by Stacy Henrie
Frances Herschel didn’t thrive on societal events, but she and Clare’s father still wanted the best for their daughter. That was the reason her father, a poor apple farmer, had sought to make a better life for his family. Eventually Gifford Herschel became a self-made millionaire as a hair-pomade manufacturer. Unfortunately, the eligible bachelors back home had still turned up their noses at Clare’s new money, prompting her mother to take action. Frances decided that she and Clare would go to London for the season, as many other American matrons and their daughters had been doing for decades. The Herschels already had American friends living in England’s capital city anyway, and a few letters were all it took to set things in motion—securing a place to stay and ensuring that all the proper introductions and invitations would follow.
Clare had been both eager and anxious at leaving her home behind, but she’d found comfort in knowing her parents would never let her marry anyone they didn’t consider kind, faith-filled, and respectable. Of course her large inheritance would likely attract the interest of an Englishman with a title. And yet more than anything, her parents wanted what Clare did—to make a match founded first and foremost on love.
“Are you ready to leave, Mama?”
Frances glanced around the room. “I don’t want you to miss the rest of the dancing.”
“I appreciate that,” Clare said with a smile, “but there will be other opportunities.”
“No.” Her mother stood, her expression changing from hesitation to resolve. “We left the last dance early on my account, and I want you to experience this one fully. I think a cup of tea is all I need to revive me.”
“Are you sure?”
Frances looped her arm through her daughter’s and patted Clare’s hand. “Stop fussing, Clare. It reminds me of your father, and I’m liable to get weepy if I get homesick for him again.”
“I miss him too.”
Clare fingered the silver rose brooch pinned to her dress. It had been a gift from her father on her eighteenth birthday. He’d told her the beautifully crafted yet unpretentious piece of jewelry reminded him of her. Her father had then counseled her to remember that in his eyes, and more importantly in God’s, she would always be of worth, whether she was an heiress or still the child of a once-humble farmer.
Lowering her hand, she gave her mother’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Letters just aren’t the same, are they?”
“No, they aren’t,” Frances said softly, her tone full of love and longing.
They entered the refreshment room together. It wasn’t as crowded as the ballroom, but it still held a fair number of patrons.
“I’ll get the tea, Mama, if you want to find a seat for us.”
When her mother agreed, Clare approached the refreshment table. Two gentlemen stood conversing at her left. They were both tall and lean with broad shoulders, though their coloring was different. The gentleman she could see most clearly had nice-looking brown hair and eyes, while the gentleman whose back was largely to her had dark-blond hair.
“Come now, Winfield,” the blond one was saying. “The night is young, and there are plenty of lovely girls to dance with.”
Winfield scowled at his companion. “Yes, lovely girls who at the behest of their mothers wish to sink their matrimonial claws into me.”
“I believe you’re right, old chap.” His friend folded his arms and leaned forward. “I’ve heard they gather at night in one of their drawing rooms to plot your nuptial demise.”
He lowered his voice and affected a woman’s falsetto. “Tonight’s the night, my dear ladies. The heir to the Duke of Moorleigh will succumb at last. We shall see him trussed up and hauled to the nearest church, or we shall perish in the effort. Vive le mariage!”
A laugh tumbled from Clare’s lips. The sound drew the immediate attention of the blond gentleman, and he turned to face her. She blushed at being caught listening, but he didn’t look annoyed. If anything, his pale-blue eyes were full of teasing warmth.
“Does my friend’s misfortune inspire laughter?” His features were every bit as handsome as his friend’s, though Clare preferred his light hair and eyes.
She feigned a serious expression as she accepted the tea cup handed to her. “Oh no. Calculating mothers with claw-wielding daughters are no joking matter.”
“Ah. Then you feel his pain?” She could tell he was trying hard not to smile.
“Indeed.”
He nodded slowly as if thoroughly pondering her answer. “Perhaps it was my faulty performance that made you chuckle then?”
