by Regina Scott
“Ariadne?” she asked with a frown. “What is it?”
“Shush!” Ariadne begged. “Here they come. Oh, I never know what to say to gentlemen!”
“It’s only Lord Robert’s friends, silly,” Daphne said, taking a step closer as if to comfort her. “They’re very likely no better than he is.”
“Nonsense,” Ariadne said heatedly, raising her gaze long enough to glare at her sister. “Just because Lord Robert is horrid, it need not follow that he must have horrid friends. They might have been blinded by his charm, just like poor Lavinia Haversham.”
There was no more time for encouragement, for the gentlemen were upon them. Lord Robert took Emily’s free hand and clasped it in both of his.
“Forgive me for not rushing to your side,” he begged. “Duty, you know.”
Emily kept her look cool as she retrieved her hand. “Pray allow me to do mine, then. You remember my dear friends, Miss Tate, Miss Courdebas, and Miss Ariadne Courdebas.”
They all dipped curtseys, and Emily was only thankful that Ariadne did not wobble. She still looked as if she might faint as Lord Robert’s friends glanced her way.
“Ladies,” Lord Robert said with a nod. “How wonderful you could join us tonight. Viscount Quincy and Mr. Cunningham pride themselves on knowing every beautiful young lady in London.”
There he went calling them beautiful again. Truly, he used the word at the least provocation. Still, Ariadne swayed, and Daphne swallowed as if to keep herself from drooling.
“Charmed,” Lord Quincy drawled, making him sound anything but. Perhaps he deserved the title of Hades after all.
“Enchanted,” Mr. Cunningham said with a gamin grin. “And may I say you look lovely tonight, Miss Courdebas and Miss Courdebas. There is nothing like a lady gowned in purest white.”
“I told you so,” Daphne whispered with an elbow in Ariadne’s side.
That was all it took. Ariadne’s hands were shaking so much that the bump broke her hold on the glass. She stared in obvious horror as the goblet tumbled to the Oriental carpet, splashing rosy liquid all down the front of her gown.
“Or red, it seems,” Viscount Quincy drawled.
Ariadne’s face was scarlet. “Excuse me, please,” she managed to mutter before fleeing the room.
Emily did not wait to see what Lord Robert or his friends would do. She simply hurried after Ariadne, catching up with her in the corridor just outside the withdrawing room.
“Are you all right?” Emily asked.
Ariadne sniffed back a tear, the candlelight from the golden wall sconce making her face look blotchy already. “Oh, I shall survive.”
“At least you won’t have to wear that dress again,” Emily pointed out. “Knowing how you feel about white, I imagine that will be a relief.”
Ariadne giggled through her tears. “There is that. Oh, Emily, was there ever a bigger fool?”
Emily linked her arm with Ariadne’s and led her toward the footman, who pointed out the door to the ladies’ retiring room. “Nonsense,” she said, as they headed in that direction. “Anyone could spill. I’m certain there must be some remedy. What would Lord Snedley advise?”
“Something terribly useless, no doubt,” Ariadne said with another sniff. “However, I know what to do about this situation. You should go back. This evening is in your honor, after all. I’ll be along shortly. Just don’t let Priscilla latch onto all the Eligibles.”
Emily wanted to protest. She had no wish to return to that room, to be gaped at and talked about, to pretend that she was enjoying the prospect of marrying Lord Robert. But Ariadne’s round face was melting into pity, and Emily knew she should leave her friend some pride.
So she turned, squared her shoulders, told herself she could do this. She had to do this. Too much was at stake.
And then she saw him.
Jamie stood in the corridor for a moment before murmuring something to the footman, as if he preferred to enter the room unannounced. She wasn’t sure why. He certainly looked the part of a gentleman: black coat, black breaches buckled at his knees, a green-striped waistcoat, and a simply tied but absolutely spotless cravat. His hands were encased in white kid gloves, and his evening shoes were every bit as shiny as Lord Robert’s.
