Emma stood transfixed on the landing, unable to tear her eyes away from the gentleman's finely chiselled features. Then, from the vicinity of her father's study, she heard Hugo's voice exclaim in surprise, "Kit! What on earth are you doing here?"
The newcomer raised a mocking eyebrow, but did not move an inch from where he stood. "Why, waiting for someone to relieve me of my coat," he replied in an affected drawl. "What else did you think I might be doing, brother?"
CHAPTER FIVE
Emma was standing as if frozen when her father, probably alerted by her hurried departure from the dance, appeared at her side. He took one look into the hallway below and rushed down the stairs as fast as his bulk and his tight satin breeches would allow.
Sir Edward strode across to the newcomer, hand outstretched. "Welcome, my boy, welcome," he boomed, clapping the new arrival on the shoulder. "What brings you here at this hour? Something important, I'll be bound." Without giving anyone a chance to reply, Sir Edward turned in the direction of the servants' door. "Godfrey! Where the devil are you, man? Do you not know we have guests?"
The butler materialised almost immediately on the landing behind Emma and glided down the staircase with no appearance of haste or of concern. He bowed politely to the visitor. "May I take your coat, sir?"
Emma watched in trancelike immobility as the newcomer allowed himself to be relieved of his caped driving coat and curly-brimmed beaver. He had smiled at Sir Edward's greeting, but the expression of lazy disdain had returned to his handsome face a moment later. It seemed he was too bored to speak, or even to look around him.
Sir Edward did not appear to have noticed anything amiss. "I am sure you'd like a private word with your brother," he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Hugo who was standing motionless in the shadow of the gallery, leaning on his cane. "But I hope you will join us upstairs when you're done. We are entertaining a few friends—quite informally, you understand—and the young people are dancing. My Emma would—" He broke off, looking round suddenly. The butler had disappeared as quietly as he had come. "Where on earth is she?" he said in a burst of irritation.
From her vantage point above them, Emma stirred at last. "I am here, Papa," she said, trying vainly to tear her eyes from Hugo's incredible brother.
Three heads turned. Three pairs of eyes looked up at her. The brothers were remarkably alike, even though they did not have the same degree of beauty. Nor did they share the same colouring, Emma noted absently. The younger man's hair was lighter—dark brown, highlighted with glints of red, like finest rosewood. His clear blue eyes were skimming over the female figure above him, making a rapid assessment of her face and form. Emma felt herself beginning to flush under his all too obvious scrutiny. His faintly lifted eyebrow and curling lip did nothing to reduce her embarrassment. She was behaving like a chit out of the schoolroom, both thunderstruck and tongue-tied at the sight of a handsome male face.
She tossed her head in annoyance. The spell broke. This young man was too well aware of his effect on hapless females, Emma concluded with sudden insight. Let others fall at his elegantly-shod feet. She most certainly would not.
Lifting the hem of her cream silk gown with one hand, she laid the other on the polished banister rail and moved serenely down the staircase into the hallway. She knew the newcomer's eyes would fix on that tantalising glimpse of a shapely ankle. And she made a play of dropping her skirts and straightening them demurely before she looked at him. Women, too, could use the tricks of flirtation, she reckoned. She doubted that young Stratton could be more adept than she at the arts of allure.
A movement behind her reminded Emma that they were not alone. There was the click of a cane on the chequered marble before Hugo's voice said politely, "Miss Fitzwilliam, you will allow me to present my youngest brother, Christopher, usually known as Kit."
Kit took a small step forward so that he could take Emma's hand. For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss it—that would have been totally in character, she decided uncharitably—but he did not. He simply bowed gracefully and relinquished her hand. There was nothing to cavil at in his company manners. He would be the perfect gentleman, were it not for that calculating look in his eye.
"Your servant, Miss Fitzwilliam," Kit said.
Emma dropped the tiniest curtsey but did not bow her head by as much as an inch. "I am delighted to welcome any relative of Major Stratton's," she said with a polite smile. "You already know my father, I take it?"
