Instead, she would call for the carriage and venture into town to seek out some powders for her headache at the apothecary. Not only did she need a remedy for her aching head, but it would be much easier for her to avoid a particular guest she’d discovered at dinner last night. Miss Hastings. The very woman Lord Anslowe would have proposed to if not for Emmeline. And from the shriveling glare she’d received from Miss Hastings, the woman had not forgotten.
The sound of the ocean drew her gaze toward the open window. She finally pulled back the covers and took a seat on the fainting couch that was positioned near the drapes, giving its occupant full advantage of the view.
She had absolutely no desire to go downstairs for breakfast. If she was required to socialize every time she wanted some sustenance, it seemed certain she would waste away during her stay.
When a knock sounded at the door Emmeline pulled her wrap tightly up to her neck. Would Lord Anslowe expect her to accompany him downstairs for breakfast? They hadn’t discussed it. But it was Bridget who peeked in, not her husband.
“Believe me when I tell you it isn’t worth going downstairs for breakfast. I brought you what little there is. Boiled eggs and toast.” She wrinkled her nose as she set the tray down. “And tea so weak it hardly deserves the name.”
Emmeline smiled. Her lady’s maid had never quite mastered the art of tact.
“What would you like on your toast?”
“Thank you, Bridget. I can butter it myself. Perhaps you could pick out a dress for me and tell me what is planned for the day. I didn’t intend to sleep so late.” She picked up a piece of toast. The bread was so thin she could almost see through it.
“Lord Anslowe went out for an early morning ride with several of the other gentlemen. There doesn’t seem to be a strict schedule.” Bridget laughed and opened up the large wardrobe in the corner. “Mostly because there are too many guests for all of them to do anything together. You should see the chaos below stairs. Servants running every which way and Mrs. Daw doing her level best to avoid Mrs. Garvey who is sure to be displeased with anything and everything.”
Though she’d met her only briefly, Emmeline liked Mrs. Daw immensely and sympathized with her at the thought of trying to please the formidable Mrs. Garvey. “Poor Mrs. Daw. Mrs. Garvey must be difficult to work with.”
Mr. and Mrs. Garvey certainly seemed to be an ill-suited pair. Did everyone think the same about Lord Anslowe and herself? She’d watched him last night, making his rounds through the guests, never lacking for companionship, liberally doling out compliments and leaving smiles in his wake. He was a master at flattery. Which was precisely why she couldn’t trust what he’d said to her yesterday. Emmeline wasn’t a beauty by any standard, and his saying so provided no evidence to the contrary. He must know that giving compliments so freely only cheapened them.
“A truer fact was never spoken.” Bridget’s mouth quirked in a mischievous grin. “Though we all enjoy hearing Mrs. Garvey constantly criticizing her husband under her breath.”
What had they been discussing? Oh yes, the Garveys. “At least there is that,” Emmeline granted with half a smile. “Bridget, I’d like to go into Brighton. Would you like to accompany me?” She wouldn’t sit around and wait for her husband.
“Oh yes, my lady. I’d be happy to come. I’ve always wished to see the ocean up close.”
An hour later she and Bridget were in the heart of Brighton. The streets were narrow and quaint, paved with cobblestones and full of tourists. Emmeline and Bridget pushed their way through the crowds.
“It’s much newer than London, isn’t it?” asked Bridget.
“Yes,” Emmeline agreed. Every shop was freshly painted, boasting elaborate window displays to try and lure in potential customers. “The town has very nearly sprung up overnight. I suppose the Prince Regent’s renowned Pavilion is responsible for Brighton’s newfound popularity.”
Bridget gawked at everything and wanted to stop in every shop. Emmeline humored her, since she had no desire to hurry back to Havencrest. They explored a hat shop, several dress shops, and a charming little perfumerie where Bridget talked Emmeline into buying a honey and lavender scented perfume. The scent was sweet and fresh without the cloying smell of so many of the other fragrances.
