It would not do to let him see how much his neglect had hurt her. She had shown him weaknesses enough already. Tonight, she would show him the practised lady of the ton, at home in the most exalted company. He would not be allowed to despise her. She would show him.
But would he condescend to appear at all? Emma swallowed a very unladylike curse.
"You had better make a start on my hair, Sawyer," she said, moving calmly to sit down at the dressing table. "Something fairly plain, please. Tonight I shall leave the froth and feathers to the singers, I think."
Hugo arrived back at Mrs Warenne's house as the ladies were on the point of leaving. The carriage stood at the open door. He could see shining silks and flashing jewels in the hallway beyond.
He took the steps two at a time, something he had not even dared to try until now. But there was no time to savour the moment. Emma was standing a little way behind her aunt. And looking daggers at him. Her anger only served to enhance her golden beauty. She was wearing a simple low-necked gown of old gold silk and her shining hair was severely dressed in a knot on top of her head. Her only jewellery was a pair of topaz earrings and the plain gold wedding band he had put on her finger.
He was relishing the sight of her when her aunt interrupted, tapping him on the arm with her folded fan. The purple feather on her elaborate turban wobbled precariously with every movement. "We had all but given you up, Major."
"My apologies, ma'am," he said immediately, with a polite bow. "It was not my intention to have you wait."
"No," said Mrs Warenne sharply, "but you knew very well that we were agreed it would be best for you and your wife to arrive together."
Hugo nodded. There was nothing he could say. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Emma was enjoying his discomfiture. That did not bode well for the rest of the evening.
"I can see that there is no time to be lost, ma'am," he said with a grim smile, offering his arm to Emma's aunt. "May I escort you to your carriage?"
Mrs Warenne looked suspiciously at him but apparently saw nothing amiss. She allowed him to help her down the steps and into the carriage. Emma followed, unescorted. When Hugo turned to help her down the steps, he found that she was already beside him on the flagway. He held out his hand to help her into the carriage.
"Thank you," she said, in a cold, polite voice. He might as well have been a servant, for she did not look at him. The pressure of her hand on his was so fleeting that he could not be sure she actually touched him. She took her seat beside her aunt and started to make conversation as if he did not exist.
And with all three of them in the carriage, it would be useless to attempt any kind of explanation. Hugo swallowed his burgeoning anger and took his place in the carriage opposite the ladies, allowing them to monopolise the conversation throughout the short journey to Lady Dunsmore's.
"Ah, here we are at last," said Mrs Warenne, for all the world as if they had been travelling for hours. She looked at her niece sitting rigidly alongside her. "I think it would be for the best if you were to go in on the major's arm, Emma," she said decidedly. "No need to wait for me. The footman will help me down."
"As you wish, Aunt," Emma said in a colourless voice.
Hugo wanted to shake her. She was behaving like a spoilt child. Just give him a moment alone with her.
He alighted first and reached up to offer his hand to his wife. She fixed her gaze on a point over the top of his head when she put her hand in his. Hugo caught her fingers and squeezed sharply, surprising her into looking directly at him. "Emma," he said in a warning whisper, "remember how important this is."
Her eyes widened. She gave the tiniest nod.
Hugo gave a sigh of relief, tucking her gloved fingers under his arm while he led her up to the entrance. With his free hand, he gave her an encouraging pat. "Smile," he said softly.
Smile.
Emma groaned inwardly. She was to be put on show, as she had been on her wedding day. The slightest chink in her armour, and the tabbies' claws would reach in to tear her flesh. She straightened her back even more. It would not be allowed to happen.
One step at a time.
Smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The interminable aria was followed by warm applause. Much too warm, in Hugo's opinion. The tenor had definitely been straining a great deal to reach his top notes, and at least one of them was decidedly flat. Hugo would be glad to leave.