“Not at all.” Clare shook her head. “It was the accuracy of it that prompted my response.” Stepping past him, she directed her final comment to his friend. “I wish you the best of luck in fighting them off, sir.”
The blond gentleman’s deep laughter filled her ears as she walked away. Clare wanted to stay and banter with him longer, but they hadn’t been properly introduced. Still, she couldn’t help glancing at him over her shoulder. To her pleasure, she saw he was watching her too, a warm, attractive smile lifting his mouth. She pressed her lips over her own smile and carried the tea to her mother.
Since coming to England, Clare had met plenty of gentlemen. Many of them were nice-looking and adept in both conversation and compliments, but none seemed to possess a great sense of humor. Until now. As her mother sipped her tea, Clare studied the blond gentleman, at least as much as she could see of him from her chair.
A regal-looking, dark-haired beauty soon approached the two men and placed her gloved hand on the blond man’s arm. Disappointment cut sharply through Clare at the familiarity between the pair. They didn’t look enough alike to be related. Was this his wife? Or maybe his fiancée? As she watched, the three of them left the refreshment room.
Clare and her mother followed several minutes later. Frances guided Clare to an empty chair beside their London hostess—an American named Mrs. Poole. Her daughter Helena was a friend of Clare’s and had married a viscount the year before.
As their mothers began talking, Helena turned to Clare. “Are you enjoying the dance?”
Clare gave a distracted nod. She was searching for the blond gentleman among the faces of those dancing. Sure enough, he and the dark-haired young woman waltzed past. “Helena?” She linked her arm through her friend’s. “Who is that gentleman dancing there? The one with the blond hair? I believe he has a friend named Winfield.”
Her friend followed her gaze. “Ah, that’s the Earl of Linwood. His father is the Marquess of Hadwell.”
“And the woman dancing with him?”
“Lady Melinda. Her husband died last year, making her a young widow with four children.”
Clare watched them dance. They made a striking couple with his light hair and her dark. “Is there an . . . understanding . . . between them?”
“Their families have been friends for years,” Helena answered in a half-whispered voice. “Apparently Lady Melinda hoped to marry Lord Linwood when they were younger, but her dowry was too small for the marquess’s liking. I get the impression that she still hopes Lord Hadwell will change his mind, especially now that she’s able to marry again. As for Lord Linwood, I’ve never detected anything but friendship between him and her.”
Helena’s words restored Clare’s anticipation. “Will you introduce me to him when the waltz ends?”
“Of course.” Her friend arched her eyebrows in a teasing manner. “But you’ve never asked me for an introduction before. Why the sudden interest in Lord Linwood?”
Clare gazed again at those dancing as she replied, “He managed to do what no other English gentleman has done so far.”
“What’s that?”
She let her smile show through at last. “He made me laugh.”
Chapter 2
“I’m fine, Miriam. I promise.” Clare set her half-drained cup of tea onto the vanity table. Nothing about the reflection staring back at her from the mirror hinted at the torrent of shock and emotion still swirling inside her. He
r copper-red hair, styled on top of her head, had remained in place despite her being sick. Her cheeks were no longer pale either, nor did her green eyes look as panicked.
Her maid didn’t seem convinced, though. “Are you sure, my lady? Should I have a tray brought up?”
“No, that isn’t necessary. I’ll eat downstairs.” With my husband.
Miriam nodded and left the room to inform Signora Russo that Clare would be eating lunch in the dining room after all. Swallowing her apprehension at Emmett’s sudden appearance and what they would talk about, Clare finished her tea and rose to her feet. She could endure one meal, one conversation, in order to find out why Emmett was here. After that, she would decide how best to proceed.
Thankfully she had an excuse for leaving the house right after lunch. Going to Helena’s and attending the party tomorrow would allow her to keep her pregnancy a secret, at least for the next few days. But what about after that?
