Perhaps she would have to search another floor after all? She glanced back at the door, reluctant to cross the grand staircase and risk encountering a servant. Perhaps, there was another staircase? She treaded carefully.
At least she knew his room would be the nicest.
At last, she came to a door at the end of the hallway. The room would overlook the garden, but unlike Emma’s room, the view would face directly onto the landscape.
There would be utter privacy, and privacy was the sort of thing a marquess might value.
She strode toward the door. Her heart thumped with greater force, and she looked to her side.
No one was present.
She swallowed hard, ignoring her tightening chest, and swung open the door.
The room was magnificent, though Emma wouldn’t have expected anything else. Light streamed in through the window, imbuing a golden glow suited for chapels and cathedrals over the items of furniture, and she slipped inside.
She looked at the walls, half-expecting to see life-size paintings of nude women prancing inside expensive gilt frames, or whatever it was rogues might deem fashionable. But respectable blue-and-white striped wallpaper lined the walls, and the paintings were of landscapes Emma would have been tempted to linger on, had she not been conscious of the time. A grandfather clock ticked in the corner.
The room seemed normal.
It did not appear to belong to a man determined to invite eight women of marriageable age to his home because he couldn’t be sated with simply one or who felt it necessary to parade his prospects in front of one another.
Emma considered returning to her chamber.
Instead, she inhaled and reminded herself that she was being paid to find advantages for Miss Carberry, and not to slink away.
The housekeeper had said they were the first people to arrive, and that the marquess was away. This was her chance.
Emma spotted a bookcase in the corner and strolled toward it, scanning the row of books. No doubt they’d been gifted to him. No doubt a man like him did not actually read. She scanned the titles and then moved to her attention to a narrow desk. Some papers sat on it, and her gaze fell to a paper covered in precise calligraphy.
She perused it quickly:
Day 1 - Dinner
Day 2 - Horseback riding
Day 3 - Dinner and Entertainment
She scanned the rest of the paper, noting the long list of activities.
Well, he was organized. That was not a reprehensible quality.
In fact, Emma valued organization.
She turned the page.
This time, she didn’t find a schedule. Instead, there was a description of a woman: Lady Letitia. Presumably, this was one of the women invited for this party.
Emma read the short description hastily. Apparently, Lady Letitia lived in Northumberland and had gone to an excellent finishing school. Emma continued to read, pausing when she read that Lady Letitia’s mother was from Salzburg.
Never mind.
Just because Lady Letitia had a Salzburgian relative, did not mean she would be able to determine that Emma had a false identity.
A noise sounded on the corridor outside, and Emma stilled. Her heart settled at a faster pace, and she inched toward the dressing room.
It was probably a servant.
It was probably nothing to be concerned about.
After all, this room was clean. It sparkled. No doubt servants came here all the time.
The door swung open, and she rushed inside the dressing room and closed the door behind her.
Her heart beat fiercely, as footsteps padded toward her.
CHAPTER SIX
THERE WAS A WOMAN IN his dressing room.
Hugh had experienced having women in his dressing room before, but he’d confined such instances of pleasure to London. This might be his estate, but he still thought of it as his parents’. He’d certainly never had a woman in his dressing room here.
He stilled and moved his gaze surreptitiously and tried to remember if his housekeeper had mentioned hiring a new maid.
He was certain she had not. And if she had, Hugh would trust she would not hire someone who would crouch inside his wardrobe. His valet would have a fit.
“What are you doing?” Hugh asked.
The woman drew back, as if hoping he might think her a figment of his imagination or some wall molding, but Hugh had seen her.
She was real.
He growled and flung the door all the way open so the sunbeams that entered from his bedroom windows might illuminate her. “You can’t hide.”
He stilled.
She was the same woman whom he’d watched arrive earlier.
Was this the elusive Miss Braunschweig? Sister to the even more elusive Lord Braunschweig? Hugh hadn’t considered her to be truly one of the top marital prospects in the country, but Miss Carberry was, despite her lack of title, and Miss Carberry’s mother had been most insistent in including Miss Braunschweig.
At least Hugh’s castle was not beset by thieves. That would be appalling timing, given the swarms of women who would all be here shortly. Women had a propensity to travel with jewels, and thieves were unlikely to be their companion of choice.
The woman hesitated, but then she raised her chin in a defiant manner. “I’m lost.”
“Oh?”
She nodded.
“But when you realized you were in the wrong bedroom, why did you not simply exit?”
For a moment she was silent, and he examined her.
