His sweet Emma would be a widow before she had really become a wife.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Emma lay on her side, staring out through the open curtains towards the garden. The sun was up long ago, but her husband had not returned. Surely she would have heard something if he had? She had deliberately left open the door to their sitting-room, in hopes that he would see and come to her. There were so many things she needed to say to him—that she believed in him, that she loved him, that she was sorry for her appalling behaviour.
She had lain awake, waiting, but he had not come.
The sound of distant bells reminded her that it was Sunday. She rose and went to the window. It was a beautiful day. And they must go to church. Would Hugo return in time to accompany them? He had said he would speak to her this morning when his temper had cooled. And hers, too. He had known perfectly well that she was furious with him. Had he known why? Possibly not. In any case, her reasons were petty and insignificant now, in the light of Forster's nefarious accusations. She shuddered at the thought of what the man might yet do, for he was clearly out to ruin Hugo.
Emma told herself sternly to stop thinking about Forster. Spinning ever more fantastic possibilities would only serve to heighten her own fears. She must concentrate on what she could do. She could outface the gossips, as she had done at Lady Dunsmore's last night, and she could show Hugo that she believed in him and would do her utmost to help him. If he would let her.
Oh, if only he would come home.
Tightening the belt of her heavy wrapper, she crossed into the little sitting-room and put her ear to the door of Hugo's bedchamber. No sound at all. If he was there, he must be asleep.
She put her hand on the doorknob. The polished brass was cool and slippery to the touch. It needed a firm grip but her palm was damp. She rubbed it vigorously on the side of her wrapper, grasped the handle firmly, and opened the door.
The room was empty.
All the curtains were open. The bed had not been slept in. Emma wandered slowly into the room, touching first the table by the bed, then the hangings, then the bedpost. If only he would come home to her.
She sank on to the bed, listlessly surveying the rest of the room. Hugo's valet was clearly not up to his work, for he had left some of his master's clothes draped over the back of a chair in thoroughly haphazard fashion.
Evening clothes.
Emma flew across the chamber. She had to be sure.
There was no room for doubt. These were the clothes Hugo had been wearing at Lady Dunsmore's last evening. He must have returned at some time during the night, changed his dress without even calling for his valet, and left again. Without a word to his wife.
She ran her fingers over his crumpled cravat. Where was he? What was going on? An involuntary shiver shook her frame. It was Forster. The business that Hugo and Kit had to attend to so urgently—it was Forster.
And it was very, very dangerous.
Hugo had now spent at least half an hour pacing up and down in Kit's rooms. What the devil was keeping them? It was only a simple matter of agreeing the hour and the place. And the weapons. There was no point in wasting their breath over attempts at conciliation. That was impossible.
Hugo had hoped to be in time to escort Emma to church. He knew she would need his support.
Emma. His wife, who might soon become a widow, especially if Forster chose swords, as he was surely bound to do. Hugo must write a letter to leave behind for Emma. And now was as good a time as any. She was amply provided for—his will had been made at the time of their marriage—but he could not desert her with no word of explanation. That would be unspeakably cruel.
He sat down at Kit's untidy writing table, eventually finding the materials he needed. What could he say? The ink dried on his pen as he gazed at the blank wall. How could he tell his wife of less than a week that she was become a widow because of something that had happened all those years ago, because of men who were long dead and buried? Was he to tell her that he loved her, but that love alone was not enough to prevent the duel? No. He could never tell her that, though it pained him deeply to know that she was bound to think it. Would she ever believe that he had cared for her at all?
There was no way out of that impasse. He must simply stick to the bare facts.
Swiftly, he wrote an account of what Forster had done. And might yet do. God willing, she would understand that he had had no choice.
"I go to avenge their honour, and my own," he wrote, concluding his recital of Forster's iniquities. "I ask you to forgive me for my failure to return to you. To do so was my greatest wish. Your loving husband, Hugo."
Kit came in as Hugo was putting the sealed letter safely in an inner pocket. It was as well that he knew nothing of it, Hugo thought. With the confidence of youth, Kit was certain his elder brother could not lose. Hugo—older, and much more experienced in the ways of men—was not so sure.
Hugo rose, grateful to find that his heartbeat was as steady as ever. His fears were for Emma, not for himself, but for her those fears were very real. If he should die, his widow would be at the mercy of Forster and his cronies, who would do their best to ruin her, too. That thought terrified him. It must not be allowed to happen.
In two strides he was at Kit's side and had laid a hand on his shoulder. "Kit," he said urgently, "if I should fall, you must protect Emma from Forster. You must give me your word on it, Kit."
Kit grinned. "You have it, Hugo, but there is no need. It is pistols."
Hugo's jaw clenched. Surely not?
"Why do you look so surprised?" said Kit. "You yourself predicted it. The man has not the stomach for a long drawn out fight. Indeed, I am not convinced he has the stomach for any fight at all. We did not see the man himself, of course, but his seconds seemed decidedly uncomfortable about something."
"That is of no moment. Come. Tell me what you have agreed. Is it for tomorrow?"
"Yes. At five o'clock," Kit said, and then proceeded to detail the rest of the arrangements. "Now it only remains for me to ensure we have a surgeon on hand. I shall do that this morning."
