What a Lady Requires

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  “Of all the…” exclaimed a new voice. “It cannot be. A relative of mine hiding in the corner.”

  Emma turned her head to find Lady Epperley peering at Cecelia through her lorgnette. Like the other attendees, the dowager wore a mask. Unlike the others, her mask was a relic of the previous century, a bejeweled contraption sporting orange ostrich plumes. The woman could not pass incognito if she wished. Henrietta Sanford stood at her elbow, not so much a prop for age as a contrast in staid colors.

  Cecelia bowed. “Do you know Emma Battencliffe?”

  Lady Epperley snapped her attention to Emma. “No, but I should like to.”

  Emma paused midcurtsey. “My lady?”

  “Albemarle tells me you know a thing or two about finances, and I am quite interested in hearing what you have to say.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Emma could hardly believe a lady of her position was initiating such a crass topic as money in so direct a manner. “Albemarle?”

  “Oh, yes. Albemarle would have attended if it hadn’t been for this silly masquerade business.”

  “Oh, did he refuse to don a mask?” Henrietta asked.

  “Of course not. He’s a cat. Cats do not need masks.”

  Cecelia quashed a smile. “Naturally.”

  “Well…erm…” Emma cleared her throat. “Finances.”

  “Yes. I’d like to know where a young lady learns of such things.”

  Ah, so Lady Epperley was going to take her to task for her knowledge. “My papa taught me all he could.”

  “And he thought that was an appropriate education for a young lady?”

  Henrietta was nodding emphatically, and Emma took courage from the support. “Yes, my lady. I also like to pay close attention to the kinds of things gentlemen discuss in the card room.”

  “And what sort of things are those?”

  “Railways, for instance.”

  “I see.” Lady Epperley pursed her lips, but Emma couldn’t quite tell if the expression was censorious or approving. “And what do you think about that particular project?”

  “It has potential, depending on various factors. I’ve yet to research it fully, so I cannot recommend it at this point. Others will give you a different opinion. Lord Anstruther, for example, thinks it would be a waste of resources since a canal system already exists.”

  “Anstruther,” Lady Epperley muttered. “He always was a pompous stick in the mud.”

  Cecelia stifled a laugh.

  “A handy thing for you that you got out of marrying that man,” Lady Epperley proclaimed. “Can you imagine? I would have been obliged to receive him as one of the family.” She gave a small cough. “At any rate, I can see what Lady Pettifer was saying when she told me about you.”

  At the name, Emma stiffened. “Lady Pettifer told you about me?”

  “She mentioned how quite astute you are.”

  Heavens, that assessment didn’t at all match the reception Emma had received earlier. The floor seemed to shift under her feet, but the sensation was nothing like dancing with her husband. “How long ago did she say this?”

  “It was rather a while ago.”

  “And…She recommended me as someone to go to for advice?” None of this made any sense.

  “Well, not exactly. She may have mentioned your abilities as something unbefitting a lady, but perhaps it was more common among your social class.”

  “Ah, so she was gossiping about me, then.”

  “I make it a habit never to pay any attention to idle gossip.”

  At this proclamation both Henrietta and Cecelia let out astonished puffs of breath, but Lady Epperley waved a hand. “When you decide whether or not this railway is a worthy investment, I should like to know about it. Albemarle’s tastes have been running toward the extravagant lately.”

  Corners of their mouths quivering, Cecelia and Henrietta both looked pointedly anywhere but at Lady Epperley. The dowager followed the direction of their gazes across the ballroom. “This gathering could use a little livening up,” she proclaimed. “I propose a game of I Spy. Ah, I spy with my little eye my great-grandnephew and I’m certain he’d like a dance with his wife.”

  Henrietta’s cheeks went a shade pinker, and she placed a hand over her belly. “I’m sure that’s the last thing he wants. He’ll claim I’m in too delicate a condition.”

  “Utter poppycock. One is never in too delicate a condition, no matter what men think. Come, Cecelia.” She curled her talons about her niece’s upper arm. “You can help me convince him.”

  Emma watched them head off. Part of her wanted to trail after them if only to see what other outrageous pronouncements Lady Epperley would make. Not only that, she could use the distraction. The reminder of the entire Hendricks situation sent her mind into utter turmoil.

  Budding friendship or no, though, she wasn’t completely certain she’d been invited to come along. Perhaps it was time she joined her husband again, at any rate. She scanned the blur of the crowd. If only she could locate him without her spectacles.

  “The Epperley title was rather exalted once upon a time,” said an unfortunately familiar voice. “Families are such an unfortunate thing sometimes. A pity one cannot choose one’s relatives.”

  Emma cut a glance to the left. Blast. There stood Emily Marshall with several of her cronies, giggling behind their fans in an overly loud manner that suggested the barb was meant to be overheard. Emma should not react. Miss Marshall could have made any number of more direct remarks, but for some reason, this one burrowed in deeper than a more personal comment. The little hypocrite. And hadn’t Aunt Augusta insinuated the Marshall family had known its share of scandal?

  And connected with Henrietta Sanford, no less.

  Emma turned to face her nemesis. “From what I hear, even you bear that burden.”

