by Lynn Messina
Before the marquess could open his mouth, the music stopped and the waltz, which had seemed like it would go on forever or at least until they concluded their business, suddenly ended. Neither Huntly nor Vinnie appeared to entirely grasp that fact, for they stood silently in the middle of the dance floor while other couples cleared the way for the next set.
How long they would have remained there unmoving was impossible to say, for not one moment after the orchestra’s last note faded away, the dowager was at Vinnie’s side with a quelling look at Huntly. He promptly bowed—appropriate as always!—thanked Miss Harlow for the dance and promised to continue their discussion at a later date.
Not nearly as bold despite indications to the contrary, Vinnie immediately tilted her head down upon spying the intimidating dowager and examined her gloves with undue fascination. She knew she was owed a stern talking-to, if not a severe lecture, from both Trent’s mother and Sarah, and the evening, which had already felt interminably long, just got a little longer. Yet, as the dowager led her through the crowd to the abandoned chair that would be her home for the rest of the ball, she couldn’t resist looking back, catching Huntly’s eyes and mouthing the words thank you.
Whether it was for the dance, the argument or the invitation, she couldn’t quite say.
Chapter Seven
When Fleming announced the Duke of Trent at ten-thirty the next morning, the only thing that surprised Huntly was that his friend had managed to rouse himself so early from his slumber. The ball, despite a few hiccups, including but not limited to the scandalous behavior of Miss Lavinia Harlow, had been a resounding success. More than a few guests lingered when the marquess finally said his good-byes a little after three, and he imagined that Trent had scarcely taken to his bed before leaving it again to make this call.
That the call would be made at some point during the day had been an inevitability established even before Huntly had dragged the duke’s poor, grieving sister-in-law onto the dance floor, a gaffe so egregious he still couldn’t say what had come over him. Yes, he had been away from polite society for nearly two years, but he had been instructed in the rules of civility from the cradle and the proper way to treat a lady was simply not something one forgot after a few months at sea. Even if basic courtesy had not been ingrained in him by thoughtful nannies and tutors, he was still the Marquess of Huntly, a gentleman known for his urbane address. He was not a famous flirt in the style of, for example, Lord Deverill or even the duke himself, but he certainly knew how to endear himself to a lady.
Lord Huntly could think of no reasonable explanation for his behavior other than an undue anxiety to confess his sin. As a well-regarded gentleman—by the ton as well as himself—he rarely made a misstep, and, upon finding himself on the rare occasion of being in the wrong, he had felt an urgent need to set it right. His impatience stemmed not just from knowing he had made a gross miscalculation but from realizing that only a bufflehead run-a-muck would not have comprehended immediately exactly how gross the miscalculation was. As the injured party herself had pointed out, the rivalry between the two organizations was famous, and none but the greenest greenhorn would have failed to foresee the outcome. Of course Lord Hastings had laid a wager upon discovering the identity of the British Horticultural Society’s newest recruit. Even if Huntly himself would not have done the same thing—because, ironical as it may seem, he’d never bandy about a lady’s name—he knew the vast majority of his associates would not hesitate. Even the dignified Mr. Berry would have gleefully used the information to taunt his counterpart at the competing institution.
The marquess, who was not accustomed to feeling like a naïve addle-wit, found the sensation unpleasant, and that discomfort only added to his impatience to straighten out the matter with Miss Harlow. He didn’t want merely to demonstrate that he could resolve the difficult situation but that he could do so easily and with a modicum of fuss. His solution, which seemed to him both elegant and effective, accomplished all that he required, but it failed to account for the emotional sensibility of a young woman in mourning. Sir Windbourne had been only a name to him, a thing that he could wave in the air like a magic wand to make the problem disappear. He did not consider that the name was attached to a real, live human being—well, a former real, live human being—and that the mere mention of it might bring pain to the woman who had loved him.