He looked down at Emma at his side, engrossed in polite conversation with her other neighbour. He would not be glad to leave her like this. She was bristling with anger. He could almost feel it sparking out across the gap between their bodies. The laughing, willing wife who had lain in his arms had been supplanted by a hissing cat, ready to scratch his eyes out the moment he said a word to her. It was almost impossible to believe that these were two aspects of the same woman. She was desirable, delightful. And utterly exasperating. She made him furious. She made him ache for her. She was driving him mad.
He did not see what else he could have done. There had been barely time enough to change into evening dress. And certainly no time to write a note to her. There would have been time—just—for a kiss and a few words, but when he saw her so peacefully asleep, her cheek pillowed on her hand, he could not bring himself to wake her. He had even resisted the temptation to stroke the peach-like bloom of her cheek.
And in the end it had been for nothing. They had not found Forster, or any useful evidence against him. Kit's supposedly infallible source of information was as unreliable as all the others. So far, they were making no headway at all. Their carefully crafted plans for dealing quietly with the blackguard colonel might have to give way to more direct action, unless they could find an opening very soon. Forster's rumours were beginning to be repeated in the clubs; they had to be scotched. Perhaps tonight they would find the lever they needed? At least they knew that Forster could not fail to appear this time, since he himself had issued the challenge to the assembled hazard players. Everyone had agreed to return to the table to give Forster a chance to recoup his losses.
In the interval between the arias, Hugo rose and extended his hand to Emma. "My dear," he said politely, "I have to leave now, as you know. Will you walk with me to the door?"
Emma looked first at Hugo and then at his outstretched hand. She had no choice. She could not possibly refuse her husband's request in front of all these witnesses. He obviously knew it, too.
"Of course," she said, rising. "Excuse me for a few moments, Mrs Gray. I hope to return before the music restarts. It would be a pity to miss such splendid entertainment, do you not think?"
Emma's neighbour nodded her agreement. Hugo took her hand in his and led her out into the hallway where he bent and whispered in her ear, "Emma, you lie with such conviction, you should have been on the stage. You would have made a fortune."
"Thank you, sir," Emma said bitterly. She should have known he would wish to take her to task. He was the one in the wrong, but he would surely put the blame on her. "I take it there was something more you wished to say to me?"
Hugo straightened as if he had been stung. "Indeed there was," he said sharply. "It was this. Whatever may be wrong between us is a private matter. It is not to be spread around London as a result of your childish behaviour."
Emma gasped.
"Think, Emma. Think of the impression you are creating and the gossip you are giving rise to. You are supposed to be a new, and happy, bride, but you have spoken hardly a word to your husband all evening. You hold yourself aloof in the most obvious way. You smile—I grant you that—but a painted smile would be more natural than yours. You look, for all the world, like a martyr going to the stake."
"Have you quite finished?" Emma hissed. She was having difficulty controlling her temper. She would have loved to shout at him, to throw things.
"For the moment," Hugo said crisply, beckoning to the footman to bring his hat and cane. "We will discuss this in the morning, Emma, when we h
ave both cooled a little. And, in the meantime, I would strongly counsel you to have a care how you act. A lady's reputation, once lost, cannot be regained."
Emma bit back the words that rose to her lips. The servant was watching them with barely-concealed curiosity. She could not afford to insult Hugo in public, however much satisfaction it might give her.
Hugo bent over her gloved hand for a moment, before leaning forward and gently kissing her cheek. "Good night, my dear," he said, loudly enough for the servants to hear. "Forgive me for deserting you but, as you know, I have an engagement that cannot be broken. Do not wait up for me. I may be very late." He smiled at her. It was a crooked smile. And, as he smiled, the steely hardness melted from his eyes. He leant forward once more. "Sleep well, my dear wife," he whispered. Then he was gone.
Emma stood for several moments staring at the door. Her face was beginning to ache from the effort of maintaining that fixed smile. She allowed her muscles to relax. No one would think it surprising if she ceased to smile, having bade farewell to her husband.