His gaze met hers, and the very air seemed to sparkle. He touched two fingers to his forehead. “Mr. James Cropper, reporting as requested, your ladyship.”
Warmth rushed through her. Here was an ally, a helper Lord Robert and his friends could not intimidate. Yet as she walked toward him, she noticed that his smile was not quite as bright as she remembered, as if he were unsure of his welcome, unsure of her. Questions were written in those gray eyes, in the tilt of his head, and she didn’t know how to answer.
Lady Skelcroft and Lady Baminger exited the withdrawing room just then and stopped when they saw Jamie standing there. Lady Baminger merely frowned, but Lady Skelcroft’s mouth opened and closed as she turned white. Then she hurried past Emily for the retiring room.
“What have you done to earn her wrath?” Emily could not help asking him.
Before Jamie could answer, Lord Robert strolled out of the withdrawing room, every bit as if he had been following the ladies. He too jerked to a stop at the sight of Jamie, his handsome face flushing red.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
Chapter 17
Jamie stared at Lord Robert, and Lord Robert stared at Jamie. This was what Emily had planned, but she felt as stretched and taut as one of her canvasses. She had expected heated conversation, direct confrontation. But now fire seemed to crackle between them. What if they came to blows? Lord Robert might lose his handsome face to Jamie’s knuckles, but she was more concerned for Jamie. Striking an aristocrat was a hanging offense for a commoner.
She placed herself squarely between them. “I invited Mr. Cropper, Lord Robert. It seemed as if the two of you had much to discuss.”
Lord Robert took Emily’s arm and linked it through his own. She could see a nerve jumping in his square jaw. She felt just as jumpy.
“Mr. Cropper,” Lord Robert said, spitting out the name as if he had eaten a bug, “and I have nothing to say to each other. He should have refused your invitation.”
“I dislike refusing a lady,” Jamie grit out with equal venom.
Beyond them, Emily saw Ariadne dash out of the ladies’ retiring room. Her face was flushed, the ribbon around her waist was askew, and the stain seemed to have spread as it soaked into the silk. Meeting Emily’s gaze, she started forward, only to jerk to a stop when she saw Mr. Cropper and Lord Robert.
“The lady is unaware of the implications,” Lord Robert was saying to Jamie. “You, however, are not. If you had any notion of good breeding, you would have refused.”
Had she truly put Jamie in such a difficult position? Obviously he knew how to get along in good Society. Why would good breeding demand that he stay away?
“You’d definitely be more familiar with good breeding than I am,” Jamie said. “You have all the trappings: fine house, fine clothes, paste jewels.”
Emily stiffened, but Lord Robert merely shook his head. “Listening to rumor, are you, Cropper?”
“Or investigating one.”
Investigating paste jewels? Surely Lord Robert had more sense than to steal paste.
Lord Robert leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “I’ll not have you questioning my guests. This is my home, and you cannot accuse me without a writ from the magistrate.”
Accuse him? Did Jamie have enough evidence for that? Despite herself, hope bloomed.
“Now why would I accuse you, my lord?” Jamie asked, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You being such an upstanding gentleman and all.”
Lord Robert’s mouth lifted in a caricature of a smile. “It is because I am a gentleman, Mr. Cropper, that I don’t have the footman throw you out on your ear. You are a guest in my home, and I know how to treat guests, just like my father.
Jamie blanched.
“Does this have anything to do with Lavinia Haversham?” she asked.
Lord Robert jerked away from her. “Enough! Do you see the damage you’ve done by insinuating yourself into my fiancée’s life, Cropper? If anything happens to her, I’ll blame you!”
“Emily?”
Relief fell like cool rain at the sound of His Grace’s voice. Here was someone who knew how to navigate difficult situations. That calm determination had settled disputes between squabbling monarchs and warring nations. She let go of her skirts and grabbed the arm of her father’s coat, pulling him into the corridor with them.
