Bertrand’s footsteps pounded over the creaking wooden floor, the noise not eased by the threadbare, faded rug on the floor, and Emma remained silent. Confirming his suspicions would not be helpful.
“You spent time with her and her husband too,” she reminded him.
“And yet, they preferred you,” Bertrand said. “Everyone always prefers you.”
“Perhaps because I do not intend to mislead them.”
“How do you think you stay in nice dresses? What would you rather do? Toil as a maid?”
“It would be honest.”
“An overrated sentiment,” Bertrand said. “Besides, you wouldn’t dare.”
Emma’s heart thudded, and she looked away.
Smugness shot over Bertrand’s face, with a speed only explained by the frequency that he put it there.
Bertrand was her brother. He was her protector.
And there wasn’t anyone who could replace him.
“Do you think your friends will help?” Bertrand didn’t expect an answer, and she didn’t bother responding.
They both knew the answer was no.
She couldn’t tell anyone about her brother’s lies. Not without risking his safety, and she wasn’t going to do that.
Bertrand was the only person she had left; the only person who’d ever truly cared about her. When her aunt and uncle had died suddenly while Bertrand and Emma were in Vienna, and her relatives’ inn had needed to be sold to debt collectors, Bertrand had managed to find a way for them to go to England. Emma wouldn’t have known what to do.
He cleared his throat. “It won’t be dreadful. You needn’t look miserable. You have a pretty face, but that doesn’t mean you should test to see if you can make it look unpleasant.”
Emma raised a hand self-consciously to her face.
“Mrs. Carberry will see to it that you have some new dresses,” Bertrand said.
“At such short notice?”
“Mr. Carberry is in trade.” Bertrand shuddered slightly.
Her brother had taken on the various prejudices of the ton easily, as if forgetting his claim at aristocracy was feigned, and dismissing the hard work that had undoubtedly given Mr. Carberry and his family their position.
“I convinced Mr. Carberry his daughter would not be successful at winning a marquess on her own.” Bertrand settled into a chair. It squeaked beneath him, a testament more to the chair’s age than Bertrand’s weight. Whatever Bertrand’s flaws, he was generally described as handsome. The man’s curly blond hair resembled that of a cherub, and his figure met any tailor’s ideal measurements.
“Did you meet Miss Carberry?” Emma asked.
“She’s the daughter of a tradesman,” Bertrand said impatiently. “How could she be successful on her own? Why, Almack’s wouldn’t even let her in.”
He gave a wry smile, even though Bertrand and she had never gone to Almack’s, and even though they could not afford a season in London.
“So, my role will purely be to assist her?”
“Precisely.” He beamed.
“I’m certain I’m not qualified–”
“Nonsense. Naturally, you are perfectly qualified. Make her confident. Tell the marquess good things about her when you have the opportunity. Give her advice on how to excel.” He leaned closer to her, and his eyes had a wicked gleam. “Apparently, she’s shy.”
He drew back and smirked. “Her parents were grateful when I offered my services. They thanked me profusely.”
“It’s cheating.”
His expression hardened. “There is no need to describe it in such negative language. It’s helping. If the other women want help, they can hire it.” He stretched his legs lackadaisically. “That is, they can do that if they can afford it and figure out how to achieve it. After all, marriage to a marquess would more than compensate any monetary efforts they made. Lord Metcalfe is not poor.”
Emma nodded.
Money was always cherished, even in the upper echelons. She knew how easily it could disappear. There were many women desperate to land a man; their only good fortune their title or familial connection to some member of higher society.
Bertrand flicked his hand. “Please do not overthink it. You left any claims to virtue a long time ago.”
“That was not on my instigation.”
“And yet, who has benefited more?” Bertrand waved his hands in an oratory flourish.
Emma hesitated. Finally, she met his gaze. “And what will you obtain from this?”
“Apart from money?” He flashed her a grin. “This will be an ideal opportunity for you to befriend these women. They must see you as one of them. And then...who knows?”