After leaving an elegant shop with parasols, reticules, and any other accessory a lady might need, Emmeline spotted an apothecary. She quickly ran in and purchased the powders for her headache. As they awaited the carriage to take them back to Havencrest, Emmeline peered across the street to make out a sign that read, The Bake Shop.
She tugged on Bridget’s arm. “Look, Bridget! We deserve a pastry after the paltry meals we have suffered through. Come!” They bustled across the street, only to find a plump woman setting out a closed sign.
“Can you not sell us something?” Emmeline pleaded.
“I would, madam, but I am all sold out. It’s the Garveys’ house party. Happens every year. All of the starving guests come straight here.”
“I see.” Emmeline tried to curb the disappointment of both her sweet tooth and her growling stomach. At last their carriage pulled around the corner. She cast one last longing glance at the bakery, mocked by the smell of warm butter, yeast, and sugar that hung in the air.
Bridget followed her back across the street to the waiting carriage. To her surprise, Lord Anslowe stood there. Emmeline very nearly dropped her reticule. What was her husband doing here? And how had he found her? And why did he have to look so dashing with his long lean frame propped against the carriage looking quite at his leisure?
But before she could question him he smiled, further disarming her. “Ah, there you are.”
“Here I am.” She battled to keep her voice even. Which was more than difficult when her pulse insisted on galloping forward at an indecent pace.
“Some of the guests are up at the cliffs. I thought you might want to join them.”
She pursed her lips together. Of course she wanted to see the cliffs. She’d been hoping for another chance to explore them since she’d gotten the tiniest glimpse from the carriage yesterday. But seeing him, her husband—just being in his presence—set her off kilter. And she didn’t want him to think she would be at his beck and call any time he felt like paying her a little attention.
His brow furrowed in response to her silence. “Was I wrong?”
Her desire to explore won out. “No, no. I’ve been hoping for a chance to see the cliffs.”
Lord Anslowe held out his hand. “Well then, let’s be off.” Her husband was the kind of man who, once he decided upon a course of action, wasted no time in pursuing it. Just as he had when she’d offered to become his wife. She placed her gloved hand in his and he handed her up into the carriage.
Lord Anslowe did not follow. “Come, Bridget.” He beckoned, waiting for Emmeline’s maid.
“Oh, I cannot join you, my lord. The afternoon is getting on and I should press Lady Anslowe’s dress for dinner this evening.”
Emmeline peered out the open door. “At least let us take you up to the house. It is right on the way.”
Bridget turned to Lord Anslowe. “Might I walk home? I’ll enjoy walking up the road near the ocean so much more.”
Emmeline was about to object when Lord Anslowe shrugged. “We cannot deny her that, now can we?”
Emmeline very much wished to deny her that. Without Bridget, Emmeline was without a buffer, alone with Lord Anslowe. The very prospect was unsettling.
But with a small wave Bridget was off.
The carriage wheeled along in silence for a moment before Emmeline gathered her thoughts. “How did you know Bridget’s name?” she asked.
“She’s your abigail, isn’t she? You’ve mentioned her in your letters several times.”
The fact that Lord Anslowe remembered what she’d written surprised her. She half expected he didn’t take the time to even read her letters. “Oh.” Her stomach did an odd flip.
Lord Anslowe stretched h
is long legs, crossing his boots in a relaxed manner. “The view of the Pavilion is quite breathtaking. Did you have the chance to see the Prince Regent’s illustrious new residence while you were out?”
Emmeline clutched her reticule, as if it might anchor her against her tendency to weaken under her husband’s charm. “No. We browsed through a few of the shops and then stopped at the apothecary.”
“What did you need at the apothecary?”
“I’ve had a lingering headache since last night. I bought myself some powders to see if they wouldn’t help.”
His mouth turned downward. “You should have said something. I would have sent someone to fetch them for you.”
Emmeline looked away. “You were gone this morning, and I didn’t wish to trouble your aunt.”
“I am sorry I didn’t check on you before leaving this morning. I’m not accustomed to being an attentive husband.” He rubbed a hand along his jawline and for a moment Emmeline had the strangest notion of wishing to do the same.