"Indeed, I do," replied Kit. "We have had—"
"Belong to the same clubs, m'dear," broke in Sir Edward quickly. "Had one or two encounters over the card table. Young Stratton here seems to have the devil's own luck, playing against me, at least." Sir Edward laughed good-naturedly. He loved to gamble, Emma knew. And he could afford to lose. But what of Kit Stratton? Could he?
"Where are you staying, Kit? You can't mean to drive on again tonight." Hugo was smiling indulgently at his younger brother.
Kit smiled back with genuine warmth. "Don't worry, brother. I shan't be importuning the Hardinges. Arranged to rack up at the White Hart. Got to make an early start in the morning. Things to do, you know."
The corner of Hugo's mouth quirked in sudden irony but he said only, "I see. London calls, no doubt. And the urgent business that brings you here in the middle of the night?"
Emma made to move back towards the stairs. She had no desire to eavesdrop on Hugo's family affairs. Her father was obviously of a similar mind, opening the door of his study so that the two guests might converse in private.
Kit still did not move an inch. "Oh, it's nothing so drastic, Hugo. John asked me to let you know that they're off travelling again—Scotland, this time, I think he said—so the house at Stratton Magna will be shut up for a few months. He didn't want you arriving to find you'd been abandoned. Knows you find travelling difficult." Kit cast a surreptitious glance at Hugo's weak leg and then quickly looked away.
"Good of him," Hugo said curtly. "But he could as easily have written, you know. A crippled leg doesn't affect my ability to read."
Kit grinned like a naughty schoolboy. "Oh, very well. If you must know, I offered to come. Wanted to see for myself how you were. Should have known you'd be as cantankerous as ever."
Hugo cast his eyes up to the heavens for a second and then turned to Sir Edward. "It is not surprising if I am, sir. John and I have tried every avenue we could think of over the last few years, but nothing can tame this scapegrace brother of ours. Gambling, drinking—" He stopped abruptly. Such matters should not be mentioned in front of young unmarried ladies.
Emma broke the taut silence by saying politely, "Will you come and meet our other guests, Mr Stratton? There will be refreshments upstairs, too, if you can spare the time, of course."
Hugo stifled a laugh. "I'm sure he can, ma'am, no matter how early his call to London. He never did seem to need much sleep."
Kit cast a quelling look at his brother, but it produced no response at all, Emma noticed. Hugo was really very good indeed at dealing with provoking young men.
Emma re-entered the drawing room a little behind Kit and her father. She knew that Hugo would hate her to watch his slow progress on the stairs. And yet, she lingered by the door. She was not needed immediately. Her father would make the necessary introductions.
A soft gasp, quickly swallowed, made her turn back to the drawing room. Miss Mountjoy's eyes were as round as guineas as she gazed at the new arrival. Her mouth hung partly open. Emma suppressed a desire to take the girl by the shoulders and shake her. No wonder Kit Stratton took such a disdainful view of womankind if this was the reaction he had learned to expect.
Emma did not wait to witness the introductions. It was all too embarrassing. She moved instead to meet Hugo who had just regained the landing.
"Your brother has certainly made an impression," she said somewhat tartly.
"It is to be expected," said Hugo in a flat voice. "Kit has the happy knack of being welcomed wherev
er he goes."
Emma thought Hugo was about to say something more, but he did not. She wondered what was hidden behind his apparently simple words. He had called his brother a "scapegrace", after all. Was there something to be ashamed of about this beautiful—and undoubtedly somewhat arrogant—young man? She would have to find that out for herself. Of a certainty, Hugo would not tell her.
"I was about to order the supper brought in, Major. I am sure your brother would welcome some refreshments after his travels. And you, too, perhaps?"
"You are most kind, ma'am," replied Hugo, stopping in the doorway. Emma, too, paused to survey the scene. Jamie was seated at the instrument once more, choosing her music. Kit Stratton was leading a blushing Miss Mountjoy on to the floor. Emma was relieved to see that Mr Mountjoy was partnering the rector's wife. If the young man had been forward enough to ask Emma to dance a third time, she would have been forced to snub him. That would have given her no pleasure at all.