"Good," said Hugo curtly. "Now, I must go. I am already late. You will have the carriage at Mrs Warenne's in good time tomorrow?"
Kit nodded. "You may rely on me."
"I know that," Hugo said sincerely. He gripped his brother's hand fiercely for a moment. "And I thank you."
It took too long to find a hackney and too long for it to thread its way through the traffic. All the inhabitants of London seemed to be out upon the streets on this Sunday morning.
He was too late. Emma and her aunt were long gone.
Hugo made his way impatiently to the church, but the service was well under way. He could not interrupt by arriving so late. That would cause even more scandal, more trouble for Emma. He would wait until she came out and then join her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
He paced up and down St George Street for what seemed like hours. Why was it that, on this day of all days, the service had to go on so long? The sermonising should have been over hours ago. He paused to gaze at the grand doorway of St George's, willing the service to end. His gloved hand gripped the railing ever more tightly, as if he were trying to snap it to relieve his frustrations. They had so little time left. They needed to be together.
The congregation began to emerge at last, most of them stopping for a few words with the vicar. Where was Emma? He scanned the crowd for her petite blonde figure. Perhaps she was not here at all? Perhaps her abigail had mistaken the church?
This would not do. He marched across the street and up the steps, forcing his way through the chattering worshippers. Emma and her aunt were emerging from the gloom, hidden behind two elderly ladies who were so large that they almost overflowed the aisle.
Emma's face lit up when she spied him. She was not yet close enough to speak, but she smiled, a wonderfully tender smile such as she had never before granted him. She was surely telling him he was fo
rgiven. And more, too, perhaps?
Hugo held out his hand and waited for her to come to him. She did so without a word, smiling as he tucked her hand under his arm and possessively placed his gloved fingers over hers. He gazed down at her glowing face. There was nothing to say. It was enough to have her touching him, looking up at him with that soft gleam in her azure eyes.
"You are late, Major."
Confound it. The impossible aunt. For a moment, it had seemed as if he and Emma stood alone on the step. But that was an illusion. Reality had intruded, like a blow, in the shape of Mrs Warenne.
"Good morning, ma'am," Hugo said, bowing quickly so that she would not offer her hand. He had no intention of letting go of his wife for even a second. "I am afraid I was unavoidably detained. Pray accept my apologies."
Mrs Warenne nodded an acknowledgement and launched into a description, in excruciating detail, of the glories of the service he had missed.
Hugo closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath in an attempt to control his urge to strangle the woman. He wanted…he needed to be alone with his wife, but her aunt seemed determined to prevent it. Now she had finished talking about the sermon and was laying out plans for the rest of their day. Had she no understanding at all?
It seemed not.
"Ah, here is the carriage at last," she said. "Where was I? Ah, yes. I had thought that, since we have no engagements this evening, we might dine quite informally and have a little music afterwards. Emma may sing for us. She has such a beautiful voice. Do you know, Major, that until she came to me at sixteen, she had had hardly any training at all? Most remiss of my brother. And I told him so, in no uncertain terms. However, I soon put matters to rights. It was only a question of finding the best London masters and, naturally, I knew exactly how to do that."
Hugo felt a gentle pressure on his arm. He looked down at his wife. She was smiling politely now, her company smile, as she listened to her incorrigible aunt, but the expression in her eyes was eloquent. He could read rueful laughter and resignation, and something deeper, something almost hidden. Was it longing?
If only the blasted woman would vanish off the face of the earth. He needed to be alone with his wife. And she with him. He could read that in her eyes. It was almost as if Emma knew how little time they had left.
"At last," said Aunt Augusta, sinking into a crimson damask chair. "What an incredibly boring day we have had, to be sure. With no engagements, it is difficult to know how to pass the time, especially on a Sunday. Do you not agree, Emma?"
Emma acquiesced politely. What else could she do? Hugo had spent the whole day at her side but they had barely had a moment alone. Aunt Augusta had hovered around them like a persistent wasp which could not, unfortunately, be swatted.
"Will you play, Emma? I am sure the major will not linger over his port when there is no male company."
Emma fancied that Hugo might enjoy the blessed silence of a few moments alone with a glass of wine, but she was proved wrong. The door opened to admit him before she had played more than a few bars. She smiled at him, willing him to come to her. He could pretend to be turning her music, surely?
"Ah, there you are at last, Major," said Aunt Augusta acidly. "Do come and sit here by me, so that we can both appreciate Emma's talent."
Emma's fingers fumbled the notes.
"Good gracious, Emma, what is the matter with you? I have been telling your husband what a fine player you are, too. Perhaps you would like to start again."
It was a statement, not a question. Emma was sure she must be as red as her aunt's chair. To cover her embarrassment, she busied herself with choosing a different piece, something loud enough to cover even the worst of her aunt's carrying voice.
She began to play, without bestowing so much as a glance on either of them. She did not dare. She forced herself to concentrate on the difficult phrasing of the sonata and when she reached the fortissimo passage, she fairly pounded the keys in her frustration. If only they were at Lake Manor, or at Harding, or anywhere else but here.
