by Lisa Campell
She knew she was getting close to insolent with her father, and she took a deep breath. Her conversation earlier with Cook should have helped to put her mind at ease, but no matter how she tried Emma could not stop thinking about the last time she had seen Henry Blackmoor. They had been youths, she younger than him. They had argued, over what she did not quite recall, but the feeling of him being pompous and arrogant never left her. What if once they married he was still that way, or worse? What if he was a violent sort. She only knew that he spent most of his time in town, eschewing life in the country. What if he was a spend thrift, or frequented brothels. There was no end to the scenarios her mind played out that caused her worry for the future of her marriage. So, if she decided to pace the room as a means to work that out, she certainly did not think her father should take his leave to stop her.
“You absolutely need to be here darling,” her father said, moving over to pour himself a brandy. Emma supposed it was appropriate as it was three in the afternoon.
The drawing room door opened, and before Mrs. Farmer could make an announcement for their visitors, the Duke of Drysdale came striding in. He did not spare her a glance at all before going to her father.
“Elesmere, my good fellow, how are you?” he said. Whatever was said next was lost to Emma as she locked eyes with the man who came in behind the Duke.
The man standing in the doorway was in no way the Lord Henry Blackmoor of her memory. The lanky, thin, bespectacled boy of her youth had been replaced with a tall, broad-shouldered, stern looking man with a face that could make a lesser lady swoon. His blue eyes were the color of a deep lake on a warm summer’s day. They sat wide on strong cheekbones. He was not soft and pale like other gentlemen of his age, men who were no doubt used to a life of lazy leisure, but rather Lord Henry had the look of man who was used to work or exercise. His skin was tan yet not overly bronzed. His jet-black hair was a bit too long to be fashionable yet somehow made him look alluring and dangerous. Emma found it a bit harder to take a good breath in his presence.
“Lady Emma.” He walked toward her and gave a deep bow. “I trust the years have treated you well.”
“Hen.. My Lord,” she replied giving him a slight curtsy. “Yes, they have indeed.” It was best not to greet him too warmly.
Remember, she thought. He is still the same insufferable boy of our youth. She couldn’t let his dashing looks and demeanor fool her.
“Ahh look Elesmere, the two of them are already hitting it off,” Drysdale said. Emma could not help but notice that Henry glared at him.
“Yes, it appears they are,” her father replied, not even having the decency to appear sheepish for what he had done. Rather, with his old friend in the room, her father seemed pleased as punch with her predicament.
“So, I have acquired the special license as promised. The vicar in Dunberry has agreed to perform the service tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow,” both she and Henry said in unison. She looked at him and cocked an eyebrow hoping for some kind of expression or confirmation. Could it be possible that he was not thrilled by their fathers’ maneuvering either? But his face remained impassive.
“Of course, tomorrow,” Drysdale continued, directing his answer to Emma. “The Season starts in less than two weeks, and you will want time to adjust to your new household."
“No one said I was to move!” Emma protested.
“Emma, darling, you will be his lordship’s wife, and with the passing of Her Grace, you would be expected to be the family’s hostess. But not in Dunberry. In the larger town. London.” Her father shot her a warning glance.
Emma's eyes widened. London? That was away from her home. Too far away.
Do not be contrary, he said with his eyes.
“My apologies, Your Grace,” she said, coolly. “I am not yet used to the idea of being a wife or living in town.”
“No need for apologies, my dear” Drysdale said, moving toward Blackmoor and clapping his son on the back, Emma thought perhaps harder than necessary. “You will be an excellent hostess this Season. You shall be the belle of the ton. Isn’t that right, Henry?”
“Of course,” Henry agreed and gave his father a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “It is close to four o’clock, perhaps we should ring for tea?”
“Tea?” Emma looked at the men around her as if they all had three heads, saving her most curious glance for Lord Henry. She supposed she should think of him now that they were to be married.
“Yes, tea,” Henry choked out. “It is customary to eat around four, is it not?” How could he even be thinking of something as normal as tea when around them the world appeared to have gone mad? They would be married on the morrow. Less than twenty-four hours hence; it was insanity.
Henry held his hands stiffly at his sides and fought the urge to clench his fists. He had absolutely no control over the room, and when his father announced that they would be married the following day, he felt the earth shift below his feet in a way that he had not experienced since he was a boy of sixteen. It was madness. He spent all his available energy to keep his breath even, lest the spinning happen. He would do anything to avoid that.
“Yes, yes, tea,” Elesmere said and moved to the bell pull to call Mrs. Farmer. The woman appeared moments later already bringing in the teapot, saucers and a tray bearing a selection of cakes and treats. Henry was able to release the breath he had been holding. There was still some normalcy left in the world after all.