She needed to be alone. She needed to think.
She strolled back along the hallway, bypassing the door to the music room in favour of a small, empty saloon with a bay window. She pushed her way behind the drawn curtains and looked out into the street, trying to catch a glimpse of Hugo's tall figure. Too late. He had gone to keep his engagement, whatever it was. He had left her here to mend her reputation as best she might.
She stroked the plush velvet with the back of one hand. How very soft and sensuous it felt, to be sure. It reminded her of the way Hugo had stroked her skin, with a touch so light and gentle that it was as if a butterfly had settled there.
She continued to stroke the pile in a long sweeping motion. It was almost hypnotic. She wanted to close her eyes and sink into strong, loving arms, Hugo's arms. It was no use trying to stoke her anger. It would serve only to make things worse between them. If she were to admit the truth, she wanted things to be as they were before that cursed knock on the door. She wanted—
Footsteps on the wooden floor interrupted her thoughts. She shrank back against the wall, hoping that her presence would not be noticed. How could she explain herself, if she were found hiding behind the curtains in an empty room? It would have the appearance of an assignation, and with Hugo now gone— It did not bear thinking about. She held her breath.
"Thank goodness for a little peace," said an elderly female voice. "What on earth persuaded Amelia Dunsmore to hire that man? He must be the worst tenor in London."
"She doesn't know the difference," drawled a younger voice. "Never did have the least ear for music, y'know. Thinks musical evenings will enhance her standing." She gave a very unladylike snort.
"I was surprised to see the Strattons here," said the older woman. "Were not you? She always was a pert little madam, I thought, but to walk in here on her husband's arm, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. I didn't think even she would have the gall to do that. Still, I suppose we should be grateful she didn't arrive with the brother in tow as well."
The younger woman laughed nastily. "Kit is to be sent abroad, by all accounts. Major Stratton apparently made that the price of clearing the young man's debts. And, of course, it will also ensure that Kit is kept well away from the new Mrs Stratton. He's no fool, the major."
"He may be no fool, but—" The voice was lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "The latest on dit is that he's nothing like the hero he purports to be. Had you not heard? When he was in the Peninsula, he was all but cashiered for insubordination and cowardice."
"No! Surely not? We would all have known, long before this."
"Apparently it was hushed up. Wellington himself did not want it known. He must have some distant link with the Stratton family, or something of the kind. It was all put down to a misunderstanding. The officers were transferred."
"Then Emma Fitzwilliam is well served," hissed the younger voice. "She deserves it, after queening it in society for so long, and tempting all the eligible young men away from young ladies of much better pedigree."
"You are probably right, my dear. And I am sure your daughter will receive several eligible offers this Season. She looks remarkably well, especially now that you are dressing her at Célestine's."
A male voice intervened. "Excuse me, ladies. Lady Dunsmore asked me to tell you that refreshments are about to be served. Will you come this way?"
Slippered footsteps retreated. There was the sound of a closing door.
Behind the curtain, Emma sagged against the wall, her clenched fist hard against her quivering lips.
It was not true.
She wanted to throw open the curtains and scream the words after those wicked women. It was not true. Hugo Stratton was no coward. He had almost died at Waterloo, while Forster—his accuser, without a doubt—had sat snugly in Horse Guards, resting on the patronage of his royal crony.
She would have to tell Hugo what she had heard. He had to know what was being said of him. But how could she? He was already furious with her for behaving like a spoilt child. And he was right. She had done exactly that. If only she had known.
She must make amends. She must help Hugo.
Pulling aside the curtain, she went back into the room and made for the door. There would be no more eavesdropping. She must do what she could to retrieve the situation, here and now. She could not defend Hugo's honour against his malign accusers, not yet at least, but she would show those harpies that she was happy—aye, and proud—to be Hugo Stratton's wife.
"I can't understand what possessed you to do such a thing, Hugo. We could have found another way, surely?"