The gentle slow movement calmed her. She could hear Hugo's deep voice talking quietly to her aunt. What could he be saying?
The final lively movement was soon over. Hugo rose from his seat, applauding, and came across to the instrument, closely followed by Aunt Augusta. "I have prevailed upon your aunt to play for us, Emma," he said, smiling at her in the strangest way. "I should like to try—here, in the privacy of Mrs Warenne's drawing-room—whether I can learn to waltz again. Will you honour me, my dear?" He held out his hand.
Emma sat, frozen, staring up at him in disbelief.
"Come along, my dear," said Aunt Augusta sharply. "If you do not give up your place, I shall dance with the major myself, you know."
Hugo bent down and took Emma's hand from her lap, gently raising her from the stool. "You do not object?" he said very softly.
Emma closed her eyes and shook her head.
"Good," he whispered and pulled her into his arms. He turned towards the instrument. "When you are ready, ma'am?"
Aunt Augusta began to play a waltz, marking the time rather too strongly. Emma wanted to focus on helping Hugo, but her feet seemed to be weighted with lead. His hand was burning its way through the back of her gown, and that familiar heat was starting to uncoil in her belly.
Hugo bent his head so that his lips were close to her ear. "I know I am much in need of practice, my sweet wife, but I begin to think that you are no better." Emma could hear the thread of laughter in his voice. "Shall I dance with your aunt instead?"
His light-hearted mockery almost made her laugh. She steadied herself. She must try to ignore his touch. She must mind her steps.
She tried to concentrate on his cravat. That seemed to work better than looking up into his face. Hugo's grey eyes, full of teasing mischief, were like to be her undoing.
He had begun a little stiffly, but now he was starting to move with much greater ease, guiding her deftly into turns and reverses. He had obviously been a very good dancer, before. Hadn't Wellington insisted on that, for all his young officers? With a little more practice, Hugo would be the equal of any of her cavaliers.
When the music ended, Hugo let her go, bowing formally. Emma automatically sank into a curtsey.
Before Aunt Augusta could say a word, Hugo smiled generously at her and said, "That was splendid, ma'am. You play quite delightfully. But one waltz has simply proved how much I am in need of practice, as you, with your unerring eye, will certainly have seen. I should disgrace you by daring to step on to a dance floor as I am. Might I prevail upon you to play one more waltz?" Aunt Augusta was so flustered by his compliments that she nodded without speaking. Emma was astonished.
Hugo held out his hand to Emma once more. His face wore a look of studied innocence. His eyes were laughing.
They had barely begun this second waltz when he whispered, "After this, I think we should retire to our suite, do not you?"
Emma stumbled, but his strong arm steadied her.
He grinned wickedly at her. "I am minded to continue our practice upstairs. Alone."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"Will you honour me, madame?" Hugo held out his hand.
Emma stared at his fingers in amazement. She could not move another inch. It had taken all her courage to accept his invitation to accompany him upstairs at such an early hour. Hugo had delivered his proposal with every appearance of innocence, but Aunt Augusta had not been deceived. Emma could still see the look of distaste on her aunt's face, as if she had been confronted by a bad smell.
Hugo closed the space between them, took Emma's right hand in his left, and pulled her towards him.
Emma felt suddenly very shy. "Wh–what are you doing?" she stammered.
"Exactly what I said I should do. Practising the waltz," he said, with maddening simplicity.
Emma gasped, but it was too late. Her husband had started to dance her round their little sitting room, steering expertly between the chairs and tab
les and humming a waltz all the while. It was absurd. It was childish. It was heaven. She had been longing to be held in his arms and to be alone with him. Now, at last, it was happening. A bubble of laughter rose in her throat, demanding to be liberated. This was what she had ached for since the moment he had stretched out his hand to her on the step of the church. She let her laughter peal out, joyous as Easter bells.
Hugo stopped humming long enough to say, "I hope you are not making mock of my singing, wife. I know I am not your equal, not by any means, but I believe I can hold a tune." He did not wait for a response. Waltzing required music. He resumed his humming.
He really had a very fine voice, Emma decided, a baritone as rich and as warm as thick, dark chocolate. Without quite knowing when she had begun, she found herself humming in harmony with him, blending her voice with his. To Emma, it sounded as if they had been made to sing duets together.
When Hugo put his lips on the topmost curve of her ear, Emma's humming stopped abruptly; she gasped in response to his warm breath on her face. The feeling was amazingly seductive, even though he was barely touching her. It felt as if his humming was vibrating every inch of her skin. A shiver ran down her spine. The tiny hairs on her arms prickled in response to his nearness. Hugo seemed to sense the change in her, for he pulled her even closer, holding her so that their bodies touched from breast to thigh. She could feel the hardness of him against her belly and his chest crushing her breasts into her ribs. Her heart was beating very fast, knocking so strongly that he must surely be able to hear it. Could he not see what he was doing to her?
Hugo continued to waltz, supporting Emma with his strength, pulling her ever closer. And he continued to hum until her whole body was quivering like the strings of a harp, plucked by a master's hand.
Marrying the Major: Passion and peril in Regency London (Unsuitable Matches) Page 19