I don’t know what to do, Lord, she prayed as she descended the stairs. If Emmett intended to remain for some time in Sicily, her plans would be complicated. And if she miscarried while he was still here . . . Clare shuddered at the thought. Hopefully her prayers for this baby would be answered, even if those she’d voiced regarding her marriage hadn’t been so far.
Signora Russo was setting a tempting plate of food on the table for her when Clare entered the dining room. Upon seeing her, Emmett stood. He appeared to have eaten half of his lunch in the time Clare had been upstairs, mastering her queasiness and her courage.
“I wasn’t certain you would join me, or I would have waited.”
She acknowledged his remark with a nod. “You were fine to go ahead.”
He helped her with her chair, since there were no footmen at the villa, then returned to his seat. “Is everything all right?”
Clare didn’t answer right away. Instead she took a moment to arrange her napkin across her lap and pick up her fork. Emmett was probably wondering why she’d bolted at the sight of him. “I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t expect you.”
“I would have sent a telegram, but . . .” His gaze briefly met hers before dropping to his food. “I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome.”
Guilt pricked at Clare as she took a bite. Honestly, she didn’t welcome his presence here, but not because she didn’t want to see him again. Just not now, when she needed more time to see what would happen with this pregnancy.
“This is your home too, Emmett.”
A flicker of something she couldn’t interpret entered his eyes, then disappeared. “How was your Christmas?”
“It was rather unconventional by society’s standards.” She couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her mouth. “I didn’t want to eat alone on Christmas Eve, so I joined Miriam and the Russos and their married children in the kitchen. The meal was loud and boisterous and simply wonderful.” It had reminded her of holiday celebrations back home.
Emmett chuckled. “Unconventional was the order of the day then. Rushford and I spent a rather quiet Christmas aboard the steamer. Several of us did share a holiday toast with the captain.”
The reminder he’d come to Taormina, unannounced, and had been traveling instead of spending Christmas in England eroded some of her mirth. “I imagine your family wasn’t too pleased to have you leave right before the holiday.” Every one of Emmett’s sisters and their families came to Hadwell House to celebrate Christmas.
“Actually it was my father’s idea that I come.”
Clare’s surprise at his answer quickly gave way to wariness—and a thread of hurt. Her husband wasn’t here because he wanted to see her but because his father wanted him here.
The marquess was a shrewd man with uncompromising expectations, ones Emmett had clearly been trying to meet for years. Why would Lord Hadwell want Emmett to come to Sicily now? Especially when Clare had already defied the family’s expectations by coming to stay at the villa alone?
“What business does your father have for you here?”
Emmett began twisting his goblet in a slow circle. He seemed unusually nervous, which only increased her suspicions. “My father would like me to become an MP,” he said at last.
“To run for Parliament? Why?”
He glanced at her as he answered. “Because he sees the need for more like-minded men in the House of Commons.” Emmett pushed his plate forward as if he was done, though there was still food there. “As for myself, I like the idea of influencing changes for the betterment of the nation and its people. Overseeing the work at Barksley Hall has taught me that.”
The mention of the country estate they’d purchased called to Clare’s mind a mixture of pleasant and unpleasant memories. At first, she’d naïvely believed this project would be something they would oversee together. After all, though she’d been an heiress when she’d married Emmett, she wasn’t a stranger to hard work or business organization.
She still recalled her early childhood, when her family had struggled to make ends meet on their apple farm in Vermont. And she had witnessed—and joined in—the labors along the way as her father had worked to perfect the right recipe, which eventually led to the creation of his famous hair pomade. Building the business, gaining customers, overseeing production, growing distribution . . . her father had discussed all the details openly with his wife and child, giving Clare a business education that she doubted a grand university could surpass. She hadn’t yet told Emmett about that part of her life, afraid of what he might think of her humble origins, but she’d been excited at the prospect of showing him the skills she’d learned from her father.