"Keep your voice down, Kit. It's after four in the morning. Do you want to wake the whole household?"
Kit gave his brother an exasperated look, but allowed his voice to sink to a whisper. "If only you had told me what you meant to do. Why couldn't you let me challenge him? I am younger and fitter than you are, and a better shot, besides."
"And you have no real cause. He would have refused to fight you, you know. He's so much older than you are that it would have seemed perfectly proper. Against me, on the other hand, he had no such excuse. Some of those around the table were well aware of the vile rumours Forster has been spreading. He had no honourable way of avoiding my challenge. He would have been ruined, and branded a coward himself. That might have been justice, but he was not fool enough to do it. No, Kit, I had to be the one. I am the target of his lying tongue. And I am the one who has comrades to avenge."
Kit shook his head despairingly.
"You can procure another second today, I take it?" Hugo asked. "I could send to Richard, or one of my other friends, but it would only lead to delay. We must have this speedily resolved, before even worse rumours start. Emma has suffered enough. She would be totally humiliated if Forster's rumours were added to the gossip over our marriage. I could not let that happen, Kit. Let it be tomorrow morning, and early." He laughed wryly. "I would happily let Forster sweat, but I don't want him to have too much time for sword practice."
"Good God, Hugo, surely not swords? He would truly have you at a disadvantage then. When was the last time you used a sword?"
"I'm not as weak as you imagine, Kit, though I'll own I'm not in practice. If he chooses swords, I'll have to rely on remembering all my old skills and hoping my body will respond to the challenge. My sword arm is strong enough, I think." He paused to look assessingly at his brother's worried face. "But, on reflection, I fancy Forster will choose pistols. He's not man enough for cold steel. Too protracted. Too many chances that I might kill him. And he'd have to be prepared to look me in the eye, which isn't his style at all. With pistols, we keep our distance. And I have only one shot."
"You won't miss?"
"No. I won't miss. Langley and the others will be avenged."
"Good. Though a quick death is better than he deserves."
"You're too bloodthirsty, Kit. I shan't kill him. I would have—before�
��but not now."
Kit looked hard at his brother. "But—" he began. He stopped, frowning. "No. It is not for me to say. You will do as you think fit."
Hugo smiled. Kit was learning, at last.
Kit cleared his throat. "Forster will kill you, if he has the chance, Hugo, whether it's swords or pistols."
"I know that. And he's not above a trick or two, either, if he thinks it might help his cause. I look to you to watch my back. Believe me, I have every intention of coming off with a whole skin. I've wasted enough time playing the wounded soldier. I have better things to do, now."
Kit grinned knowingly but said nothing.
"I need to change. And wash away the smell of Forster." Hugo grimaced. "I will join you at your lodgings as soon as I can. You can give me an early breakfast, before you go to settle matters with Forster's seconds. And then you can give me a little practice, if Forster does decide for swords. We'd have to find a quiet spot, I suppose, since it's Sunday?"
"I think I can find somewhere suitable, brother, though I am sure it won't be needed. Leave everything to me." With a breezy wave, Kit left to roust out a fellow second.
Hugo sighed at the closing door. He had not planned for this at all, though Kit seemed to believe that he had. He had known at once, from the reactions of the players round the hazard table, that Forster's ready tongue had already begun to accuse him of unspeakable things. The gentlemen were clearly chary about being seen in the company of a man who had been branded a coward by his own commanding officer. When Hugo had reached for the dice, the gentleman on his left had pulled his hand away as if he had been burnt. Hugo had known, then, that he had no choice but to force a challenge on Forster, even if he died as a result. That was certainly possible. For all his show of confidence to Kit, Hugo knew that Forster was likely to choose swords. If he did, Hugo would be at a severe disadvantage. Unless he could bring the duel to a very speedy conclusion, he was bound to lose, for he was not strong enough to endure a lengthy contest.
Marrying the Major: Passion and peril in Regency London (Unsuitable Matches) Page 18