Emma’s stomach tightened, as a familiar dread pranced through her body. “I’m not one of them.”
“They needn’t know that.”
“So, you truly do not desire me to marry Lord Metcalfe?” she asked carefully.
“Naturally not, Emma. I’m not a monster.”
“O-Of course not.”
“I hope you won’t protest anymore. It is most tiresome. The deal is decided. You should be lauding me.”
Emma stiffened.
She didn’t condone her brother’s schemes. She’d managed to sunder his plan to get money from the Duke and Duchess of Vernon before they left for the Channel Islands. Perhaps she could halt another one of his plans.
“He lives in a castle,” Bertrand said. “You’ll have a good time.”
“I’d rather be here,” she said stubbornly, avoiding lingering on the faded floral wallpaper that lined the room of their boarding house.
“Nonsense,” Bertrand scoffed. “You will do what I say. Your only job is to behave. I make the hard decisions. All you have to do is follow them. It’s easy.”
Emma gazed at the window and the view of dusty white buildings. Wind continued to sweep into the window, rattling through the panes.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
Her brother grinned. “Good girl. Now pack.”
CHAPTER THREE
“YOU ARE MAKING A GRAVE mistake,” his mother said, and Hugh halted his perusal of the rows of paper and articles on his desk.
Gray tendrils curled about her hair. Her pale blue eyes were the sort favored by painters when depicting celestial heavens. Her coquelicot afternoon dress, its color almost scarlet in the afternoon light, was more forceful, though it would hardly have struck fear in even the timidest men.
Hugh was not timid.
Unfortunately, his mother was scowling. The expression was unusual for her, and Hugh widened his eyes. Normally, his mother was content to wander about the vast gardens, but she seemed to be showing a preference for practicing haunting him.
He rose to his feet. “I didn’t hear you enter.”
“There seem to be many things you are oblivious to.” His mother marched toward him, and the ribbons on her practical pumps swung. She halted before him. “You have disappointed me.”
Hugh’s heart sank. He was accustomed to gazes from her that did not resemble that of murderous highwaymen.
“Is something wrong?” Hugh asked.
For some reason, the question did not appease his mother. Her eyes did not soften, and her shoulders did not return to their gentle slope.
His mother flung a Matchmaking for Wallflowers pamphlet toward his desk, knocking his father’s wooden inkwell onto the documents. The ink spilled from its container, and he hastily blotted the pool of ebony liquid.
“That’s an antique,” he said.
“Fiddle-faddle. It’s younger than I am. And you showed less regard for my heart.”
“Your heart?”
“Yes.” His mother nodded. “I want to see you happy. It’s in my nature.”
“You seem to have an unusual method of showing it,” Hugh grumbled. “I take it you’ve spoken with Jasper.”
“I am quite capable of reading by myself.” His mother pursed her lips, something that did not lend gentleness to her s
trangely harsh demeanor.
“Naturally.” Hugh shifted uncomfortably. His leather armchair suddenly lacked comfort, despite the undeniable sumptuousness of its velvet upholstery. He would much rather deal with important parliamentary matters. Raised voices there were preferable to his mother’s raised eyebrows, and the slight tinge of sarcasm in her voice.
“When you told me you were having a house party,” his mother continued, “I did not imagine you were attempting to thwart the rules of love.”
“Rules of love?” he sputtered.
His mother nodded, a triumphant gleam in her gaze. “You see, dear child, it’s all about the kiss.”
“The kiss?” Hugh widened his eyes.
His mother was not supposed to be in his library talking about love and kissing. It was the sort of thing parents weren’t supposed to know about.
“You’ll know you’ve met the right person when the kiss is pleasant.”
“This is the sort of drivel that belongs to poetry books.” Hugh gestured toward the meager row of leather-bound poetry. “Normally, the sort of thing a poet says before he succumbs to tuberculosis. Something about the swelling of the mind.”
