She was a very poor liar, using the housekeeper of all people as her alibi. “With Mrs. Daw?” He made no effort to hide his skepticism.
“Y-yes.” One hand rested behind her back and she shifted, as if to hide something. “And Lady Felicity.” Her chin rose in defiance.
“And what were you doing with the two of them, pray tell?”
“We were talking.”
“Talking?” he challenged.
Emmeline shifted uncomfortably. “And eating…biscuits. Mrs. Daw sent me up with some extra.” A pause ensued, and she pulled a small tin from behind her back. “She told me to share with you, but…” She bit her lip, a sheepish grin turning up the corners of her mouth. “I selfishly considered saving them all for myself.”
Anslowe released the breath he’d been holding, and the tension that had been cramping his limbs eased away. His wife had been guilty of sneaking biscuits, nothing more. Shame swept through him, though Emmeline didn’t know what he’d suspected her of.
“You weren’t going to share?” he teased.
She ducked her head. “Well, I suppose now I must.”
With only the soft halo of the candle giving light to the room, and Emmeline standing there, her skin a creamy white against the dark curls that framed her face, his thoughts drifted, wondering what it would be like to be husband and wife in truth. Anslowe glanced at the bed, all at once feeling the full impact of their proximity.
Emmeline followed his gaze and blushed as she caught sight of her night rail. She handed him the tin. “I should get to bed.”
But he wasn’t willing to let her go, not yet. His aunt was right. He was a fool for being so careless, so inattentive. Curse their wretched bargain. “No,” he said softly. “Not yet. Won’t you sit with me for a few minutes?” He gestured toward the door, toward the sitting room that connected their bedrooms.
“I—” Confusion marred her dark brow. For a moment it seemed she would protest, but the line of her jaw softened. “A few minutes, I suppose. On one condition.” Then her mouth twisted into a playful expression Anslowe had never seen before. Taking him by surprise, she snatched the tin back from his hands. “The biscuits are mine.” She retreated to the sitting room before he could react.
By the time Anslowe had regained his faculties and followed her, she sat on the small sofa and had opened the tin. She bit into one of the biscuits and gave a little moan. “I’ve been practically starved the last few days, you know.”
“Aunt Garvey isn’t exactly known for her lavish dinners,” he agreed. “But tonight we ate well, you must admit.” Anslowe took a seat in the chair beside her, trying to come to terms with this new and bewitching side to the woman who was his wife. She reached for another biscuit, acting as if she couldn’t tell how badly he wanted one.
“Only because Mr. Garvey was there. Perhaps he only makes appearances so his guests won’t starve to death.” She brushed a crumb from her lip, and suddenly Anslowe didn’t want a biscuit anymore. He wanted to take the tin from Emmeline’s lap, pull her to him, and kiss her. Soundly.
But he tamped down the impulse. He wasn’t willing to scare her away, not when this was the first time she had truly let down her guard. “Aren’t you going to share even one?” he asked.
“Tell me what topic so thoroughly captured your attention this evening and I’ll consider it. The debate amongst you gentlemen sounded fierce.” She fixed her gaze upon him, as if she really did wish to know.
“We were discussing the desperate struggle so many of the tenant farmers are facing after last year’s weather. And with so many sons lost or maimed in the war.” He shook his head, still a little despondent.
“I know several of our tenants are facing that very thing. I have tried to give extra where I can, but they are proud. They don’t want charity.” She set down her half-eaten biscuit. “Something must be done, surely.”
“Something, yes. But it is a controversial matter. Our country’s finances have been depleted by years at war.”
Resolve glinted in Emmeline’s eyes. “England cannot turn her back on the very men who won her the war.”
The immediacy with which she responded, the conviction in her tone took Anslowe aback. He’d never truly considered discussing politics with a woman, or his own wife for that matter, yet he found her eloquent. Passionate. “I am glad to know we share the same views.”
She blushed prettily, then reached into the tin and handed him a biscuit. Her soft, slender fingers brushed his and his heart tripped at the brief contact. “So, what is to be done?” she asked. “I know the plight of those in Wales and Ireland is particularly bad.”
