What a Lady Demands

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  The thud of the door knocker saved Emma from having to reply. Uriana straightened an already painfully rigid spine. “Good heavens. A caller. Do you think Mr. Crawley might actually be here?”

  In spite of herself, Emma strained her ears toward the foyer. The rumble of the butler’s voice greeting the newcomer rolled down the passage borne on a draft of wintry air. Aunt Augusta rose to her feet and padded to the doorway. Uriana folded her hands in her lap, placing them the requisite number of inches from her knees, and held her chin canted at the perfect angle. The eponymous headmistress of Miss Conklin’s School for Young Ladies had done her job well where Uriana was concerned. The rules had been drilled into her until she became their physical embodiment.

  Just as well, since where Emma was concerned, Miss Conklin might well consider herself an abject failure. She might even be driven to over-imbibing ratafia at the very thought of her former pupil.

  Aunt Augusta craned her neck toward the corridor. “Good heavens,” she said, echoing her daughter’s epithet. “I believe that’s an earl at the door.”

  Impossibly, Uriana found the means to straighten herself even further. “An earl? Which one?”

  So much for Mr. Crawley. When it came to titles, Emma’s cousin and aunt couldn’t aim high enough. Neither, for that matter could Emma’s father, and Emma herself had long since resigned herself to her fate. If she must marry, she would only accept the best possible match.

  “Sparkmore.” Aunt Augusta sounded only slightly discouraged. As far as earls went, the Earl of Sparkmore was eligible, but he wasn’t what anyone would deem spirited or witty or any other factor that made young ladies sigh.

  A pucker formed between Uriana’s brows. She looked for all the world as if she wanted to deflate but couldn’t decide if such an action was polite.

  “At any rate,” Aunt Augusta went on, “Grundy is showing him to your uncle’s study.”

  “Oh…” Uriana leaned forward in her seat. “Oh, do you think…”

  Emma laid her quill aside. She could concentrate on neither French grammar nor grape varieties and prices as long as her relatives insisted on taking on so. “Nonsense. It could be anything.”

  Aunt Augusta pursed her lips. “I never heard the Earl of Sparkmore was much of a wine enthusiast.”

  “The Earl of Sparkmore isn’t much of an enthusiast about anything,” Emma muttered. She was merely going on reputation. She had little enough personal knowledge of the earl. Based on her cousin’s repetition of gossip, she knew less kind tongues referred to the man as Sparks, all because of an incident at a party where an experiment with electricity went rather awry. By all accounts, it took a great deal to get a reaction out of Sparks, but the experiment certainly did the trick. Apparently, he’d jumped at least a foot, his hair on end. It was the fastest anyone had ever seen him move.

  “I daresay, he might find his enthusiasm should he be in need of funds.” Aunt Augusta’s brows lowered into an expression that could only be described as calculating. She narrowed her eyes on Emma. “Perhaps enough to speak to your father.”

  “Pish posh,” Emma insisted. “We’ve never been introduced. You’d think if the man intended to court me, he’d have asked me to dance at some point. Or paid a call.”

  “I’m not certain he knows how to dance. As for paying calls…” Aunt Augusta waved a hand. “He’s not much for conversation, either.”

  “Then his visit with Papa shall be short indeed.” Emma took up her quill once again, determined to ignore the speculative glances bouncing between her aunt and cousin. They were being ridiculous. But the ink she’d already committed to her page blurred before her eyes. The letters transposed themselves into an inscrutable jumble she’d need a machete to cut through.

  Blast.

  She’d grown up in the knowledge her eventual husband would marry her for her money, rather than some romantic notion of tender feelings. When one stood to inherit twenty thousand pounds upon one’s marriage, one must face certain facts. Being a young lady who preferred to deal with the stark truth of ledger columns, she’d never conjured any personal objections to the idea. Actually, by the age of five and twenty, she’d long since expected to see the entire matter settled.