That misstep bothered him more than any of his other recent blunders, for he hated the thought of inflicting pain on any creature, let alone a gentlewoman whose heart was so obviously broken. He could read it plainly in the stricken look on her face and the way she had stumbled in his arms.
Given her fragile emotional state, Huntly was little surprised that she insisted on accepting the society’s invitation to membership. Grief often made women irrational, and no doubt in Miss Harlow’s anguished mind, the phony behest had created a link with her departed beloved that she was now reluctant to let go.
The explanation made perfect sense to Huntly.
Yet there was that delighted smile she’d flashed at him as the dowager was leading her away—how did one account for that? And the words she had mouthed: thank you. At that moment, her cheeks had dimpled and her eyes sparkled and her whole face seemed lit with satisfaction, if not outright happiness.
Huntly had no idea what to make of it, except to wonder if she was laughing at him again. It did not seem possible, considering how she had cried only a few minutes earlier, but then, the marquess admitted, Miss Harlow was by far the most unusual female he had ever met. Green misses and Cyprians alike had always been easy for him to decipher, for their wants and needs were written plainly on their faces. Whenever he was in Miss Harlow’s presence, however, he genuinely had no idea where he—or she—stood.
While he tried to make sense of the bewildering Miss Lavinia Harlow, he retreated to his study to review the papers left by his secretary and to wait for the duke’s call. He assumed he was settling in for a long, tedious morning of estate business, but no sooner had he reviewed the list of improvements for the tenants’ cottages at Langston (all of which seemed reasonable) than Fleming made his announcement.
Rising to greet his guest, Huntly asked Fleming to bring a fresh pot of tea. “May I get you something to eat?” he asked. “Considering the hour, I can’t imagine you had time for anything but a roll on your way out the door. Perhaps some eggs?”
The duke smiled and assured Fleming that tea would be sufficient. As soon as the butler closed the study door, he turned to his friend and said, “How much?”
Huntly, who had planned to defer the inevitable reprimand with polite conversation until after the tea arrived, stopped short at this question. “Excuse me?”
“How much to get you to leave town on another expedition?” Trent asked, striding over to his friend. “The cost of a ship, of course, and a crew, plus wood, livestock and various sundry supplies. Provide me with a figure—a rough estimate is sufficient—and I will have my secretary give you a check by the end of the day.”
The marquess grinned at his old friend. “Things a bit uncomfortable at home, are they?”
Trent smiled back and sat down in the large leather armchair next to the fireplace, as his host did the same. “You could not have created more pandemonium if you’d hired a circus troupe to set up its tent in the drawing room. Vinnie, who is determined to go through with her application, is working on her presentation to the society, while my mother alternatively tries to cajole and dishearten her into changing her mind by insisting at once that she’s much too good for the organization and not good enough. Emma is delighted by her sister’s trailblazing spirit and is resolved to assist her in the most helpful way possible, which she has identified, rightly so, if I may say it, as altering my mother’s opinion about the situation, and, failing that, halting her ceaseless chatter on the topic. When I left, Sarah had just arrived to offer her support, which, oddly, has nothing to do with the membership and everything to do with the thoroughly ina
ppropriate waltz you imposed on poor Vinnie. Sarah seems to think there might be some mental distress involved. So I ask you again, my friend, how much?”
Although it was impossible not to smile at the absurd picture Trent painted—pandemonium indeed!—he smothered a grin and tried to look contrite. “Leaving town won’t undo the damage. The die, as they say, is cast.”
“No, but it would save me from the obligation of calling you out,” Trent explained amiably. “Good god, Felix, what were you thinking?”
Just then, Fleming entered with the tray and placed it on the low table in front of the fireplace. Huntly graciously accepted the cup of tea, but as soon as the butler left, he put it down and walked over to the side cabinet. “I think I need something a little stronger,” he said, picking up a bottle of port and pouring two glasses. He handed one to Trent and sat down with a sigh. “May we put it down to brain fog that comes from too much travel or a tropical ailment from the bite of a pernicious bug?”