As his father and Earl Elesmere spoke of common friends and the goings on at their club in town, Henry focused his attention on Lady Emma. She poured the tea with deft expertise, but Henry did not care for that at all. Instead he was enraptured by the look of her. Her golden blonde hair had lost all the unruliness he remembered in her youth. It was done in a simple but classic style; the only betrayal was a single strand that repeatedly fell over her eye. Henry resisted the urge to tuck the errant curl back into place. He imagined it was as soft as the most delicate silk.
She looked at him now and while her lips were moving, but he could only focus on her eyes. They were a fiery amber. He had never seen such a color. Henry had known Lady Emma his whole life. How was it then in the last ten years of not seeing her, her eyes had become such a brilliant color? Had they always been so magnificent? How was it that her body had gone from gangly tom-boy to curved and soft in all the right places? He could not stop himself from staring at her, and he had an incredible urge to ask her to go somewhere with him, alone. Anywhere really, as long as it was as far away from their fathers as possible. He found he very much wanted to know more about Lady Emma.
Henry felt something twinge in his lower abdomen, just enough of a warmth to make him increasingly uncomfortable.
“My Lord, perhaps you did not hear me?” she asked, calling Henry's attention.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Emma.” He faked a cough into his hand to cover his inattention, or rather, his intense attention.
“One lump or two, My Lord?” She was holding a sugar cube in a small pair of silver tongs over a delicate porcelain teacup and looking at him expectantly.
“Um, yes, two would be quite perfect, thank you.”
She obliged by adding the two lumps and passed him the tea. Their fingers met for the briefest of moments and even through the fine silk of her kid-gloves Henry felt a shock of warmth radiate from her onto him. He pulled away quickly, the hot tea barely staying within its cup.
“Er… thank you, my lady,” he managed before turning away to stare at the painting above the hearth. Perhaps the cold English countryside would help to dull the obvious heat he was feeling.
Get it together, Henry. It will do no good lusting after your soon-to-be wife. It simply isn’t done, he thought with a silent groan.
“So, Drysdale, did you happen to bring the funds that we discussed?” Elesmere asked. He may have been talking the whole time as far as Henry realized, distracted as he was. He looked at Emma and swore he saw just the slightest flinch at h
er father’s mention of money.
“Worry not, Elesmere, I have my solicitor drawing up the drafts as we speak,” his father replied. “But nothing changes hands until these two young ones say their vows.”
“Really, father, we should not be discussing this in front of Lady—”
“No, they should not, My Lord,” Lady Emma interjected. “But since my future is to be sold at market for the price of a good brood mare, perhaps we shall allow an exception?”
“My dear,” her father replied. “I hope you do not think me crass. I was merely keeping our affairs in order. There seemed no better time. What with the wedding to take place, as his Grace stated, in the morning.”
“Of course, father, forgive me,” Emma said. “It seems I am feeling a bit off. Perhaps over tired from all of the day’s excitement. Will you gentlemen excuse me?”
“Yes, yes,” her father said, waving his hand dismissively. No doubt relieved that any challenge to their arrangement would not be made if Emma were in another room. She turned to stalked out of the parlor, without sparing the other two men a second glance. But, before she made it to the door, she turned and gave Henry the briefest of curtsies.
This time he did not mistake the look of cool anger in her gaze. He would have been a fool to miss it. It seemed he may have been right in his assumption that his blushing bride was no more eager for their arrangement that he was himself. He nodded in return, and she quickly disappeared beyond the parlor door, taking the remaining light out of the room with her.
He turned and looked at the two older gentlemen who had returned to their conversation as if Lady Emma had never been there. She was a mere commodity.
If Henry had not been in shock himself, he would have mustered the courage to at least feel sorry for her. As it stood, he found himself in the same trap of duty and obligation. Truly, his father had simply put him out to stud. He and Lady Emma were two sides of the same coin.
Now the only question that remained was how they would navigate their marriage of convenience when the convenience clearly did not belong to either of them?
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Lisa Campell is an American author specialising in Steamy Regency romance tales. She decided to realise her lifelong dream of becoming a writer at a relatively mature age, after an inciting event taught her that it’s better late than never. Transferring the intricate storylines of her boundless imagination to ink and paper has been her passion ever since.
Her historical fiction novels have been distinguished for their intriguing plots, their well-situated characters and the attention to detail level they display.
Lisa lives in Santa Clara, California, together with her dear husband. They are the parents of two children. Before devoting herself to Regency romance, Lisa split her time between being a mother and working as a travel clerk. She now finds her youthful spirit to be revitalised every time she brings one of her stories to life.
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