Close proximity to her had not made her less beautiful.
The dressing room was an unlikely place to find beauty.
There were beautiful women in ballrooms, aided by the skill of lady’s maids and modistes, and enhanced by the warm glow of flames from the chandeliers and candelabras consistently found at such events. There were sometimes beautiful women in gardens, who clutched parasols and strolled beside roses.
No one, though, lauded the beauty of women found crouching below a row of pantaloons. The curve of her back was dissimilar to any of the common poses painters insisted upon. None of the subjects in Hugh’s painting gallery were arranged in similar positions.
Her dress was plain, as traveling dresses tended to be. A layer of dust clung to her hem, and her boots were similarly speckled with mud.
Evidently, she’d sought out his dressing room directly after her arrival. Though Hugh thought his valet took care of his attire with all the enthusiasm of a curator, he doubted her passion was in men’s fashion. If it were, one would expect she’d also have some moderate interest in women’s fashion, and a cursory appraisal of her current outfit was enough to disprove that.
Her athletic crouching could not be comfortable. His servants hadn’t toiled in making this place nice for the guests to find discomfort in spontaneous acrobatics.
“Let me help you.” He extended his hand, and after a moment, she took it.
He pulled her up from under his racks of attire, ignoring the sudden warmth that shot through him as he took her hand. Some things he shouldn’t linger on.
He certainly shouldn’t ruminate on the appealing shape of her hand, the appealing shape of her figure.
He was certain nobody thought a habit of sneaking into men’s dressing rooms was an admirable quality for a wife, and even if he could admit she was beautiful, that had more to do with the symmetrical composition of her face, the exact shade of gold of her glossy locks, and the brightness of her skin, than of any careful examination of her qualities. This woman, whoever she was, had just placed herself at the bottom of his list of marital prospects.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She hesitated, as if pondering whether she could give him a false name.
He raised an eyebrow. “This house might not be small, but I’m certain I can find out your name later.”
Her cheeks pinkened. How did she manage to look more adorable? He was certain he shouldn’t find her adorable at all.
The effect would probably have been better if the sudden movement had not caused some strands of her hair to tumble down. Long travel was not conducive to maintaining hairstyles, and he would have known if she’d lived nearby. He would have demanded an introduction at once.
In the past.
He might have done that during his rakish days, but now Hugh knew better. He was a reformed man.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Braunschweig. I hope you enjoy your stay at the castle.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”
His eyebrows jolted up, but then he realized his position was not obvious. His clothes were plain and distressingly damp. He’d saved his best attire for the rest of the week, and not for wandering the gardens when the sky seemed determine to sprinkle.
Perhaps he should take advantage of this. There was no reason to reveal his identity now. Hugh had informed the servants to tell the guests he was not home yet–he wanted a chance to observe them. He would be more successful at that if they could act unselfconsciously. If he told her his identity, others would learn he was here. Perhaps it was impolite to not tell her, but it was also impolite to break into someone’s room. After all, he was choosing a wife, a partner for life, and his goals exceeded those of a desire for propriety and etiquette.
THE MAN WASN’T SUPPOSED to be handsome.
It was most inconvenient.
It was already sufficiently difficult to be discovered hunched in an unbecoming manner.
It occurred to Emma that she was supposed to feel fear. That was the general reaction one was supposed to experience at finding oneself alone with a man, especially in such a cramped space.
The marquess had given no indication of subscribing to a strong moral code.
And yet...
No goosebumps formed over her flesh, and though her heart quickened, it was more out of mortification than of concern for her safety.
The man’s face lacked the receding chin and matching hairline prevalent in the ton. Instead, he had the chiseled features often shown in portraits of those same aristocrats, though seldom displayed in actual life.
Emma wasn’t completely unfamiliar with handsome aristocrats. They were not an utter anomaly, but their eyes had never flashed in such a dangerous manner, and she’d never been distracted by their scent.
Musk, Emma decided, was vastly underrated.
Once she could bring herself to not linger on the smoothness of his skin and to not survey the symmetry of his features, she glanced at his attire. His clothes were of a casualness she did not associate with the upper echelon.
He must be a servant. After all, the housekeeper had clearly said the marquess was not home. Perhaps he was the valet?
Emma’s shoulders lowered, no longer propped up by tension.
“You startled me,” she said.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
There wasn’t truly much she could say about that. Still, Emma didn’t feel particularly agreeable toward him.
She raised her chin. “I was lost.”