“Something else is supposed to swell.”
Hugh closed his eyes, but when he opened them, his mother was still there.
“You are being inappropriate,” he said.
“So are you,” his mother said. “You need to cancel this dreadful event at once.”
“Nonsense. I intend to marry.”
“And you think someone you’ve never met will be a suitable wife?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. I’ve also invited some chits I do know.”
“Please don’t say Lady Henrietta.”
“She’s my next-door neighbor,” Hugh said. “I could hardly not invite her. You know her mother.”
“I refuse to be related to Lady Agnes. She is a scandalmonger.” His mother emitted a long sigh, the type normally reserved for when it rained multiple days in a row.
“The point of this event is to select an appropriate wife. Lady Henrietta meets those qualifications.” Hugh rose, rounded his desk, and helped his mother into an armchair.
She continued to glower, but he tucked a blanket about her legs, unfazed by her newfound propensity to glare.
“Most people court one woman at a time,” his mother huffed.
“Most people are in unhappy marriages.”
“I wasn’t. Neither were your grandparents.”
“I know. And I hope to achieve that someday soon.”
His mother scrutinized him. “Well. I’m happy to see you socializing again. I do enjoy socializing.”
Hugh gave a tight smile.
That was the issue.
His mother wasn’t shy and retiring like the parents of his friends. She showed absolutely no interest in sewing and needlework, and she wasn’t content doing watercoloring in front of the lake, despite the loveliness of the folly.
“I mean, it truly won’t be that interesting,” Hugh rushed to say. “Just Jasper, and–er–”
“–Eight stunning women and their chaperones?” his mother asked.
Bollocks.
“You read the whole article?” he asked miserably.
“Naturally.”
“You weren’t supposed to read it. The target audience for that pamphlet is debutantes. Or those about to become debutantes.”
“I like to stay current.”
“The pamphlet is not something you tend to favor,” he grumbled.
His mother gave him a stern look. “I do hope you’re not going to insult my attire.”
“Naturally not,” he said weakly. “It’s–er–lovely.”
“It’s not appropriate for you to have eight women here at once without some men for them to partner with.”
“Jasper is here.”
“Well, that boy might be willing to entertain multiple women,” his mother admitted. “A quality I did not think you would seek to replicate.”
“I intend to wed one of the women,” Hugh said.
“Marriage is delightful,” his mother said carefully. “But I’d rather hoped you would choose someone in another manner.”
“I am efficient,” Hugh said. “You’ll see. I’ll find her.”
“And what if you don’t?”
“All the women have their virtues,” he said.
“At least it will be some entertainment.” His mother rose from her armchair. “Though remember, they’ll be on their best behavior when they know you’re watching them.”
She smiled triumphantly and glided from the library, leaving Hugh with a heart beating more rapidly than before.
THE WEEK PASSED BY quickly. Now, Emma found herself standing in front of a townhouse in Surrey.
There was nothing foreboding about the townhouse. It was painted a pleasant ivory, and unlike the homes in Brighton that were dulled by the relentless ocean spray, it gleamed.
Emma’s shoulders still tensed.
She was meeting new people, something that always seemed best confined to theory. New people might discover her brother wasn’t truly a baron, and that she shouldn’t truly be anywhere near them.
New people were dangerous.
Emma sucked in a deep breath and for a moment yearned for the crisp mountain air and vast woodland to which she’d been accustomed as a child. If only she could return. If only her aunt and uncle hadn’t died. If only her parents hadn’t died long before them.
She stared at the glossy black door. Finally, she grasped hold of the knocker and tapped.
She glanced toward her brother, who remained in the hack. Bertrand waved. He must have instructed the driver to leave, for the horses resumed their trot, and the hack disappeared in the thick traffic.
“Miss Braunschweig?” the butler asked, drawing her attention.
She nodded. “Mrs. Carberry and her daughter are expecting me.”