  But now that the day of reckoning had seemingly come…

  She shook herself. There was no evidence whatsoever that Sparks had come to ask for her hand. He might be here for any number of reasons. And even if he had come with matrimony on his mind, she’d long since resigned herself to her fate.

  Her husband would take her considerable portion in hand, true, but her father had also set aside funds for her personal use. It would all be detailed in the marriage settlement. She concentrated on that fact. At last, she’d control her own fortune to an extent, and perhaps her husband’s as well. One of the advantages to attracting a titled fortune hunter was the potential of taking an entire estate in hand. If the gentleman in question had difficulties in handling his own finances, he might well accept a little wifely advice. At least, as long as she approached him properly.

  A man like Sparks would certainly prove himself biddable, and that was all she needed.

  No doubt expecting their guest would soon join the gathering in the morning room, her aunt reached for the bell and rang for tea. Emma bent her head back to her letter and painstakingly transcribed a few more thoughts into French. Presently the teacart rattled into the room. The maid bowed herself out, and Uriana poured. Half an hour or more passed in heavy silence, while Emma’s aunt and cousin leaned in the direction of the door and their over-sugared tea grew cold in their cups. Emma’s letter grew by yet another sentence, but before long, even she could no longer stand the quiet.

  And still Sparks did not emerge from the study.

  “What on earth do they have to discuss that’s taking so long?” Uriana burst out at last. Or at least what passed as an outburst where she was concerned. Miss Conklin’s dictates about proper ladies modulating their voices were never far from the surface.

  Aunt Augusta set her teacup aside. “I’ve no doubt any marriage settlement involving Emma would take the better part of the day simply to lay out the initial stipulations. The full negotiation might take months.”

  “Or perhaps they haven’t got past the weather,” Emma couldn’t resist adding. “Besides, we still don’t know that this has anything to do with me. They could be chatting about the secrets of making a proper champagne. It could be most anything. Until we see solid evidence they’re discussing my personal future, I refuse to worry myself over it.”

  Aunt Augusta fixed her gaze on Emma’s spectacles. “You will remove those before your intended sees you in them.”

  Defiant, Emma stared straight back. “As I’ve just said, I’ve no intended yet.”

  Aunt Augusta opened her mouth to argue, but the sound of the knocker cut her off.

  Uriana raised her brows. “Another caller?”

  Emma readjusted her spectacles. “Perhaps it’s Mr. Crawley this time.” After all, there was just as much evidence of Mr. Crawley’s interest in Uriana as there was for Emma’s impending nuptials.

  Aunt Augusta took up her station at the door once again. “Hush.”

  But the order was hardly necessary. Whoever was at the door greeted the butler in an overly loud voice. “I’m here to see Mr. Jennings. Or more accurately, my brother called me here to see Mr. Jennings, if you catch my meaning. But of course you wouldn’t. I can barely catch my own meaning.”

  Loud. Overly jovial. All that was missing was a slap on Grundy’s back, a slap which the ensuing booming silence refused to reveal. Such a slap would surely have echoed through the corridor, for the person who stood on the threshold could be nothing but in his cups.

  As if to confirm Emma’s suspicion, Aunt Augusta glanced at the gilt ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. “Not even five,” she muttered.

  “If you’ll step this way,” Grundy’s voice carried as far as the sitting room.

  “And which way is that
?” The newcomer laughed at his own joke, a mirthless bark that bounced off the narrow walls of the passageway. “I’ve had as much as is good for me already. You can’t ask too much now.”

  “Please, sir.”

  “No need. I know my way. Right familiar with this place, I am.” That overly loud voice was coming closer. Drunk or not, it was low pitched and somehow melodious all the same.

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Jennings’s study is this way.”

  “Ah, and here I thought I was meant to pay my respects in the morning room.” The owner of that voice appeared on the threshold. “Never let it be said I missed an opportunity to greet the ladies. And here they all are.”