The duke took a deep sip of the port and waited.
“To be honest, Alex, I have truly no idea what I was thinking,” he confessed. “An inexplicable fugue state makes as much sense as any other. I took leave of my senses and embroiled your family in a fresh scandal without ever intending to. I’m deeply sorry for it. I am particularly sorry for the pain I’ve caused Miss Harlow. Although I knew she was in mourning, it did not occur to me that it might be not only inappropriate for her to dance but painful as well. Your sister-in-law makes me…. I find that she is—” He broke off as he considered his words. He wanted to make a clean breast of it to his friend, but he couldn’t figure out how to tell some of the tale without telling all of it, and telling all of it would make him look like a petty fool. He didn’t mind the first and would easily admit to having unintentionally caused the pandemonious ordeal in a fit of pique. But the fool part gave him pause. He didn’t understand why Miss Harlow had driven him to unprecedented heights of pettiness, and until he could explain it to himself, he didn’t want to explain it to anyone else. So instead he said, “I hope you won’t be offended when I say your wife’s sister is a very difficult person.”
The duke’s expression did not alter, but he leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked at the marquess. “You think Vinnie is difficult?” he asked mildly.
Huntly nodded, relieved to see only interest in his friend’s face. “Yes, I find she’s one of the most difficult women I’ve ever met. She’s capricious and unpredictable. You think she’s joking but maybe she’s sincere, and then you think she’s sincere but perhaps she’s joking. It’s thoroughly unsettling never to know where precisely you stand with a person. But I don’t have to tell you. You know what she’s like. Lucky for you, you married the sensible sister.”
Trent’s lips twitched, and he sought to hide his amusement in the wineglass. He did not succeed, and Huntly, seeing his enjoyment, said, “I’m sure you find my predicament vastly amusing, but I assure you, it’s devilishly uncomfortable, and I will gladly accept your offer of funding if it means I will be spared another run-in with Miss Harlow. I do believe you said I would have the check by nightfall. If you’ll just wait while I run through a series of quick calculations, we can have the matter settled before nuncheon.”
“The offer is off the table,” the duke announced.
Huntly looked at him balefully over the rim of his glass. “You dirty-dealing thatch-gallows. A man’s promise is as good as his vowels.”
Unmoved, Trent said, “Nevertheless, it is rescinded.”
“It’s because I called your sister-in-law difficult and capricious, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Trent agreed at once, “but not for the reason you think.”
As Huntly never had any intention of leaving town—just as the duke never had any intention of providing the conveyance—he did not try to make sense of his friend’s ambiguous remark. Instead, he refilled his glass, drank deeply and said, “She’s working on her presentation?”
“Drainage systems, of course,” said Vinnie’s brother-in-law. He paused until the marquess’s eyes met his and then asked in all seriousness, “What do you plan to do?”
Huntly smiled wryly. “I have no idea. What do you plan to do?”
“Offer my support,” he said simply, “to both of you.”
“So she has your vote?” Huntly asked.
“She is a skilled horticulturalist who would, I believe, add as much to the organization as she would take from it,” he explained. “But even if she were merely an enthusiastic hobbyist, I would support her application because she is a very dear friend and I want her to be happy.”
The marquess should not have been surprised to hear Trent speak so ardently in support of a friend, for he himself had been the grateful beneficiary of his assistance far too many times to count, but the fact that a woman had earned his loyalty astonished him. The duke had always been a plain dealer in his transactions with all females, respectable or otherwise, but—and perhaps this was because they were indeed transactions—he treated even the best of them with a cynical detachment. Now he had not only given his allegiance to a wife but to her sister as well.
It was one more thing about Miss Harlow for him to puzzle over.
“Your mother can be very persuasive,” Huntly observed hopefully.
“She can indeed,” Trent agreed with a grin. “I’m not sure she’s equal to the task this time, but she’s certainly persistent. Why else do you think I’m here at ten-thirty in the morning?”