Instead she waved her hand, dismissing his apology. “Lord Anslowe, I am perfectly capable of seeing to my own needs. There’s no need for you to pay me any mind.”
He leaned across the seat, eliminating most of the space between them. “Emmeline, you are my wife. Of course I must give you the attention you deserve. Even if you are more than capable of looking after yourself.” He gave her a wry grin. “A man likes to think himself useful, after all. Now, are you sure you wish to see the cliffs this afternoon? Perhaps it would better suit your headache if you were to rest. The sun reflects off the ocean, and that may only make it worse.”
One year ago, upon her marriage to Lord Anslowe, Emmeline had rid herself of a critical mother and any and all attention she had been given. She had taken her newfound independence and wrapped it around herself like a blanket, growing accustomed to solitude, to looking out for herself. Lord Anslowe leaned across the carriage now, elbows on his knees, tugging on that blanket, as if she needed someone to care for her, to coddle her. Tempting as it was to throw caution to the wind and allow herself the luxury of being cared for by someone else, Emmeline knew that after the house party things would go back to the way they were before. She would be left alone and it was best not to grow attached. So she clutched at the comfort of relying only on herself and put on a wide smile. “My headache has all but disappeared.”
He nodded, taking her at her word. “Very well.” He sat up and tapped on the roof of the carriage, signaling the driver. The ride was short, as the carriage could not take them too far up the sloping hills. They stopped at the side of the road, where the grass-topped knolls led up toward the top of the cliffs. Lord Anslowe helped Emmeline out of the carriage and extended his arm.
They walked in silence for a few moments, both needing their breath as they climbed. There were only a few people wandering at the top of the cliffs. “Did we miss the outing?”
Lord Anslowe glanced up at the sun. “It’s almost four. Perhaps so.”
“Do you wish to go back?”
“Of course not. You still wish to see the cliffs, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then. Upward and onward.”
They ascended at a moderate pace, and Emmeline was grateful her arm was tucked in his, as the gradient hid some uneven footing that nearly caused her to trip. They crested the hill where the ocean came into view and Emmeline stopped, her breath catching. Sunlight sparkled over the expanse of turquoise ocean. To their left, the sheer crags jutted up toward the sky in majestic glory, the rock cliffs as white as pearls. It all came together in a way that was too beautiful for words.
The wind played with loose strands of her hair, and Lord Anslowe leaned toward her, his gentle fingers brushing her hair back. “Perhaps now you do not regret accompanying me to this house party.”
“No,” she breathed.
He chuckled low. “Perhaps I should be offended, but I am not. I used to come here every summer as a boy. And even though I’ve seen this view hundreds of times, the look of awe on your face captures my feelings exactly.”
“‘One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,’” Emmeline quoted softly, still unable to tear away her gaze.
“Ah, you are a lover of Shakespeare as well as cliffs.”
She glanced over at Lord Anslowe, whose eyes were soft, reflecting back the light of the ocean. “I am.”
“And do you enjoy novels as well?”
“Sometimes, though most cannot compete with the lyricism of Shakespeare. The cadence and rhythm of poetry is what I truly love.”
He gave her an appraising look and then nodded. “I enjoy poetry as well. I have always revered the power of words. It is one of the things I love about politics, I think. The necessity of crafting words in such a way that makes people listen.”
“It shows. Everyone listens when you speak.” Her voice was a little too breathless. But the thought of sharing a love of words, of poetry, felt strangely intimate.
He cocked his head a little, as if surprised at her admission. “I should hope so. I am Viscount Anslowe, after all.” He winked at her, and Emmeline’s heart thudded in her chest, suddenly louder than the waves below or the slight howl of the wind that inhabited the cliffs. “You’re not afraid of heights are you?” he asked.
“No.”
He gave her one of those arrogant grins, crease lines bracketing the sides of his mouth. “Then come with me. When you stand near the edge and look down on the ocean, it feels as though you are at the top of the world.”