  He stood tall enough that the beaver hat he’d tucked beneath his arm would have brushed the top of the door frame. That is, if he hadn’t already crushed the poor unsuspecting piece of headgear. His shoulders seemed to span the width from jamb to jamb.

  But it was his face that made Emma catch her breath. She’d never seen it with such clarity, but then her aunt insisted she leave her spectacles behind whenever she went out in society.

  Despite a suspiciously red tinge on his straight blade of a nose, he was handsome. Classically so, with a mop of elegantly styled blond hair and striking blue eyes, like chips of sapphire. A set of side-whiskers extended toward his jaw, highlighting a pair of chiseled cheekbones. His lips stretched into a smile that somehow promised all manner of wickedness, so much that Uriana completely forgot her manners and let out a girlish titter.

  “Ladies.” He swept into a bow that wouldn’t have been out of place in the royal palace, but for the way he wavered on the way back up. “You can never miss the chance to greet too many ladies.”

  The force of his charm crashed up against the cliff-face that was Aunt Augusta. “Have we been introduced?” she asked in her iciest tones.

  “My apologies.” He stuffed a hand into his top coat and produced a card, hesitating between Aunt Augusta and the butler for a moment, before finally passing the bit of cardboard off to Grundy. “Yes, I ought to have handed this over sooner. Rowan Battencliffe at your service.”

  He tucked his hand into his waistcoat and bowed his head once more. “And now I’m afraid I must leave you all. Duty calls, I fear. My brother asked me here, and I’m late, but I’m sure he’ll not have noticed.”

  Grundy cleared his throat and gestured toward the passage. “I believe you’ll find your brother already in the study with Mr. Jennings.”

  “Yes, and I do hope they’ve saved me some claret, or I may have to start straight in on the port.”

  No sooner had he shuffled out of the morning room than Aunt Augusta closed the door. Turning, she let her back to the oak panels, as if she might physically prevent another intrusion. “Well, I never.”

  Uriana ducked her head behind her embroidery frame. “Shocking breach of manners. Pity in one so handsome.”

  “Indeed.” As much as she hated to agree with her aunt and cousin, Emma could simply find no excuse for the display. “And society would claim him as one of our betters.”

  Goodness, she sounded as prim as Miss Conklin, but her former schoolmistress would never have dared utter a word against someone higher up the social scale. In the complicated patchwork of fashionable London, the brother of an earl beat the daughter of a wine merchant any time, and any number of society ladies would pounce on the opportunity to remind Emma of that fact. They’d pounce politely, naturally, never raising their voices, but their censure would be all too clear behind the shield of their simpering smiles. None of them ever let Emma Jennings forget for long that, despite her fortune, she was tainted with the stench of trade. On her, it must smell slightly musty with a hint of vinegar—like the inside of an old wine barrel.

  —

  Rowan should have refused the summons. At the very least, he should have remained at his club and drunk himself into oblivion. But that was the problem. His tab couldn’t tolerate the weight of so much as another glass, let alone an entire bottle. Especially after the news he’d just been handed.

  And so he’d hauled himself into his brother’s carriage for a cold and stomach-churning jaunt across Mayfair to a very familiar address. One he’d never expected to visit again. One whose memory required an entire bottle to obliterate.

  Yes, and hadn’t he made an arse of himself? Greeting the ladies, indeed. He’d long ago had his bellyful of simpering ton ladies. One in particular, and in this very house, to boot.

  He lurched toward the study, well aware of its location. At one time, Viscount Lindenhurst kept his study well stocked with the finest brandy, but that was ages ago. Back before Lind had sold this place to retire to his country estates. Back when they were still friends.

  “Played a fool by the same lady,” Rowan mused.

  Ironic that the fashionable London townhouse had been picked up by a wine merchant. A very wealthy wine merchant, true, but a man in trade nonetheless. Rowan would be buggered if he could work out why his brother had business with the man. Not any business, but something that required his presence, as well.

  “Get on with it,” he muttered to himself.