“Father,” she said with a smile. “May I present to you Mr. James Cropper, an acquaintance of Lord Robert’s and mine?”
For the barest of moments, he hesitated, staring at Jamie, and Emily found herself staring at her father, her arms falling to her sides. Why didn’t he move? He was never at a loss for words, never discomposed. Could His Grace know something about Jamie that she didn’t?
Then her father held out his hand with a smile. “Mr. Cropper, a pleasure to meet you, sir. Please give my regards to your mother and assure her that she is remembered kindly.”
Now Lord Robert was staring as well, sweat beading on his brow, but Jamie’s smile reappeared.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, shaking Emily’s father’s hand. “She speaks highly of you as well.”
Had Emily somehow drifted out to sea? She’d lost all landmarks, had no northern star to guide her. His Grace knew James Cropper’s mother?
How? Emily herself hadn’t even seen her father in months!
“Forgive me for interrupting your conversation,” His Grace continued smoothly, as if he did not notice her standing there with her mouth open, “but I believe Wakenoak is awaiting us in the library.”
The library. The settlement papers. Something as thick as oil paint squirmed in her stomach. She could not make herself move as her father offered her his arm.
He frowned. “Emily? Did you hear me?”
She did, to her everlasting regret. The dread in her stomach solidified into a rock. She wanted to turn away, stuff her fingers in her ears. She wanted to scrape Lord Robert off her life as she scraped away an unwanted blob of paint.
There had to be something she could do!
“Yes, Father,” she said, putting her arm on his. “I heard you.”
Her father smiled, then nodded farewell to Mr. Cropper. She could feel Jamie’s gaze on her as she passed. What would she see if she dared to look at him? Sympathy? Pity? Determination to bring her to his side instead?
She couldn’t look.
Lord Robert fell into step behind them as they made their way down the corridor, like the executioner carrying the axe to the block. Did he know she was ready to bolt?
She tightened her grip on her father’s arm, forced him to pause. “Must we do this, Father?” she whispered. “I . . . I’m not feeling at all the thing.”
He patted her hand, eyes warm and soft. “There, now. These are only bridal jitters. It is my duty not to let you fall prey to them and pass up so excellent a match.”
Her face felt like a mask, stiff and hot. “But the ball.”
“I assure you, Emily,” Lord Robert said, coming up beside them, gaze just as warm, “there will be other balls.”
No, there wouldn’t. Not like this one. Who but Priscilla and the Prince would have goldfish?
“There, you see?” His Grace said, squeezing her hand. “I have already spoken with the Tates and agreed to fund the affair for your friend. So, you have no reason for concern. I am persuaded that Lord Robert will make you the best of husbands. And I only want the best for you. You understand that, don’t you?”
Emily managed a nod. She knew His Grace had her best interests at heart. She simply had to find something to convince him her best interests lay elsewhere. But she was out of ideas.
As they started forward again, the weight in her stomach grew heavier, spreading through her legs down to her feet. By the time they reached the library just down the corridor, she felt more worn than if she’d walked ten miles. It seemed another ten miles to reach the desk before the fire, where Lord Wakenoak stood with a small man wearing spectacles.
“I’ve already signed,” Lord Robert’s brother announced as they gathered around him. “As the head of the family, I agree to the allowance being granted to my brother.”
Allowance. She supposed she should care how much income Lord Robert brought to the marriage. She’d never thought to ask. His Grace did not seem at all concerned as he stepped forward to sign.
“And there’s my agreement,” he said, handing the quill back to the other fellow, who was apparently a solicitor. “A fine dowry for my lovely daughter with plenty of pin money.”
As if she cared about pins. She’d prefer to spend the money on paints. Perhaps she could muddle along without the Royal Society’s acceptance. Maybe Miss Alexander, no Lady Brentfield, would help her when she returned from her honeymoon. If not, Emily might hire a tutor, someone with more experience. Perhaps she could find the time to study between managing a household and producing an heir.