“Indeed,” the butler said. “Please follow me. I must commend you on your timeliness.”
“Thank you,” Emma said.
She didn’t say her visit to the house was the only event of her and her brother’s week. They’d packed their items, and her brother was going to find another boarding house within reach of the marquess’s castle.
The butler led her through the house. It must have been built recently. The walls were pale, as if no one had yet chosen wallpaper. Gilt furniture was scattered throughout the rooms, as if Mr. and Mrs. Carberry had received a discount from some fleeing French noblemen. Despite the occasional sparkling furniture legs, the rooms seemed devoid of personality, and Emma shivered.
“Mrs. Carberry and her daughter are in the drawing room.” The butler opened a new door and ushered her inside a room decorated in similar cream colors. He cleared his throat. “Miss Braunschweig.”
He gave her a smile, as if he were not entirely accustomed to announcing guests and was proud of stating her name correctly.
“Good luck,” he whispered softly and then hurried off.
Emma turned to the two occupants in the room before she could reflect on the strangeness of the butler’s behavior.
Two women rose rapidly and dipped into curtsies, and Emma echoed theirs. The younger woman gave her a tentative smile. Her hair was dark brown, and the waves in her hair seemed put there naturally, rather than with a curling iron, if their inconsistency of size and shape was any indication. She wouldn’t have been considered remarkable in any other setting.
Her attire, though, was sumptuous. Her gown glittered, even though in Emma’s experience, gowns weren’t supposed to glitter so early in the day.
A woman with an equally round face, if adorned with wrinkles, marched toward Emma. Her eyebrows narrowed, and her face reddened as she approached. The hem of the woman’s gown brushed against the sideboards, fluttering with a force that could only be attributed to a person not worried about the expense of possibly broken items.
The younger woman stiffened, and her face, which had
seemed curiously pale before, was now entirely devoid of color.
“I’m Mrs. Carberry, and this is my daughter. You’re Miss Braunschweig?” the older woman asked in a slight Scottish accent.
“Yes,” Emma said.
Mrs. Carberry narrowed the distance between them, and she raised a quizzing glass to her face. Jeweled bracelets clanged together in a joyful sound, but Mrs. Carberry glowered. Finally, she lowered her quizzing glass. “You’re beautiful.”
Her daughter’s eyes squeezed shut.
The woman touched Emma’s hair. “That hair is lovely. Blonde and silky. And your bone structure... It’s exquisite. Utterly immaculate.”
“Thank you,” Emma said uncertainly.
“It’s not a compliment.” The woman withdrew her hand abruptly. “You weren’t supposed to be beautiful. That is most inconvenient. Where is the baron? I must speak with him.”
“My brother left.”
“How unconscionable.” Mrs. Carberry inhaled. “No doubt he knew I would disapprove.”
Emma remained quiet.
She wasn’t going to apologize for her brother.
“Well,” Mrs. Carberry said. “I must send you back.”
“Mother!” Miss Carberry exclaimed, looking decidedly embarrassed.
“We can’t have her,” Mrs. Carberry said. “She’s beautiful. And you, my dear, are not.”
Miss Carberry’s face reddened.
“I’m not saying anything that isn’t obvious,” Mrs. Carberry said brusquely to her daughter. “Look at Miss Braunschweig. See her waist? That’s how yours is supposed to look.”
Emma shifted her legs awkwardly. Her waist was tiny, though that was less from a careful regimen than from the fact food was often difficult to come by, and she and Bertrand walked more than people occupied with flaunting their exquisite carriages.
“We must get back the money I paid your brother,” Mrs. Carberry said. “It’s the only thing. I can’t have you competing against my daughter. You’ll win. Your brother specifically said you weren’t pretty.”
Emma’s heart hammered.
Bertrand would never agree to give the money back. Besides, he was gone, and she didn’t even know where to find him. She needed to fix this.
A Kiss for the Marquess (Wedding Trouble, #5) Page 2
