"Aye," he smiled. "You were ever a sensible lass, Emma. You know it is for the best." He sounded relieved.
Emma's smile dimmed. "Oh, Papa, but what about the Derby? You said you planned to go. But if I am in London with Aunt Augusta— Surely you would not deny me the chance to see Golden Star run? You always said you named him for me." Her face was set in a picture of childlike innocence as she gazed hopefully up at him.
He plucked at his ear. "Well," he said, looking again at the letter in his hand. "I suppose it might be possible to make up a party, if your aunt agreed. I'd have to take a house nearby, of course. Too far to go otherwise. Might be a goodish notion, though," he mused abstractedly. "We could all see the race then. And your Aunt Augusta could ensure that a few eligible young people were invited to join us at the same time."
Emma groaned inwardly at the thought of a houseful of young ladies, all carefully schooled by their matchmaking mamas, and Aunt Augusta's choice of eligible gentlemen. But, at least, it would be a change from the interminable London round. After so many full Seasons, that was beginning to pall.
Her papa seemed to have convinced himself. "Yes," he said, "I'll write to your aunt today. And I may tell her that you will be returning to London immediately, Emma?" His raised eyebrows demanded a precise answer.
"In a day or two, Papa," Emma said. "I should like to spend a little time with Jamie before I go." Her eyes lit up with sudden mischief. "If I try really hard, I might even persuade her to join your Surrey house party, Papa. Would that not be delightful? It was so clever of you to think of it."
Papa, who had a very soft spot for the lovely countess, agreed that his daughter might remain in the country for a few days more, in hopes of adding the Hardinges to his guest list.
Emma kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Papa," she beamed. "I had better ride over to Harding at once to begin to work on her, do you not think? And, before you mention it, I will take a groom. I am resolved to prevent you from worrying about me any more."
Sir Edward sighed contentedly and patted her arm. "Thank you, m'dear. You are a good girl."
Emma left the room before he could remember that any visit to Harding must provide yet another opportunity to meet the unmarriageable major.
"Good morning, Miss Emma." The butler beamed at her. "You will be pleased to know that my lord has driven over to the Dower House to visit his lady mother."
Emma's spirits lifted at the news. The dowager countess had been almost like a mother to Emma for as long as she could remember. Emma resolved to ride on to the Dower House as soon as she left Jamie. It would be a happy duty to welcome Richard's mother back home.
"That is splendid news, Digby," Emma said. "I will go to pay my respects to her ladyship this very day." She picked up her trailing skirts, turning to make for the stairs and Jamie's sitting room.
Behind her, Digby coughed discreetly. "I believe her ladyship is in the conservatory, Miss Emma."
"Oh." Emma turned quickly on her heel. "Yes, of course. It is such a lovely spot when the sun is shining. Don't trouble to announce me, Digby. I know my way very well."
Emma walked briskly along the corridor to the conservatory at the end of the house, where Richard had created a luxurious oasis for his wife's enjoyment. Jamie's green fingers had ensured that all kinds of exotic plants now flourished there. And it had given her an opportunity to indulge her passion for gardening in even the most inclement winter weather. Emma knew her friend would probably be surrounded by cuttings and compost. Even heavily pregnant, Jamie was rarely to be found simply enjoying the delights of her private paradise.
The door opened silently on well oiled hinges. The warm, moist air settled around Emma like a fine velvet cloak and the sweet scent of newly turned soil filled her nostrils. She breathed deeply, savouring the moment. For Emma, this place was a peaceful haven, a refuge from all the artifice of society life.
The conservatory seemed to be empty. Jamie's workbench was strewn with soil and potting implements, but she was nowhere to be seen. Emma was turning to leave when she heard a muffled noise. It sounded like a groan.
Someone was there. And something was wrong.
Emma pushed her way through the lush greenery to the far side of the conservatory. Jamie was there, sure enough, sitting awkwardly on the edge of a small wooden bench.
But Jamie was not alone. Hugo Stratton loomed over her, his hands clasping her face and his eyes gazing down into hers. As Emma watched in shocked astonishment, Hugo lowered his head to Jamie's.