“Ah, so the indomitable Duke of Trent is hiding in my study,” he said, smirking with satisfaction. “Alert the dailies!”
“Not hiding,” Trent corrected as he poured himself another glass of port, “lingering.”
Although the distinction was too slight to exist, Huntly didn’t raise an objection and instead pointed to a black crate that rested against the wall to the left of the sideboard. “If you care to linger for the rest of the morning, you can make yourself useful and help me unpack that trunk. It contains samples from my trip, many of which I’m sure you’ll find, if not fascinating, then highly interesting. I have another dozen crates in the cellars waiting to be sifted through as well. With one thing or another, I haven’t had a chance to hire an assistant,” he explained, “so if you know of anyone suitable, please don’t hesitate to send them to my secretary.”
The duke looked at the trunk with a predatory gleam in his eye. “You know perfectly well that I’ve been itching to get my hands on your New Hebrides orchid for months now, as I mentioned it in several letters, and do not require the pretext of pandemonium in my home to offer my help. In fact, if you hadn’t asked me within the week, you would have come down one morning and found me elbow-deep in your trunk.”
Huntly laughed, for despite the duke’s considerable consequence, he could easily imagine him being caught in such an undignified pose. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I’ve brought your sister-in-law to the brink of ruin. Come, let’s get started. I shall take notes and let you do the honor of unpacking the flora. I believe the Dactylorhiza fuchsii and Bulbophyllum auratum are near the bottom on the left. First, however, let me ring for Fleming and arrange a light collation. Shall we say twelve-thirty?”
With an absent nod, Trent strode over to the trunk, unlatched the clasp and lifted the lid to reveal several layers of carefully preserved specimens. Indifferent to his valet’s thoughtful administrations, he knelt down on the floor to examine the contents and waved off Huntly’s offer to move the crate to a table. “Entirely unnecessary,” he said.
After ringing the bell, Huntly gathered supplies from his desk—pen, ink, leather-bound book—and joined his friend on the floor. When Fleming entered the room a few minutes later, he found both lords on their knees digging through the trunk with rapt expressions, like two children in the garden searching for worms.
When the duke arrived home in the late afternoon, he found Emma locked in her study, which wasn’t in itself pecu
liar, for she often secured the door against intrusions from his mother and sister. What was unusual, however, was the fact that the knob turned but the door did not open. It seemed to be in some way jammed shut.
“Emma,” he said, knocking on the door. “Are you in there?”
“Who is it?” she asked cautiously.
“You know who it is.”
Although she did indeed know, she asked him to prove it.
He blinked at the absurd request. “What?”
“Prove you are Trent.”
“Emma,” he said with a hint of impatience.
As she was very familiar with that warning tone, she agreed to open the door, and he heard a strange scuffing sound before one beautiful cornflower blue eye peeked out of the crack to make sure he was alone. Once she was satisfied, she opened the door wider, gestured for him to enter quickly and immediately shut the door behind him. Then she slid the white chair from the side table under the doorknob.
He watched her ministrations with mild curiosity. “What are you doing?”
“Fortifying the citadel,” she explained. Then she held out a tray, “Scone?”
He declined the pastry and examined his wife, who was still in her morning gown despite the lateness of the hour. That she was engaged in some great enterprise was clear from the dozens of folders on her desk and the several stacks of carefully organized papers.
“My mother?” he asked, unable to imagine anyone else against whom his bride would have to fortify herself.
“She has switched tactics,” Emma explained, sitting down on the settee to eat the scone herself. It was the last one she had, and she offered it to her husband only out of a sense of obligation. “Having made no headway in her attempts to sway Vinnie, she has decided I am the more tractable twin and is now devoting all her argumentative powers to convincing me to convince Vinnie not to apply for membership. Honestly, if I weren’t so exhausted from fending off her attacks, I’d be offended at being thought of as tractable.”