Anslowe imagined for a moment what it would be like to have Emmeline by his side, to have her support and encouragement, even her voice alongside his as he navigated those topics about which he was most passionate. Something in the vicinity of his heart swelled. “I’d hoped to gain Prinny’s ear while we are here in Brighton to discuss this very thing,” he said quietly. “And Lord Sotheby. If I can convince him to support my bill, it may well have a chance.”
“You are here for politics? Why did you not say so?” Her bottom lip jutted out. “For a matter of such importance I would have been willing to support your endeavors.”
Her words brought one hard truth to the forefront of his mind. If Emmeline was seeing Lord Wembley, her very actions could undermine his position in Parliament, making it impossible for him to accomplish his aims. For a moment he considered confessing the truth in its entirety. But how could he, when she would surely take it as a blatant accusation? If the rumors were not true—and he was beginning to doubt them—he would alienate the very woman he was beginning to care for. He simply couldn’t do it.
“I had not thought you would take an interest,” he finally said. It was the truth.
“Yes, well.” She cleared her throat. “Perhaps I shall give you more than you bargained for.”
One way or another, he was quite sure that was true.
Chapter 8
On Wednesday, the skies opened and rain poured down steadily outside the windows. No doubt the entirety of the house party would be confined within the walls of Havencrest today. As Emmeline was leaving her room to head downstairs, she caught sight of the tin of biscuits. With a furtive glance she opened the tin and pulled out two biscuits. She took a bite. The taste was heavenly, full of ginger and cinnamon.
“Biscuits for breakfast?”
Emmeline startled and whirled around, dropping one of the biscuits in the process.
Lord Anslowe stood in the doorway, an amused expression on his face.
“You scared me half to death!” She frowned at the crumbled biscuit on the rug.
He only laughed as he headed for the door. “Do you look guilty because you are eating biscuits for breakfast or because you weren’t planning to share?”
“Both.” Emmeline took a bite.
“I should have expected as much. And what are your plans for the morning?”
“I have plans to meet Lady Felicity to do some needlework.”
“Ah, well enjoy yourself. And be sure to wash your hands before you go.” He winked. “Wouldn’t want to get crumbs on your stitching.” With a bow of the head he was gone.
Emmeline smoothed her skirts, feeling quite undone. It was fortunate he didn’t spend much time with her, otherwise her cheeks might be stained with a permanent blush.
She headed downstairs and made the requisite appearances as the ladies gathered in the drawing rooms, mostly mixing with those who were young and unmarried.
Her mind wandered, drifting to the unexpected time she’d spent with her husband the night before. She’d been utterly surprised by his desire to sit and talk with her. Her stomach twirled and somersaulted all over again as she relived the memory.
Had he enjoyed their time together as she had? Though her husband had a charming exterior, she relished seeing his sharp mind work and appreciated the depth of his concern for the state of the country. So man
y gentlemen seemed interested in nothing more than fashion, riding and shooting. Or like her own father, in trade, who only concerned himself with making money. How she wished he wouldn’t dabble in speculation.
After discovering Lady Felicity was abed with a fever, Emmeline excused herself. She gathered her writing materials and made her way to the library, determined to cheer up her new friend with a kind note. While there, she stumbled across Lord Bolton, who intended to take Lady Felicity something as well, and quickly agreed to deliver Emmeline’s note with his offering. Emmeline smiled, imagining him teasing her proper friend. She would have to question Lady Felicity about the handsome Lord Bolton the next time their paths crossed.
She passed the afternoon in her room with her book and a much-needed nap. Other guests seemed unphased by the late hours of the house party, but Emmeline still yawned through the long evenings.
Bridget helped her change her dress before dinner and she made her way out into the hall when Lord Anslowe came upon her, handsome as ever with his light brown hair falling across his forehead.
He turned the full power of his smile upon her. “There you are! I thought perhaps you’d been spirited away in the storm.”
“Oh no. The rain always makes me wish to curl up with a book and I fell fast asleep. Thank goodness Bridget woke me, or I might have slept through dinner and offended your aunt and uncle.”