The rector came to claim Emma and lead her into the set. Her father looked on, smiling benignly. He liked nothing better than to see his guests enjoying themselves, even if it was a little improper for them to be dancing in this way.
Hugo crossed to the pianoforte once more. "May I turn for you, Lady Hardinge?" he asked quietly.
"If you wish," she replied. "Your brother's arrival was unexpected, I collect? I hope he has not brought bad news?"
"Have no fears on that score, ma'am. It's only Kit's insatiable curiosity. He always has to know everything about John and me. A problem of being so much younger, I think. He always wanted to do whatever we could do, and long before he was old enough. He's a born rebel, I'm afraid. He was sent down from Oxford because of it. And, of course, he was much indulged, being the child of my parents' old age, besides having the face of an angel."
Hugo smiled wryly, fearing for a moment that he might have said too much. But the Hardinges, of all people, were to be trusted. He bent to turn the page of music and received a brief nod of thanks. "I would not have you think unkindly of Kit, ma'am," he continued earnestly. "He is a little wild, I admit, but he has a good heart under that splendid exterior. It is only a pity that the ladies cannot see beyond the handsome face." And that he trades on it with so little compunction, Hugo added to himself. In spite of Kit's comparative youth, he had left a string of broken hearts behind him, never mind the discarded mistresses. Every one of them had thought she would reform him. And every one had failed.
Hugo raised his eyes to watch the dancing. Miss Mountjoy was gazing up at Kit as if she had never beheld anything so beautiful. Hugo shuddered inwardly. Yet another impressionable female.
Emma, now. Emma was clearly made of sterner stuff. Hugo assessed her carefully. Her attention was firmly focused on her conversation with her partner. She was sparing not a single glance for Kit. And earlier, in the entrance hall, she had seemed to have the measure of him. Perhaps…?
At that moment, the dance brought Emma round to face Hugo and she looked directly at him. She smiled, fleetingly, before turning back to her partner.
Entranced, Hugo watched her retreating back move down the set. He could see that Kit was watching her closely, too. But Emma was studiously ignoring Kit Stratton. Excellent tactics on her part.
Kit had broken altogether too many hearts, in Hugo's opinion. It would do him the world of good to fall in love a little, especially if his love were not returned in equal measure. Hugo had little experience of society ladies—he had spent too many years with the army—yet it seemed to him that Emma was the kind of woman to give Kit the lesson he needed. If she once decided to take any notice of him at all. But why should she?
Hugo allowed himself a little smile. It would not be so surprising, surely, in the down-to-earth world of ton matches? Emma, as an heiress, was in need of a husband. Kit was a very attractive man. And better husband material than many a suitor. He might be a scapegrace… No, that was not quite true. Hugo had to admit to himself that, at twenty-two, Kit was already a fair way to becoming an out-and-out rake, though without as much wealth as he would have wished to fund his spendthrift habits. A good marriage might be the making of him. And what woman could resist the challenge of reforming a rake?
Hugo turned back to the music, feeling suddenly guilty. How quickly his mind had moved from love to marriage. It was not his place to arrange Emma's future, even to help tame his incorrigible brother. Kit was very young, younger than Emma. Flirtation might provide a useful lesson, but marriage would be a disaster. He should not interfere. Let the young people make their own decisions.
A sudden burst of laughter from Kit drew everyone's attention. Most of the dancers were soon laughing heartily, too. Miss Mountjoy looked a trifle embarrassed though she, too, joined in eventually. Emma, however, was looking daggers at Kit.
In that instant, Hugo realised that Emma was aeons older than his frivolous young brother. They would never suit. Not for a moment.
A wicked thought arose unbidden. Poor Kit. Emma's wealth would at least have kept him out of the sponging house.
CHAPTER SIX
"You sent for me, Papa?" Emma shut the study door quietly behind her.
Her father rose from his favourite chair, smiling determinedly. He carried a letter in his hand. "Emma, my dear, how well you look this morning," he said, admiring the picture she made in her simple sprig-muslin gown. "No after-effects from last night's entertaining?"
Emma returned his smile. "No, indeed, Papa. It was most enjoyable. And I am used to dance till dawn when I am in London, you know. Country parties, even our own, are much tamer affairs."