Emma whirled and fled from the scene, unwilling to believe the evidence of her own eyes. How could he? Jamie was the wife of his best friend. And pregnant, besides. It was wicked. It was dishonourable.
And Jamie? Jamie had not seemed to be resisting Hugo's advances.
Emma choked back a sob. Her heart was beating as rapidly as if she had fled from a charging bull. Her knees seemed to have turned to water. She had to lean her forehead and breast against the cool paintwork of the corridor to stop her legs from buckling beneath her.
Jamie. And Hugo.
It was indecent.
It was utterly beyond her comprehension.
"Emma?"
Jamie had appeared in the conservatory doorway. Her cheeks looked remarkably flushed, and she was holding a handkerchief to her eye as if she had been crying.
Perhaps she had not welcomed Hugo's kisses after all?
"I thought I heard someone in the conservatory. Why, are you quite well, Emma? You look as if you are about to faint."
Emma shook her head dumbly. Her throat was so dry that she could not utter a sound. She forced her lips into a somewhat shaky smile.
"Go and sit down in the conservatory, my dear, and I will send some water to you immediately." Jamie sounded concerned now. "Forgive me for not staying with you, but I must get Annie to help me bathe my eye. I stupidly allowed some soil dust to get into it. Major Stratton assured me he had removed every speck, but the desire to rub and rub is overwhelming. If I cannot do something about it, I swear I shall scream." With an apologetic smile, Jamie hurried away to find her faithful abigail, Annie Smithers.
Emma took a deep breath and swallowed hard. It had all been perfectly innocent.
Or had it?
Emma forced her legs to carry her calmly back to the conservatory. However much she wished to avoid setting eyes on Hugo Stratton, she had no choice. The servants would certainly expect to find her there. And there was no knowing what the major, or Jamie, would read into her actions if she left without a word.
She must behave as if she had seen nothing at all. A short, polite conversation was what the situation required, followed by a speedy retreat.
Emma had her fingers on the handle of the door when the butler arrived, carrying a carafe of water and a glass on a tray. "Thank you, Digby," Emma said, smiling. "I am much better now, but I would welcome a glass of water and a moment of quiet repose. Perhaps you had better announce me after all. But have Juno brought round in ten minutes, if you please. I cannot stay longer."
Hugo looked up in surprise when Emma was announced. For once, he had been sitting in a comfortable chair, Emma noticed, but the lower seat made it a struggle to rise, especially as he seemed to be without his cane. The exertion was apparent in his face. If there was guilt there, too, Emma was unable to discern it. She remained standing just inside the door to give him time to collect himself before moving forward to offer her hand. Behind her, the butler quietly withdrew. Emma heard the soft click as the glass-panelled door closed at her back. In any other room, the door would have been left ajar, as convention demanded. Here, their actions could still be observed, yet Emma felt trapped by that tiny sound.
"Good morning to you, Major," she said in her most cheerful voice. "I hope I find you well after last night's exertions."
Hugo bowed, frowning slightly as if he were looking for a hidden—and offensive—meaning behind her words. Emma forced herself to remain polite and in control, though inwardly she bri
stled. How dare he? She had done nothing wrong.
"Your brother will have left for London by now, I collect?" she continued rapidly. "What a pity he could not stay to be presented to Richard's mother. I am sure Lady Hardinge would have been charmed to make his acquaintance." Emma stopped short. Why on earth was she gabbling so? She had been so determined to remain calm.
Hugo was looking searchingly at her. She hoped he could not read the suspicions behind her polite façade.
"No doubt," Hugo replied quietly. "Kit was ever a charmer."
Emma's heightened senses were fully alert to every nuance in his voice. If he betrayed himself by so much as a breath, she would know it. But his voice was laced with irony; and she fancied she detected a hint of something deeper, too. It could not be envy, surely? It was true that the contrast between the brothers was now very great, but—
"May I say that you look blooming this morning, ma'am?" Hugo's words interrupted Emma's train of thought. "Obviously you thrive on company. It was a splendid party. I am sure all your guests enjoyed the entertainment."