Her stomach shoved the weight up against her chest. An heir. She could not imagine being intimate with Lord Robert. The rock squeezed against her lungs, making it impossible to gasp in a breath.
The solicitor dipped the pen in the crystal ink bottle and lifted the quill. Emily watched as the black drops fell from the sharp white point. The man held it out to her. Her fingers were too heavy to take it.
“And now you, Lady Emily,” he prompted as if she were a simpleton and could not guess why he offered her a pen. “Your signature indicates your willingness to give the estate you inherited from your mother to Lord Robert. As your husband, he will control all your worldly goods while he lives.”
He would control everything she was and everything she did. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want the pen, didn’t want to sign, didn’t want to give Lord Robert her mother’s estate or her heart. She wanted to shout at all of them to go away and leave her alone.
She managed to squeeze an ounce of air into her lungs. They had logic and family alignments on their side. All she had were feelings, frail, unreliable feelings, to offer in protest. Feelings would do her no good this day.
She reached out, gripped the shaft of the pen, bent, and signed her name. It was probably for the last time. Soon she would be a Townsend, not a Southwell.
Lord Robert took the pen from her with a smile that seemed far too big and bright for the dark room and finished his signature with a flourish.
“Well done,” his brother said. “This was Father’s dream, to unite our families. Let us share the good news with our guests.”
His Grace moved with him toward the door, leaving the solicitor to sand the documents and pack them away. Lord Robert took Emily’s arm.
“Feeling better now?” he asked as he led her toward the door.
Emily took a deep breath at last. “No, not really. I wasn’t ready for this, Robert.”
“Oh, you seem ready enough,” he said cheerfully as they started down the corridor once more. “You’ve been quite busy, following me around, listening to lies, spreading your own.”
Emily felt as if she’d stepped in mud. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your apology is a start. I expect better behavior from you from here on out. You will keep your mouth shut, around my friends and yours. You will not cavort with trash like James Cropper. That includes a tart like Priscilla Tate and nonentities like the Courdebas sisters.”
The weight was crawling up her throat, threatening to choke her. “Is this your idea of a joke?” she tried.
“The only joke is
your life before this,” he said, pausing in the doorway to the withdrawing room, where everyone stood with glasses of champagne in their hands. “As your husband, I expect you to do exactly as I say. It will go poorly for you if you don’t. And I will hear no more nonsense about you painting, either. I thought you would take the hint when I brought Lady St. Gregory to visit. Having a wife who fancies herself an artist is entirely too embarrassing.”
He strolled into the room, and Emily stumbled after him, the sounds of congratulations ringing in her ears.
“Wish us happy, everyone!” Lord Robert called. “Lady Emily and I will marry this Tuesday.”
Lady Emily would be dead by this Monday. She could not live with this pain, this bleak future. The room was darkening. Her senses coalesced into a burning pain in her throat. She’d just signed her life over to a monster.
“To the happy couple,” Mr. Cunningham called, raising his glass. “May their union be long and prosperous.”
Silk and velvet whispered as everyone’s arms were raised in toast.
Everyone’s but Jamie’s.
Her gaze met his across the room, narrowed until she could see nothing and no one else. Gone was his wicked smile. His remarkably fine gray eyes were dark, as if in accusation or pain.
He didn’t understand how she could have agreed to marry a dastard like Lord Robert. She didn’t understand either, especially when she realized she could never love Lord Robert.
She loved Jamie.
Jamie challenged her, but only when she was being less than her best. He protected her, even when she would have preferred to do so herself. He cherished her, consistently putting her needs before his own. He made it clear he valued her thoughts and opinions. He saw her for herself, good and bad.
And he liked her for who she was, even if she was the daughter of a duke.
She wanted to call out to him, fly to his side, take his hand and pull him from the room. As if he knew it, he set down his glass without taking a sip and started toward her.
