Emily was surprised at the sharp pang those words gave her. ‘Any particular one?’
‘Any heiress would do, I suppose. There are so many Americans about these days. I do tell Mama that I have no title to barter, but she seems to think an English accent and some good, English fair hair and blue eyes ought to do it.’
Emily studied him, all golden in the warm light. Like a Greek god. ‘She might have a point.’
Chris leaned back on the cushions of the chaise. ‘But what sort of life would that be? I’d make a wretched husband, not thoughtful at all.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Emily answered with a sigh. ‘I would be a wretched wife.’
‘You, Em?’ he said, his expression startled. ‘You would be stupendous! You’re smart, pretty, clever.’
He thought her pretty? Clever? Emily tried to not grin like an idiot and looked away, flustered. ‘Most men don’t want clever wives. And I do like my work very much. I would hate to give it up to do—what? Arrange flowers all day? Go to more parties like this one?’
Chris sighed. ‘We are at an impasse, then, aren’t we, Em? It looks like neither of us can go either forward or back.’
Suddenly wistful, Emily reached up to her hat, an elaborate confection of white straw and pale pink feathers and striped bows, just purchased at Gordston’s department store after Alex married Malcolm Gordston. She pulled off one of the ribbons and held it out to him.
‘There is always jousting,’ she said, ‘if no other career works out for you.’
He took the ribbon between his fingers and looked down at it with a crooked smile. ‘Only if you are there to cheer me on.’
Emily impulsively laid her hand over his, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers, the slight roughness of his fingertips. There, in that moment, she forgot the hurt of that strange encounter at her school, of his rejection after the kiss that had turned her world upside down. That all seemed so far away.
‘I shall always cheer you on, Chris,’ she said. ‘I know you’ll find your way, just as you found your way through this maze.’
‘Oh, Em.’ His face darkened, grew serious, intent, just before his lips claimed hers, and just like the first time they kissed she forgot everything else. Everything but the wonderful way he made her feel, the sense that they were the only people in the world.
Emily pushed him away, suddenly frightened. Not of him, but of herself. Of losing herself in the power of his presence. In her emotions.
She jumped to her feet and ran out of the maze, hardly knowing which corner to turn, where she was going, what she was doing. She only knew she had to run far, far away from her feelings...
‘What do you think, Miss Emily?’ Mary asked, pulling Emily out of that sunny day in France, back to her own bedroom. Her own life, without Chris in it.
She blinked hard, pushing away the past. Pushing away her own foolishness. She slipped on her earrings and glanced in the mirror, hardly seeing herself. She could only notice how flushed her cheeks were. ‘Perfect, Mary, as usual. You are an absolute gem.’
* * *
Lady Lyon’s ball was, as it was every year, a blasted nuisance to get to, Emily realised as her carriage inched forward. There was a long line of equipages waiting to reach the grand portal of the Lyon house, one of the grandest mansions in London. The place was lit up like Bonfire Night, glittering and sparkling at every window, and the whole house was packed with guests. It would surely be just the same once she was inside, people wall to wall like a tin of smoked fish.
Emily sighed as she adjusted her kid gloves. She could jump down from the carriage and walk to the house in a fraction of the time, but striding down the street would hardly be the ladylike thing to do. She just had to be patient.
But patience was never her strong suit.
She glanced out the carriage window and wondered who else was waiting to get into the ball. Who she needed to speak to for the business. She had also heard rumours that Lady Lyon herself was rather interested in women’s suffrage. Maybe there would be a moment to mention Mrs Hurst’s organisation to her? Donations were always sorely needed.
* * *
The carriage at last drew to a halt at the front doors. Emily made one more check of her coiffure before she let the footman help her alight and left her white-brocade cape with the maid. Once she was able to make her way out of the hall, she saw she had been correct in her worries—they were all packed like fish in a tin. But what a glorious, luxurious tin!