He tipped back his head and laughed. “You’ll soon learn that Aunt Garvey chooses to be offended by everything and Uncle Garvey by nothing, so you needn’t fear on their accounts.”
“All the same, we should make our way downstairs. I don’t want to be late.”
He tucked her hand into his arm and escorted her downstairs. The thrill of his nearness had Emmeline scolding herself. How silly for her to be so easily affected by her husband.
Before they were separated to take their seats at the table, Lord Anslowe leaned down and spoke directly in her ear. “Come find me tonight, before you retire.” His gaze stayed on her far longer than necessary and Emmeline grew warm all over.
After dinner, Miss Lucy Brook took a seat next to her in the drawing room. Though they’d spoken only a few times, Emmeline liked her a great deal. She was clever and independent, a wealthy heiress who presided over a bank. And while Miss Brook was quite pretty, it was the self-assurance she possessed that Emmeline envied.
Several other ladies joined them, including Aunt Garvey. The women began discussing the advantages and disadvantages of marriage, and Emmeline stayed mostly silent, answering only when directly asked a question.
The conversation moved on, but Miss Brook leaned in. “I hope this is not impertinent to ask, but I’m curious to know. Did you marry for love or more practical reasons?”
From someone else the question may well have been impertinent. But Miss Brook didn’t seem the type to gossip, and Emmeline instinctively felt as though she could trust her. “I wish I could have married for love,” she whispered. “Lord Anslowe married me for one reason—my dowry.” She brushed back a strand of her hair.
Miss Brook reached out a hand and clasped Emmeline’s. “That cannot be. I have observed the two of you together. The way he looks at you . . .” She nodded. “Surely Lord Anslowe has come to care for you.”
How badly Emmeline wished that were true. And for a few moments last night she’d hoped… “But how could I ever truly know?” she asked Miss Brook. Her dowry would always cast a long shadow between them.
“I am not certain,” admitted Miss Brook. “But I believe it is a possibility he may come to care for you deeply.”
Emmeline squeezed Miss Brook’s hand. True or not, the woman’s sincerity meant a great deal to her. The door to the drawing room opened, and the men paraded in. She silently rejoiced when Mr. Garvey walked over and invited Emmeline and Miss Brook to join in a card game, so she would have something other than her troublesome husband to focus on.
Captain Sharpe, a young and handsome naval captain, rounded out the foursome and Emmeline immediately sensed attraction between him and Miss Brook. The two of them partnered, while she was paired with Mr. Garvey, which made for quite a mismatched game. It was a long, drawn-out hour of continual defeat.
“Well, they’ve beaten us soundly, Lady Anslowe. I always say that is the cue for our exit.” Mr. Garvey rose and extended his hand toward Emmeline. As soon as he’d helped her to her feet, he bounded off.
Emmeline began to laugh and Captain Sharpe and Miss Brook joined in. Mr. Garvey was quite a character. As their laughter petered out, Emmeline inclined her head. “I’m afraid I must concede to your superior abilities in whist,” she said. “And since I am denied my energetic partner, I will go in search of my husband.” She gave Miss Brook a broad smile as she turned away, leaving Captain Sharpe to admire her friend in a more intimate setting.
The room was crowded and boisterous. For such a late hour, the guests seemed nowhere near retiring. Emmeline stayed near the far wall as she searched for Lord Anslowe. Despite what he’d said earlier, she felt almost presumptuous seeking him out. Did he only wish to say goodnight? Or would he accompany her back to their rooms?
Finally she caught sight of him, standing in a circle of gentlemen. He looked over and caught her eye. He pursed his lips together, then held up a finger. She nodded, willing to wait.
A few feet to her right sat a semi-circle of women, including Miss Hastings. Emmeline angled herself back behind the large arrangement of flowers that decorated the table between them. She had no desire to be drawn into that conversation. But she couldn’t help but overhear her name.
“Have you not seen how little time Lord and Lady Anslowe spend in one another’s company? No doubt she has grown tired of her husband’s lack of attention.” Miss Tittering raised her eyebrows and lowered her voice. “It is said she has been seen a great deal in the company of Lord Wembley.”