  The sooner he got this matter settled, whatever it was, the sooner he could go back to doing what he did best—burning his way through ridiculous sums of blunt. Only he had none left, but nobody knew that yet, not even his brother.

  The sound of the butler’s throat clearing interrupted Rowan’s musings. Damned brandy. The excess of drink had been meant to relieve him of his memories. Instead, he stood like an idiot, dwelling on a past best forgotten.

  “Sir?” The man was an expert at his profession, at least. Not the slightest note of amusement—or censure for that matter—marred his tone. He extended a hand, as if drunken callers neglected to pass him their hats on a daily basis.

  Rowan gave him his beaver, now sporting a dent, and allowed the servant to admit him to the study at last. An expanse of polished walnut desk separated his brother from their host. Sadly, no refreshments seemed to be in the offing if the lack of glassware or decanters was any indication.

  A pity. The thick atmosphere in the room was fast smothering the effects of the brandy.

  “At last,” Sparks said affably. His older brother took everything in stride, if at the plodding gait of a plow horse. “I was beginning to think you’d lost your way.”

  “Now that you’re here, perhaps we can begin.” Jennings spoke in the clipped tones of one who refused to put up with any nonsense.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this invitation?” Rowan couldn’t come up with a single reason for Jennings to require his presence along with his brother’s. In Sparks’s absence, Rowan could conjure about a thousand sterling motivations behind Jennings’s summons.

  “A small matter of a sum you owe me.”

  Damn it, he wasn’t about to allow Sparks to pay off his debts. The man had an estate to oversee. “Something we might have resolved between ourselves without involving my brother.”

  “Your brother, it so happens, came up with a scheme whereby you can pay what you owe. Not only that, you’ll be solvent within, well, a week at the most. If you’re fortunate, you might even remain in that state for the rest of your life.”

  Rowan took a step back. Impossible on all counts. He didn’t possess the sort of luck that would allow him to lose a fortune and gain another in the space of an hour. “You’re asking me to believe my brother came up with such a brilliant plan?”

  Sparks merely blinked, a slow shuttering of his eyes before he opened them again. It was the most emotion he ever showed unless electricity was involved. Sparks. Good Lord. The man took an entire morning deciding what to wear and then the rest of the afternoon selecting the evening’s entertainments. And God help the person who offered him a choice of dinner items. He might waste the entire evening wavering between Dover sole and roast beef. Thank God he employed an astute estate manager for the really important decisions. For Sparks to come up with anything intricate enou
gh to be termed a scheme was unheard of.

  “Indeed.”

  “I will not allow him to pay my way out of my difficulties.” Whatever Rowan had done, he’d done it to himself. No reason to get his brother involved. “He wasn’t even supposed to know about them,” Rowan added pointedly. For Sparks to come up with a plan, he would have had to learn of Rowan’s financial difficulties. Good Lord, it must have been weeks ago.

  “I am not going to pay for you,” Sparks said. “Your wife is.”

  A bolt of lightning crashing through the ceiling to strike him dead would have been less shocking. “My wife?”

  Heaven knew he’d been turning over the possibility of courting a likely heiress during the upcoming season if any likely candidate caught his eye, but the idea had never gone beyond a vague notion. He’d long since resigned himself to never marrying. Not only had he proven an idiot when it came to money such that he couldn’t afford a wife, his track record where ladies were concerned hardly predicted success on the marriage mart.

  And now his brother was suggesting he’d gone out and found a suitable match for Rowan? When Sparks himself was still a bachelor? Preposterous.

  “Lord Sparkmore has suggested you marry my daughter.” Jennings pronounced that sentence mildly enough for a man consigning his own offspring to a potential life of misery.

  “Your daughter?” Surely the girl in question had been in the sitting room just now when Rowan had made a drunken arse of himself. But there’d been two young ladies present—one bespectacled and whey-faced, and the other impossibly stiff and pinch-lipped. He was damned if he knew which one was the daughter. He hadn’t the luck to hope she was neither. “And what does the young lady in question have to say about this arrangement?”