The gilded horseshoe staircase that led up to the bedroom was lined with swags and wreaths of white roses and lilies tied with gold bows, the scent heavy and heady when mixed with all those ladies’ perfumes. Their gowns were a kaleidoscope of bright silks and satins, luxurious velvets, delicate lace, plumes and jewels nodding in upswept hair, diamond necklaces glittering. Emily studied the lady in front her, whose gown was of a patterned dark blue damask embroidered with silver, rich and almost alive with flash and movement. She wished Diana was there to see it, she would surely want to write about it for her fashion articles.
The double doors to the ballroom at the top of the stairs were wide open, the Marchioness poised there to greet their guests, a Grecian goddess in a draped gold-satin gown. ‘My dear Miss Fortescue, I am so glad you could come,’ she cried, holding out her hand to Emily. ‘We absolutely must make a moment to talk later.’
‘Of course, Lady Lyon,’ Emily answered, hoping it would be about the League. She tumbled into the ballroom and took a glass of champagne from a footman’s tray as she surveyed the crowd, looking for a familiar face. The long, rectangular room, lined on one side with glass terrace doors and on the other side with a gallery of Gainsborough portraits and Old Master landscapes, was done in the most fashionable shades of pale green, gold and ivory, draped with more white flowers. An orchestra played from some hidden gallery high above, a Strauss polka playing as couples made their way to the polished parquet dance floor.
It was indeed a ripe place for business contacts, but Emily found she rather missed quiet gardens instead. Lazy moments. Fascinating company, his golden hair gleaming in the sun...
She sighed, pushing away the memory again. She made her way further into the sparkling crowd, answering greetings from friends, laughing and chatting, pretending she hadn’t a care in the world. It was all part of the job.
Suddenly she glimpsed a lady seated on one of the small gilt chairs lining the wall, a small, thin figure in dark copper-coloured satin, faded blonde hair twisted up in an unfashionable chignon. Mrs Blakely, Emily thought with a jolt of surprise. Chris’s mother. What was she doing there, at the most crowded, most fashionable ball of the Season? Mrs Blakely was known to be rather shy and had seldom been seen in society since her sister, the Duchess of Waverton, Alexandra’s mother, had gone to live on the Continent in social disgrace.
Did that mean Christopher was there, too? Waiting in the crowd to surprise her, to startle her into dropping her social mask? The last she had heard he was in Italy somewhere, or maybe Switzerland, she wasn’t sure. She glanced around quickly, but couldn’t see his tall figure, his bright hair. Mrs Blakely seemed to be alone.
Emily took two more glasses of champagne and went to sit down beside Mrs Blakely. She had always felt rather sorry for the woman, even if she did think Chris should marry an heiress.
‘Mrs Blakely,’ she said, offering one of the glasses. ‘What a lovely surprise to see you here tonight.’
Mrs Blakely gave her a faint smile. ‘Miss Fortescue. How long it has been.’
‘Yes, indeed. I hope this means we will see more of you in society now?’
‘Perhaps, yes.’ She took a sip of the wine, her lips pursing. ‘I heard Miss Percival was to be here tonight. I have had such a desire to meet her. I haven’t seen her yet, though.’
‘Miss Percival?’ Emily remembered hearing stories about the beautiful redhea
d, a meatpacking heiress from America, and suddenly realised why Mrs Blakely was there. Still heiress hunting. Surely Chris would have to give in to her soon.
‘Yes, the lady from—where was it? Pittsburgh?’ Mrs Blakely cringed. ‘What sort of name is that for a village, I do wonder? But they say she is quite pretty.’
Pretty enough to advertise soap, which only added to her millions. ‘So I’ve heard.’
Mrs Blakely’s frown turned thoughtful. ‘She would have to be pretty for it to work.’
‘Mama. I brought you some lemon squash, but I see you already have a drink.’ It was the voice Emily had been dreading—or maybe secretly hoping against hope to hear? It was just the same, deep and low and dark, but touched at the edges with laughter that could never entirely be suppressed.
She glanced over her shoulder to see it was indeed Chris, large as life, twice as handsome as she even remembered, dressed in impeccable black and white evening clothes, but with his hair still tousled.