He pulled at his ear lobe. "Ah, um, that was what I wanted to talk to you about, m'dear. Your Aunt Augusta has written." He waved his letter in Emma's direction. "She thinks you should return to London. Says you are missing too much of the Season. That, at your age, you—"
Emma was relieved to learn that the letter contained nothing worse. Her father's widowed sister was a busybody of the first order. Having no children of her own, she did her best to arrange Emma's life instead. "Forgive me for interrupting you, Papa, but I'll wager I can quote my aunt's letter word for word. At my age," she began, mimicking Mrs Warenne's very proper voice, "I am like to be left on the shelf if I do not bestir myself to attend every single rout party. New gentleman are constantly appearing in town and it is so important to make an impression on them at the very first opportunity." She looked up at her father's face through her long dark lashes. His hand had left his ear and he was trying not to laugh. "Do I have it right, Papa?"
"Yes, well, it is much along those lines, I admit. But—" he was suddenly serious once more "—Emma, your aunt is only being sensible. You are twenty-three years old and still unmarried." He must have detected hurt in Emma's eyes, for he hastened to say, "Oh, I was more than happy to send all those fortune hunters to the rightabout. Not one of them valued you as he ought. But— My dear, I am concerned about your future. I am not as young as I was, you know, and when I am gone, you will be alone here."
Emma's eyes widened as she took in the import of his words. He shook his head a fraction to forestall the protest that had sprung to her lips. "I would so much like to see you happily settled, Emma. As would your aunt. And, however much you love the country, my dear, even you have to admit that it is not exactly awash with potential suitors." He looked sadly down at her, counting off the names on the fingers of his left hand. "Richard is married. Kit Stratton is a reckless young ne'er-do-well with much too fine a face. And Mountjoy is barely out of leading strings. Apart from the old widowers—who are not for you, I sincerely hope—no other eligible man has put in an appearance in this neighbourhood for years. So, much as you may prefer the country, m'dear, I'm afraid it has to be London."
Emma was silent for several heartbeats. Then, in a very small voice, quite unlike her usual confident tones, she ventured, "You did not include Major Stratton in your list, Papa."
Her father's eyes widened in surprise. "No, of course I did
not," he said brusquely. "The Major may be a very fine man. A hero, too, perhaps, I dare say. But he is not—" He put a heavy hand on his daughter's arm and warned sharply, "Emma, he is scarred and crippled. He may not even be a whole man." He reddened slightly as he realised what he had said in front of his unmarried daughter, but he was clearly too angry and too concerned to stop. "He is no fit husband for you, Emma, nor for any other young lady. You must not give him another thought. Indeed, I doubt he is marriageable at all. It is a pity, I admit, but there is nothing to be done."
Emma was staring at her slippers, trying to make sense of the tumbling, whirling thoughts that her father's words had provoked. She wanted to re-establish her easy friendship with Hugo Stratton, that was all. She had never thought of him as a husband. At least when she was a child. But those were only a child's romantic daydreams and long ago forgotten. Besides, the man who had returned from the wars was nothing like the fantasy she had fashioned in the schoolroom. Nothing like. With a flash of insight, Emma now saw that Hugo believed himself to be unfit for marriage. He would never propose to any woman of his own free will.
She swallowed hard. Her father must be right. He had her best interests at heart, as always.
She was about to say that she would do as he asked, when another picture of Hugo rose in her mind, a picture so vivid that he might have been before her—Hugo's laughing eyes as they had once been. Could they not be so again? There had been a moment during that walk in the wood at Harding when he had been so close to his former self. Must he remain a bitter recluse because he had been wounded in the service of his country? It seemed so very unfair.
"Emma?" Her father was now beginning to sound more impatient than angry.
Emma smiled sweetly up at him, waiting until the last remnants of his anger had melted away. "No doubt Aunt Augusta is right, Papa. London in the Season is the place for suitors. And fortune hunters, too, alas. I will go back and join the throng. Will that content you, Papa?"
Marrying the Major: Passion and peril in Regency London (Unsuitable Matches) Page 5