  Through the slits of her mask, Miss Marshall’s eyes glittered dangerously. “I didn’t realize I was addressing you, but we can discuss your family if you like. Who are you connected with again? Oh, yes, they’re all in Cheapside.”

  Emma had heard this before. Any reply she made would be futile.

  “Or perhaps we should talk about your husband,” Miss Marshall went on. “The two of you looked quite happy dancing together earlier. I trust you’re getting your money’s worth there.”

  One of Miss Marshall’s friends ducked her head and let out an awful titter of a laugh. The rest of them watched with identical expressions of smugness. They might well think their masks protected their identities, but her husband had been right on that score. Emma could work out who each of them were—they’d all paid awkward social calls on her recently.

  “My money’s worth,” Emma repeated in spite of herself. She could work out well enough what Miss Marshall wished to insinuate.

  “Why, yes. Your father paid good money to ensure one of the handsomest men in England graces your bed on a regular basis. My papa goes through a similar process with his horse-breeding. A stud fee, I believe he calls it.”

  Heat crept up Emma’s cheeks, yet her feet were frozen to the spot. She almost felt as if she’d stepped outside herself, as though another young lady altogether was bearing the brunt of Miss Marshall’s attack. She’s trying to upset me. As long as I do not give her what she wants, she’ll remain unsatisfied.

  “A pity about his brains. But then, if he forgets your name from time to time, you can excuse that. I wonder, though, does he ever call you Lydia?”

  “Why ever would he call me that?” At least, here, she stood on firmer ground. Miss Marshall had miscalculated when it came to dredging up old gossip, for now Emma knew the truth. If anything, Battencliffe’s confession had drawn them closer together.

  Miss Marshall shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I suspect he can be as addlepated as that brother of his.”

  “He isn’t,” Emma grated, “not any more than his brother.” She clenched her teeth on a more verbose defense. When it came to business, Battencliffe completely lost his head—that much
was true. But he possessed more intelligence about social interaction than she ever would. And that was the kind of brain she needed at the moment.

  “Or perhaps he gets foxed every night before he visits your bedchamber. That way he can pretend he’s married an actual lady. If he drinks enough, all the better to endure the stench of trade coming off you.”

  Emma’s cheeks were burning under the strain of her forced smile, but she would not allow it to waver—not one single iota. “If you’ll excuse me, I do believe I’ve had all I can stomach of this conversation.”

  Miss Conklin would be proud. Emma had managed her politest tone, managed to mask the emotion seething inside her. Before Miss Marshall could launch another salvo, Emma marched toward the entrance to the ballroom. She needed to find a quiet spot to work off her temper.

  —

  Rowan’s current dance partner was staring at him like a starving person eyeing a feast. In another moment, she’d be salivating. Good Lord, this set could not end soon enough. He loosened his hold and scanned the crowd for Emma. The way the ladies were buzzing about him like flies, it was high time for act two of their little production.

  “I do hope your marriage means we’ll see you in society rather more often.” If her assessing glances weren’t sufficient, her husky tone painted a clear picture of her thoughts—she wanted to see more of him personally, and in a greater state of undress.

  He ought to welcome the advance, for his partner could carry back to the others the tale of how he resisted her. How he was too caught up with his wife to consider a dalliance. But this whole aspect of the charade lay uneasily in his stomach, like bad wine. It cut too close to his past.

  “That all depends on which invitations we receive, I suppose.” Blast it, where was Emma? Ah, there she was, still in the corner with the chaperones. At least she seemed to have surrounded herself with a few other females. They looked to be happily chattering away.

  Soon. The moment this set was over, he’d join her. He might even suggest they make an early exit from the masquerade. They could bloody well finish what they’d started in the carriage.

  Since before their arrival she’d ignited a fire in him, a slow-smoldering ache in his groin, but only Emma might ease the discomfort. Ease it through the pleasure of her tight little body closing about his cock.

  Soon.

  At last, the music came to an end. Rowan bowed to his partner, but already his mind had preceded him to Emma’s corner. Excusing himself to various and sundry, he made his way over, only to find four or five young ladies giggling over something or other.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I thought I saw my wife over here with you, just now.”

  One of them, a pale blonde dressed to the height of fashion, turned. A smile played about her lips. “Oh, were you looking for Mrs. Battencliffe?”

  “Yes, do you know where she took herself off to?”

  “Not exactly, no. She said something about finding the library or some such.” The girl’s smile broadened. “Claimed she was meeting someone.”

  Oh, she was angling for scandal, but he could snuff that idea out in a trice. “What makes you think it isn’t me?”

  He didn’t give her a chance to reply but set off toward the library and his wayward wife, the blonde’s insinuations gnawing at him. Damn it. He should know better than to pay attention to someone like that, but he couldn’t help it. An insidious voice in the back of his mind kept whispering Lydia’s name.

  After her marriage, he’d thought of her as a friend until that night she’d melted in his arms—melted both with tears and later her passionate response, one he hadn’t resisted sufficiently. His vague memories retained the recollection of that much.