She longed to shrink into her chair, to vanish into the pale green walls. She felt her cheeks burn and had no idea what to say to him, how to treat him.
‘Thank you, Christopher,’ Mrs Blakely said, reminding Emily that there were people, many other people, all around, and she couldn’t run in front of them. ‘Miss Fortescue has been kind enough to keep me company.’
Christopher shook his head hard, as if he, too, needed to organise his thoughts. ‘So I see. Perhaps she would also be kind enough to grant me a dance? I think a waltz is next,’ he said roughly.
Emily opened her mouth to refuse, but he gave her such a surprisingly pleading look she found she couldn’t say no. Not even for her own peace of mind. ‘Thank you, Christopher, I would enjoy that.’ She put her glass down on a table beside his abandoned lemon squash and stood up to take his hand. Even through their gloves, his touch was warm, rough.
‘But, Christopher, Miss Percival...’ his mother protested weakly.
‘She hasn’t yet arrived, has she, Mama?’ Chris said with a laugh. He tugged on Emily’s hand and led her on to the dance floor among the other couples.
Even there, surrounded by so many people, it felt like they were entirely alone. She could see only him, his turquoise eyes, his crooked smile. He smelled of that warm scent of lemons that reminded her of the French garden and their kiss.
She swallowed hard and tried to smile. ‘So your mother is still heiress-shopping, is she?’
Chris groaned. ‘I fear so. I thought surely she had given all that up, seen me for the hopeless case I am. It turns out Mama is a sneaky one, though. I should have had my suspicions when she insisted I escort her here tonight. She hasn’t been to a ball in ages. I thought she just wanted to get away from my father.’
‘They do say Miss Percival is charming. Pretty, too.’ A suitable wife for him? She didn’t like the queasy feeling such a thought gave her.
‘Then she is too good for the likes of me, wouldn’t you say?’ His arm tightened around her waist, bringing her a hair closer than was absolutely correct, and spun her into the figures of the dance. It made her want to laugh, despite the uncomfortable idea of Chris marrying the pretty American. ‘My opinions of a career as husband haven’t changed.’
He had always said he would never marry and none of his behaviour in recent years seemed to contradict that. She knew the feeling well. ‘Then what have you been doing with yourself lately, Chris?’ Emily asked breathlessly. ‘I thought I heard you had gone abroad.’
‘Really? No, not at all. I’ve just been doing a little of this, a little of that. Will got me a bit of a desk job at the Foreign Office, pushing pencils about. It fills the time until the next card game.’
‘What sort of desk job?’ Emily had a hard time picturing it.
‘Counting papers, things like that. Stamping things.’ He spun her in a wide, giddy circle, laughing when she protested. ‘But you must be as busy as usual, Em?’
‘Yes. Father’s café collaboration with Gordston’s has been such a success, he’s looking to expand.’
‘And suffrage meetings, too, I hear,’ he said tightly.
Surprised, Emily studied him closer. He looked rather serious suddenly. ‘Sometimes. I’m surprised you know about the League. Do you not agree that working for justice for my own sex is something important, something I should be doing?’
‘I think I have never met anyone as determined and intense as you, Emily. But I also worry that you don’t see the potential danger in what you’re doing sometimes.’
Emily shivered as she remembered those following footsteps, the hard hand on her arm. ‘I can take care of myself, Chris.’
‘But you shouldn’t have to. You deserve so much—well, more.’
‘More?’ More—what? Laughter? Sunshine? A different life? She could barely imagine such things, except with him. And that was impossible.
The movements of the dance had brought them to one of the open terrace doors and Chris spun her through them out into the night. The terrace was quiet, shadowed, a few couples murmuring quietly to each other behind the banks of potted palms that lined the marble floor, or sitting much too close to each other on the iron sofas and chairs. The music was just an echo there, making the whole scene dreamlike.