Chapter 7
“But England is still feeling the effects of last summer’s poor crops. Tenants everywhere are barely scraping by. And if they suffer, so will we.” Lord Tyndale’s mouth was drawn in a firm line, his arms crossed over his chest.
Lord Bellamy picked up his port, swirling the liquid. “And what would you have us do? Farmers have weathered the ups and downs of the land many a time. They will do so again, and without our help.”
Tyndale turned to Anslowe. “Lord Anslowe, what do you think?”
Anslowe uncrossed his legs as he gathered his thoughts. “It’s a difficult matter to be sure. One thing is certain, our country is in a precarious state. Our years at war with Napoleon drained our treasury, depleted our resources, and exhausted our army and navy. Somehow it doesn’t seem right to ignore the plight of the very men who helped us claim victory in Europe. But how to help them? I’d hoped to meet with Prinny to discuss a new bill that addresses the needs of those who have been most affected by these hardships.”
Bellamy’s mouth curled up in a smirk. “Prinny is too busy eating and drinking and enjoying his new abode to be interested in such matters.”
“Well, we must make him take interest then,” said Tyndale.
Bellamy set down his empty glass. “You are welcome to try. I, for one, am heading to bed. It’s too late to be discussing such serious matters.”
Anslowe glanced around the room, only now noticing the room had emptied out. Emmeline must have retired without him. He felt a stab of guilt for neglecting her.
“I think you are right,” he conceded, getting to his feet. The clock on the mantle claimed the hour as half past one. The men slowly dispersed, but Anslowe’s head was still full of their discussion. There was little consensus on how to rebuild after long years at war. Usually political talk invigorated him, but tonight he felt drained. He trudged up the stairs.
When he reached his corridor, he found Aunt Garvey snuffing out candles. “Nonsensical waste,” she muttered. “Loose screw Garvey.”
“Good evening, Aunt Garvey.”
Her pinched face turned toward him. “Don’t ‘Aunt Garvey’ me. You have no respect. You stay up late, burning candles, drinking our port, running my modest budget into the ground.”
The Garveys could throw a hundred such house parties without a care for the cost, but nothing would convince Aunt Garvey of that. Anslowe pulled at his cravat. “I brought my own candles, so you can hard
ly fault me for that.”
“It is still a waste,” she said. “You should be in bed. With your wife,” she said pointedly. “It’s no wonder she’s off gallivanting with Lord Wembley with the way you hardly pay her a fig’s worth of attention.”
“Aunt Garvey—”
“He’s in Brighton, you know.”
Anslowe’s head whipped up, finally giving her his full attention.
“Ah, you didn’t know,” she said, a tad too gleefully. “Perhaps you’ll think twice before you ignore your wife for an entire evening again. Good night, Lord Anslowe.” She emphasized Lord in an almost mocking tone, then moved down the hallway without a backward glance.
Anslowe quickened his pace, striding toward his rooms with determination. A large rock had settled in his stomach, just thinking of Emmeline with Lord Wembley. It couldn’t be. Surely she was in bed. He’d check on her, just to be certain. It was no more than any husband would do.
He pushed open the door. The small sitting area was empty. Despite his agitation, he crossed the room quietly and silently pulled down the handle that led to Emmeline’s room. He nudged the door open with care. The darkness made it difficult to see so Anslowe held his candle up, only to find that the bed remained undisturbed. Emmeline’s night clothes were laid out over the coverlet, a white gauzy material lined with lace.
“Emmeline?” he called. No answer.
The rock in his stomach turned to nausea. He ran a hand through his hair and scrubbed it down his face. Behind him a slight creak sounded. He whirled around to find Emmeline sneaking into the room, looking for all the world like a thief in the night. Her eyes shone bright even in the candlelight and a flush painted her cheeks a warm pink.
“Lord Anslowe!” she squeaked.
“Where have you been?” he demanded.
Her eyes flew wide, guilt written clearly across her face. “I—I…I was down in the kitchen.” She swallowed. “With Mrs. Daw.”
The Marriage Bargain Page 4