  And now Emma. Was she really no better than the rest of the ton’s ladies? Had she integrated society’s lessons that a married woman could do as she pleased, as long as she was discreet?

  The devil take it, they’d been married less than a month. They ought to be swiving each other senseless, not looking elsewhere. And here he’d hoped a woman of the merchant class would operate under a different set of expectations.

  He lengthened his stride. “We’ll just see about that.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The small sitting room lay at the end of a long corridor linked with portraits of Posselthwaite forebears, far enough from the ballroom to mute the music. Darkness and the chill of an unlit hearth surrounded Emma. She’d paced a hundred times from the door to a single window overlooking the back garden, up and back, yet she still couldn’t walk off her upset.

  Emily Marshall was a complete and utter cow. Emma had long known it, but tonight’s attack went beyond her usual meanness.

  She wants you out. Emma had realized as much after Miss Marshall’s call at the townhouse.

  Yes, and that coup de grâce had failed, hadn’t it? By all appearances, Emma and Battencliffe’s marriage looked more solid than anyone might expect of a relationship based on money, and that in spite of Battencliffe’s past. So Miss Marshall had turned to another means of attack, this one far more personal and far more humiliating.

  Emma should have armored herself against such viciousness long since, but Miss Marshall had never resorted to a full frontal assault before. She far preferred the stealth tactics of talking about those she deemed beneath her—seemingly behind their backs, yet directly so, and in the loudest possible stage whisper.

  “You can’t let her rattle you,” Emma reminded herself for the hundredth time.

  The moment Miss Marshall sensed a weakness in Emma’s composure, she’d concentrate her efforts there. And Emma feared she had shown a weakness when she disputed the remark about Battencliffe’s intelligence.

  All the while, in the background, her mind whirled with worry over the entire Hendricks situation. The encounter with Lady Epperley had only muddied those waters. Was Lady Pettifer connected to a man named Hendricks or not? Had her butler lied to get rid of an inconvenient caller?

  But no, that made little sense, when Hendricks’s last communication had carried a vague threat. If Lady Pettifer was directly involved, wouldn’t she have seen Emma? Would she not have demanded explanations? None of which indicated Hendricks’s actual identity by any means.

  She whirled and crossed the floor again. Soon she’d need to go back to the ball and don a smile as false as her mask. Soon, but not yet.

  She pivoted, prepared to march back.

  The door burst open.

  “Oh.” Her heart jumped a foot; the rest of her may have, as well. The content of Hendricks’s last letter to her floated through her mind: You owe me. She’d thrown the note in the fireplace, but she couldn’t erase it from her memory.

  The light from the passage outlined no more than a silhouette—a rather imposing male form.

  “Who is there?”

  “Perhaps not the person you were expecting.” She recognized that growl, at least. Battencliffe. She would have let out her breath but for the strange tension that radiated from him. She could sense it from across the room.

  He advanced, closing the door behind him. Even when she could no longer see him, she could feel him coming on.

  “Do you have nothing to say for yourself?”

  Somehow she found her voice. “I was expecting no one in particular.”

  “Odd.” The sound came from somewhere behind her. He was circling her as though she were prey. “When a woman finds her way to an unused chamber like this, it’s usually for one reason. A tryst.”

  She would have turned to face him if she knew where he was. “And yet here I am now with no intention of encountering anybody. I simply needed to escape for a few moments.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone upset me.”

  “Who?”

  “It does not matter.” She saw no need to repeat Miss Marshall’s spiteful comments, and she did not wish to provoke him by bringing up Hendricks. Not while he was in this strange mood.

  “It does when it’s been longer th
an a few moments. I’ve searched many of the rooms on this story.” His voice maintained an edge.

  Could he actually have believed her capable of arranging a tryst so soon after their wedding? Or, for that matter, ever? “Do you think so little of me that I could play you false?”

  “What of your aunt’s warnings to survey your correspondence?”

  She inhaled through her nose. As much as she’d like to take him to task on that score, she couldn’t with complete honesty. “Aunt Augusta is an interfering old biddy who is only content when I behave to her standards. I think we must both agree it’s best for you if I behave to my standards.”

  He loomed closer. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

  “If you mean to profit from our marriage, you’re better off allowing me to conduct business as I see fit, which means you will have to trust that I am not carrying on in any manner that would break my marriage vows.”

  “I do not wish you to forget who your husband is.” Out of the dark, a pair of hands grasped her by the shoulders and hauled her up against the solid wall of his chest. “Ever.”

  Without warning his lips crashed onto hers, an insistent press that stole her breath. She should not melt, should not admit his questing tongue, and yet she stood helpless against the sudden onslaught. By the time he pulled away, she was gasping.

  “I do not think I shall forget any time soon.”

  “Good. However, I intend to repeat the exercise as often as required.” He touched his mouth to hers once more, softer but no less arousing. The blood seemed to zip through her veins. “And I require repetition.” Another kiss, longer, more languid. Far more seductive. “At school, I was deemed a slow learner.”

  He took her mouth once more, gently, artfully, in a display of finesse that first kiss lacked.

  “I believe you’ve learned that lesson quite well,” she said when he broke away.