Emma was not deceived. He was obviously determined to put her on the defensive in this encounter by making clear that he disapproved of the dancing, which she knew she should not have permitted at such a gathering. She threw him a challenging look. "A good host," she said tightly, "will always have the wishes of his guests at the forefront of his mind. And if those desires should prove to be somewhat less than conventional, a good host will ensure that nothing occurs to embarrass his guests."
Emma saw, with a silent crow of triumph, that Major Stratton was trying to suppress the faintest glimmer of a smile. He tilted his head a little to one side as if to examine her better from that angle, though it might have been to hide that unwilling twitch of the lips. "And you, ma'am, are most certainly a very good host." His quiet words sounded almost sincere, but there was a gleam of something unfathomable in his grey eyes that warned her not to believe him. He would always find a way to turn her barbs back on her. Besides, he was clearly a practised deceiver.
Emma dropped a tiny curtsey. She must get away from him. "Thank you, sir," she said, taking refuge in convention once more. "You are most kind. But, if you will excuse me, I must be on my way to the Dower House. My horse is at the door."
Hugo bowed a trifle stiffly. "I hope you find the dowager well after her travels. I know Richard is delighted that his mother is returned. He is very much concerned about his wife's health."
Emma looked up sharply. For the first time, Hugo had said something to reveal his inner thoughts. He appeared to be worried for Richard. And glad that the dowager had returned to share her son's burden. It made no sense at all. She found herself replying more sharply than she had intended. "Jamie will not permit herself to be cosseted, Major, even by Richard and his mother. You would understand that, if you knew her history. She is—"
"I do know," he said softly.
Oh, dear. Jamie and Hugo must be even closer than she had imagined. Not many people were entrusted with the secret of how Jamie had disguised herself as a garden boy to escape from her stepmother's machinations. And how Richard had married her out of hand when he discovered who she really was. Oh, poor, poor Richard.
"Lady Hardinge told me herself," Hugo said. "I think," he continued pensively, "that she did so to show me that she, too, had episodes in her past that were best not discussed in polite society. I admire her a very great deal."
"That, if I may say so, sir, was perfectly obvious." Emma's angry outburst echoed in the sudden stillness. She closed her eyes in despair and bit down hard on her lower lip, but she knew it was too late. How could she have allowed herself to say such a thing?
She turned to leave. She did not dare to look at him.
"A moment, ma'am." Hugo's voice was as hard as granite and as cold as ice.
Emma stopped but did not turn.
"What, precisely, was the meaning of that last remark?"
She could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck. He had moved to stand mere inches behind her. The threat in his voice was unmistakable. She had two choices—retreat, or attack.
Emma took a single step forward, putting a little distance between them, and then spun around to face him. Her finger pointed accusingly. "I should have thought the meaning was obvious, Major," she said, pouring out all her pent-up fury. "It means that I saw you kissing Richard's wife. Do you dare to deny it? You are a guest in his house, and you—"
Hugo's face had blanched under his tan. The thin line of his scar stood out starkly, drawing Emma's unwilling gaze. Articulating every venomous word as if he were a judge handing down a sentence of death, he said, "I am a guest in Richard's house and a man of honour, Miss Fitzwilliam."
Emma stood motionless, staring at him with bitter contempt. She could not trust herself to speak.
"Your accusation is writ plainly on your face, ma'am. You believe I would be Lady Hardinge's lover, do you not?"
The silence seemed to stretch endlessly between them.
At last, Hugo broke it. "You do not have the first idea of love, if you could so mistake my actions," he said grimly. "I fear your education is sadly lacking." He took a step forward to close the space between them and seized Emma roughly by the shoulders, his fingers biting into her flesh as if the barrier of her habit did not exist. "I'll show you what lovers do," he said, lowering his mouth to hers.
Emma could not move. She could not think. She could only feel. Hugo's hard, bruising kiss was full of anger, frustration and—Emma somehow understood—dawning desire. For what seemed an eternity, he continued to punish her with his mouth, holding her body prisoner between his hands. Anger appeared to have given them unexpected strength.