However, like many situations since her wedding, the estate project hadn’t turned out as she’d hoped or imagined. She and Emmett had spent two full weeks at Barksley Hall, discussing ideas and plans for the inside of the house. But when it came time for the actual interior work to begin, he’d insisted she would be more comfortable living back at Hadwell House. Four weeks later, she’d learned she was pregnant for the third time and that leaving England might help her remain that way. Clare hadn’t been brave enough to tell Emmett her travel plans in person, so she’d shared them in a letter. A part of her had hoped he would come see her before her departure, but he hadn’t.
“If being an MP is what you want to do,” she said, willing her thoughts to stay in the present and not the past, “I think you should. But I still don’t understand how that relates to you being in Sicily.”
Emmett took a sip of his drink. “It does when my wife is here.”
“What are you saying?” The roiling in her stomach had nothing to do with her usual nausea this time. Clare instinctively knew they were finally getting to the real reason her husband had shown up with no warning.
He rubbed a hand across his jaw, drawing her attention to its strong outline. She’d thought him handsome from the moment she’d first seen him, and that hadn’t changed.
“There’s no easy way to say this, Clare.” As she waited for him to continue, she set down her fork and grasped her hands in her lap. “If I’m to become an MP, my father believes it’s vital for me to present a . . . a more positive image to the public.”
“Which means?”
Emmett blew out his breath. “He feels it’s best for my campaign if you and I are seen together and looking as a happy couple should.”
His expression conveyed his own discomfort at repeating his father’s edict, but that didn’t stop a seed of anger from germinating inside Clare. She’d already experienced enough decrees and opinions from the marquess within the past year to last her two lifetimes. Worst of all, even when Emmett seemed to disagree, he never failed to comply with his father’s edicts.
“I see.” She kept her voice calm. “Then you’ll be staying in Italy as long as I am?”
Sweet relief flooded her when he shook his head. But his next words renewed her frustration—and her fear. “I’ve come to ask you to return to England with me, Clare, as soon as we can make the arrangements. Once there, we’ll
begin laying the groundwork for my campaign.”
His unexpected appearance made perfect sense now. He was here to collect her as one did a piece of luggage that had gone missing. She herself wasn’t even needed in this political scheme of his and Lord Hadwell’s—not in any way that truly mattered. She was only necessary as the other half of a smiling couple and, of course, as the one supplying the money to fund the campaign.
A dreadful memory, one Clare had attempted to squash time and time again, returned to her mind now. Lady Melinda had once commented on how Clare’s marriage seemed happy, even though it was based solely on money. She hadn’t believed the widow’s audacious assumption at first, instead chalking it up to Lady Melinda’s resentment over Emmett not marrying her. And yet Clare had been left with a niggling doubt when the woman went on to claim she’d heard the marquess congratulating his son for following his instructions to find a wealthy wife.
The pain Clare had felt that day gripped her anew and merged with her anger. Dropping her napkin on the table, she pushed her chair back and stood. “I can’t go back to England with you, Emmett. Not right now. I’m sorry.”
“Can’t or won’t?” His own irritation revealed itself in his tight tone and creased brow.
“I can’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare to catch the train to Messina.”
He climbed to his feet as well, his frown deepening. “What’s in Messina?”
“Helena is hosting a party for Lord Vickley tomorrow, and I agreed to help.” She walked to the doorway, more than ready to be done with their conversation. “I’ll be staying at their home tonight and tomorrow, so you’ll have the villa all to yourself for the next few days.”
*
Emmett swallowed a frustrated growl as Clare exited the dining room. His first attempt at convincing her to return to England hadn’t exactly gone well.
Was her reason for not agreeing to come back with him as he feared? Had she truly left because she no longer cared about him and was eager to start a new life separate from his? He pushed the fear aside with the consolation that she hadn’t treated him unkindly. So perhaps he wouldn’t count their conversation as a total failure. However, being at the villa while Clare was in Messina wasn’t going to help matters either.
