brought down from Sophie’s.
Emma resumed the pacing that had been keeping her busy on and off for the last few hours. “I have no idea. He should have been here two hours ago. It should only have taken Bottomley about one and a half hours to get to Westonbirt and another one and a half to get back. All I can think is that Alex wasn’t at home. He might have been out visiting tenants. But it shouldn’t have taken Bottomley so long to locate him.”
“Well, he’ll get here soon,” Belle said, with more hopefulness than certainty.
“I hope so,” Emma replied. “I’ve already gone and done the hard part by rescuing you. The least he could do is get here and rescue me.”
Belle smiled. “He’ll be here. And in the meantime, we’re safe and sound in a locked room.”
Emma nodded. “Although I wouldn’t want to be around when Woodside gets here and discovers that you’re gone.” She sighed and went over to the bed and sat down beside Belle.
And then, in the silence that was broken only by the sounds of their breathing, they heard the ominous sound of a key turning in the lock. Emma gasped in fright. If it were Alex come to save them, surely he wouldn’t sneak up on them. He would probably bang the door down, yelling and screaming at her for being stupid and reckless, but he wouldn’t be so cruel as to terrify her this way.
The door swung open to reveal Woodside, his pale eyes glittering dangerously. “Hello ladies,” he said in a menacing monotone. There was a pistol in his right hand.
Neither Emma nor Belle could find any words to express their fear. They both sat there on the bed, huddled together in terror.
“It was silly of you, your grace, to leave your rather conspicuous carriage in front of the church. Or didn’t you realize that Lady Arabella and I were planning a wedding tonight?”
“She wasn’t planning anything, you bastard,” Emma bit out. “And she’ll never—”
Woodside slammed the door shut, strode across the room and smacked her across the face. “Shut up, you little bitch,” he hissed. “And don’t you ever question my legitimacy. I am Viscount Benton, and you are a little nothing from the Colonies.”
Emma held her hand to her cheek, which was fast turning red with the imprint of Woodside’s hand. “I am the Duchess of Ashbourne,” she mumbled, unable to stifle her pride.
“Shhh,” Belle implored, clasping her other hand.
“What did you say?” Woodside asked in a silky voice.
Emma stared at him mutinously.
“You will answer me when I speak to you!” he ordered, hauling her off the bed and grabbing her roughly by the shoulders.
Emma gritted her teeth as his grip grew painful.
“Please, let her go,” Belle begged, jumping off the bed and trying to wedge herself between Woodside and her cousin.
“Get out of the way,” he said, pushing her aside. “Now then, your graceless, tell me what you said.” He tightened his hold on her upper arms, bruising her soft skin.
“I said,” Emma gasped, thrusting her chin up in defiance, “that I am the duchess of Ashbourne.”
Woodside’s eyes narrowed and then he slapped her other cheek, knocking her down to the floor. Belle immediately rushed to her side and helped her back up to the bed. She stared at Woodside accusingly with huge blue eyes but didn’t say anything that might provoke his temper.