At last, the grip of his weakened hand relaxed. The pressure of his mouth on hers seemed somehow gentler, too. His fingers began to stroke slowly over the fine velvet of her sleeve. Emma was sure Hugo's touch was burning through to her naked skin, just as his lips had put their brand on her mouth. No man had ever kissed her with any kind of passion. Fury had caused this, to be sure, not love. And yet Hugo's kiss was wildly exciting. Emma's heart was racing and every inch of her body seemed to be glowing so hot it would melt at any second. It was glorious to be so alive. Emma willingly yielded to the temptations of pure feeling.
When Emma moved her head the tiniest fraction—not to pull away, but to enjoy this wonderful sensation to the full—Hugo reacted instantly to forestall any possible escape. He clamped his right hand to the back of her head, his fingers splayed across her silky hair to hold her steady for his continuing kiss. He started to explore the pleasures of her mouth with his lips and tongue, testing and teasing, while his left hand caressed her arm with never a pause.
Emma was close to fainting from the pleasure of it. She no longer cared who, or where, she was.
Until the loud rattle of the door handle announced that they were no longer alone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dear God, what had she done?
Emma dared not turn to see who was at the conservatory door. She knew that one glimpse of her flushed face and bruised lips would betray her. It mattered not that she was now alone, or that the lush greenery had probably concealed their embrace from anyone looking in from the corridor. Her behaviour had been scandalous. A lightskirt from Covent Garden would have known better.
It seemed a very long time before the door was opened. And the handle rattled much more than usual. Emma had time to take several deep breaths, and to pray that her flush might be fading.
"Miss Emma."
Emma was perversely glad to be discovered by the butler who had known her all her life. Jamie would have understood her plight, but what Emma needed at this moment was absolute discretion, not sympathetic questions.
"Miss Emma, her ladyship is in her sitting room upstairs. She asked if you would join her there, instead of riding over to the Dower House. She expects that his lordship will bring his lady mother back with him."
"Thank you, Digby
, I—"
"I shall tell her ladyship that you are feeling a little faint, shall I? And that you will join her presently?"
"Thank you, Digby. Yes, I shall. Presently." Keeping her back to him, Emma busied herself with examining a curiously shaped leaf, hoping that she appeared totally engrossed. Her sudden interest in plants might also excuse her strained tone of voice. And hide her shaking hands.
She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Digby was still standing behind her, waiting. Drat the man. Why would he not go? She dare not turn round.
At last he said, sounding remarkably like her father, "I shall convey your message to her ladyship. Shall I have your mare taken round to the stable, too?"
Emma almost laughed at being so easily caught. Everyone knew that her first concern was always for her horses, yet she had completely forgotten that her beloved mare was standing at the door. Digby, at least, would not be deceived. And she would not act the coward before him any more. She turned slowly, saying, as calmly as she could, "Thank you, Digby. You think of everything."
Digby was studying the pattern on the tiled floor. And he managed to make his exit without once looking into her face.
Emma sank into the low chair that Hugo Stratton had vacated. It all seemed like hours ago. She covered her face with her hands. Her cheeks felt burning hot, though not nearly as hot as the rest of her body. Hugo's passionate kisses had set her every fibre aglow in a way she had not thought possible. This must be why the matchmaking mamas took such care to chaperon their maiden daughters on every occasion. And why the gentlemen were always so eager to tempt the ladies into a shady alcove or a secluded bower. If mere kisses made a woman melt as she had done, what was there yet to be discovered in the love between a man and a woman? Surely nothing could be more thrilling than the feelings she had experienced in Hugo's arms? And yet…
Hugo forced himself to move through the pain. It was the least he deserved. He had told her he was a man of honour. What kind of man of honour would take advantage of an innocent and helpless young woman as he had done? Never mind that his honour was smirched even before he set eyes on her.
Marrying the Major: Passion and peril in Regency London (Unsuitable Matches) Page 6