Chris led her to the edge of the stairs that went down into the dark garden and she followed, somehow unable to turn back. ‘Em,’ he said and she was immediately worried by the serious tone in his voice. Chris was almost never serious. ‘You would tell me if there was something wrong? Anything you were—worried about?’
Emily was puzzled. ‘Worried?’
‘I just mean, I hope you know you can trust me. That I am your friend.’
Her friend. Only that. Once, for only a few wild moments, she had thought he might be more than that. Chris always seemed to bring out things in her she hadn’t even known were there. A daring freedom, the sense that she could dash ahead and leap into the unknown, with him beside her. But her usual sensible self knew that couldn’t be. She would lose herself and probably him, too. They were just too different.
But surely having Chris as her friend was no small thing. She studied him in the faint light from the ballroom, his face carved into harsh, austere lines by the shadows. His bright blue eyes watching her so closely.
She could tell him things she couldn’t tell anyone else and surely he would understand. He had done so much that was scandalous in his own life and she had never seen him judge others. Her father, and Diana and Alex, would worry so much. Perhaps Chris would, too, in his Chris way, but maybe he could also help. Give her advice. Keeping the worry inside herself was sure to make her burst.
‘It’s true that I’ve been doing some work for the Women’s Franchise League,’ she said.
‘That sounds perfectly suited for you, Em.’
‘You’re not shocked?’ She had to admit she was rather shocked. So many men thought a woman who wanted to vote must be insane. But then again, Chris had always been one of the most accepting people she knew.
‘That you would be in favour of votes for women? Certainly not. I would imagine you would be the first to the barricades.’
‘It’s very important work, especially for women who come after us. They deserve every opportunity to make the most of their lives.’
‘But is something worrying you about this League? You seem a bit uncertain.’ He looked at her closely. Too closely.
Emily glanced away. ‘Not about the cause, of course, but—well, I wonder if perhaps someone is not happy with our work.’
‘I would think a great many people wouldn’t like it at all.’ He frowned. ‘Has something happened? Someone threatened you in some way?’
Emily closed her eyes and shuddered as she remembered that dark street. ‘Someone followed me home from a meeting. I managed to get away, but I confess I was rather shaken by it all.’
; Chris reached out and took hold of her arms, his hands warm and strong on the bare skin above her gloves. That serious look was on him again. ‘Em. You mustn’t walk home alone from these meetings, or anywhere else. I certainly know it won’t do any good to ask you not to go, but I beg you to be careful.’
‘I am careful! I usually take the carriage at night and I watch what is happening around me.’ She shook her head. ‘I feel so foolish, as if I was distracted that night. I just can’t help but wonder if I was the target, or if it was really the League itself.’
‘Oh, Emily. Let me teach you some boxing stances, or swordplay, or—well, anything. Or let me go with you to these meetings.’
Emily had to laugh at the image of Chris lurking at the back of the room during League meetings, glaring at all the ladies. ‘You would be much too distracting. But I will happily learn how to punch someone and break their nose if need be.’ And she was glad he believed in her, with no question or hesitation. It was too comfortable, too right to be talking to him. Just like the Chris of old times.
He drew her closer to him, wrapping his arms around her. She suddenly felt so safe, so certain. She never could decide how Chris, a man who lived his life so carelessly, could make her feel that way.
‘Em,’ he said softly. ‘You mean so much to so many people. You must take care of yourself.’
She tilted back her head and studied him in the moonlight. He looked older, somehow, with his golden hair turned silver, his face so serious and stark. ‘I could say the same about you.’
‘Me?’ he said, his eyes widening as if she had surprised him. ‘No one relies on me as they do you. They all know I am utterly scatty.’
Emily shook her head, suddenly realising something important—Chris had so many layers he could hide beneath. ‘You do underestimate yourself, as always.’
‘Oh, yes? So what are some of my sterling qualities, then?’ he said with a careless laugh.
‘You are a good friend, for one. Trustworthy. Understanding.’ And it was true, he was all those things. Even if he was also careless and rakish.
Miss Fortescue's Protector in Paris Page 7