“Who is this Lord Wembley?” asked Lady Tyndale.
“Why he is Lord Anslowe’s political foe,” answered Miss Tittering. “What a way for a wife to have her revenge.”
Miss Hastings uttered a derisive scoff. “That is ridiculous. Everyone knows the woman is so cold she drives her own husband away. It is obvious why she hasn’t yet produced an heir—he wants nothing to do with her.”
Emmeline pressed a hand over her mouth to cover the gasp that nearly escaped. Humiliation burned her cheeks and the scornful words echoed through her head. Everyone knows she is so cold she drives her own husband away. She stumbled backward, intent on fleeing before anyone bore witness to her mortification. As she turned she ran straight into Lord Anslowe’s chest.
She took a step back, trying to right herself and put distance between them. He placed a hand on her shoulder, steadying her. One glance told her he’d heard everything. His left brow quirked down, hinting at regret, but also uncertainty.
Her chin quivered, and she could not even look him in the eye. Was this what everyone thought of her? What he thought? And had her own husband known what was being said?
She pushed away from him, heading toward the door of the drawing room. A moment later footsteps sounded behind her, but she didn’t slow, didn’t stop. How could she ever face him again?
“Emmeline, wait!”
She reached the banister and mounted the steps as quickly as she could without tripping on her skirts. At the top of the stairs Lord Anslowe pulled even with her. She broke into a run, sprinting down the hall, not even sparing him a glance. Tears threatened, but she wouldn’t cry in front of him. If only she could reach the sanctuary of her room.
“Emmeline, please.” Her husband’s voice was soft, entreating.
She burst through the doorway of the sitting room and headed straight for her room. In one swift move she opened her door, turned, but before she could close it and bolt herself in, he wedged his boot in front of it. “I need to speak with you.”
He made no move to push his way in but left his boot in place. She tried to catch her breath for a moment
, blood rushing to her skull and making her a bit light headed. She needed time and space to think, to sort through this awful mess she’d unwittingly walked into.
Something thumped softly against the door. Lord Anslowe’s head perhaps. “Please.”
An unexpected surge of anger shot through her. Now he wanted to talk? Now that her name was fuel for the fire around which gossipers congregated? Hoping to take him by surprise, she wrenched the door open. Lord Anslowe’s head jerked back and he nearly lost his footing. “Did you know?” she demanded. She stepped forward, toe to toe with him.
His eyes darkened.
“The rumors. Did you know about them before we came?”
His mouth thinned into a firm line. “I knew the rumors about you and Lord Wembley, yes.”
Her lip trembled but she bit into it, fighting against any show of weakness. “And this is what everyone believes of me? You should have warned me. Even if we do not live as husband and wife, you owed me that much! How could you let me come here, unprepared against such an onslaught?” Her chest heaved.
“It was wrong of me, Emmeline. I should have warned you.” His voice was tight.
The apology did little to assuage her mortification. “And do you believe the rumors?” Tears hovered, threatening to spill over any moment.
He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”
She stepped back, surprisingly gutted by his lack of faith in her. “And this is your opinion of me?” she whispered.
He reached out and took hold of her just above the elbows. “Devil take it woman, I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion of you! You’ve been dead-set on keeping me at arm’s length.”
“I have done nothing more than what we agreed upon,” she protested. A tear slipped down her cheek.
“Ah, yes. Our bargain.” He blew out a breath, then abruptly let her go and crossed to one of the sofas. He sat down heavily. “I made a mistake when you approached me a year ago, Emmeline.”
His words snaked around her like the end of a whip, biting into her, slicing through her heart. She lifted a hand to cover her mouth before a sob could escape. But he was oblivious, hunched over his knees, staring at his boots. “I did us both a disservice when I agreed to your proposal. I was distracted with the approaching parliamentary session. You offered so much and demanded so little. How could I argue or protest when you so willingly presented yourself and the money with which to repair Chelten House? You at least deserved to set the terms of our arrangement.”
The Marriage Bargain Page 5