“And you thought a dressing room with male clothes was your best method to rectify that?”
“Obviously, I did not know what this precise room would entail,” she huffed.
He assessed her. “You’re one of the guests.”
“Indeed,” she said. “And you’re not being hospitable.”
“Perhaps not.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry. Hosting duties are not part of your job. I trust you’re a better ironer than conversationalist.”
For some reason, his lips twitched. The man was most exasperating.
“You should leave,” he said.
“Right.” She looked around the room, reluctant to depart without obtaining more knowledge of the marquess. She tilted her head at the valet. “Is the marquess very stern?”
“He’s not so dreadful.”
She flicked her hand dismissively. “Most likely, you were accustomed to fighting the French.”
His eyes twinkled. “Tell me, what prompts your concern about my work environment?”
Something made her heart freeze, as if it desired to linger nearer him, rather than continue its predictable pace.
She looked away. “I’m merely curious about my host.”
“I wager,” the not-so-terrible-after-all-servant said, “that you want to learn more about the marquess.”
“Precisely.”
He gazed at her for another second. “I imagine you want an advantage over the other women?”
“N-nonsense.”
“You desire to win.”
She hesitated, but then nodded. There were limits to what she could confess to him. “Perhaps he’s quite shy.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Arranging an event like this,” she said. “It’s something an exasperated mother might do.”
He grinned. “Why match make with one woman when you can with eight?”
Her mind drifted to Miss Carberry. All these women were being rushed here, and if they did not perform well, how could they face their parents?
His grin drifted from his face, but the surge of satisfaction she should feel didn’t arrive. Never mind that. It could come later.
“Does he have any hobbies?” she asked suddenly.
He arched an eyebrow. “Such as stamp collecting?”
She nodded hastily.
Stamp collecting. Miss Carberry could impress him with her knowledge, even if affixing tiny pieces of paper to other pieces of paper seemed dull.
“He is not a stamp collector,” the man said. “Though I must confess, he may have been one if he’d thought the hobby would be greeted with such enthusiasm.”
Emma found her skin warming and she looked down.
Her brother had trained her to be less gauche than this. He’d trained her to be sophisticated, to make every aristocrat feel she was one of them, and to ensure nobody wondered at the validity of her brother’s claims to being a baron.
Emma forced her chin up and strove to summon some regality.
It would be easier had the valet not found her in the marquess’s dressing room. The shirts and breeches, though likely expensive, tended to be more dignified when being worn, and not when hanging loosely.
The valet narrowed his eyes, and Emma realized she’d been too silent for too long. He diminished the distance between them, and she was curiously aware of his scent. She felt off balance.
No doubt it was because of the dim light of the dressing room.
That was it.
Undoubtedly.
She cleared her throat. “Perhaps you’re not very observant. Perhaps you don’t know him well.”
“Nonsense,” the man said. “I know him.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me.”
“That wouldn’t be fair to the other women.”
She felt herself flushing. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
“Good,” he said, averting his gaze from her.
There was something in his sudden change of demeanor that made her stare. “I wouldn’t have thought a valet would care about the intricacies of the rules of the house party.”
He hesitated and then scratched the back of his neck. “I–er–suppose that’s correct.”
“Well?” she asked, determined to obtain some information.
He shrugged. “I can tell you about his hobbies. Not stamp collecting of course. It’s something he finds–more embarrassing.”
“Oh?” She raised her eyebrows and hoped the valet was not going to enter into a conversation on his employer’s collection of naughty books or weapons.
“Insects,” the valet said suddenly. “My master is passionate about insects.”
Emma blinked.
Most people seemed to prefer to pretend insects did not exist at all, much less contemplate them.
“I suppose their colors can be quite intriguing,”
Emma said. “I am partial to butterflies and ladybirds.”
“Oh, no,” he said quickly. “My master prefers other insects.”
She tried to nod, but the confusion must have been evident on her face, for he soon opened his mouth again.
“Earthworms,” he said triumphantly. “He is particularly passionate about them.”
“Oh. The kind always in the ground?”
“The very same.” He beamed. “Brown squiggly things. If you want to impress him, just talk to him about earthworms when you meet him.”
“Truly?”
“You seem surprised,” he said. “That’s why he’s embarrassed about his interest.”
Emma shook her head rapidly. “N–no. I’m not surprised.”
People were interested in all manner of things. Emma had sometimes envied the Duchess of Belmonte, who was passionate about fish. If the marquess adored insects, that was perfectly fine.
“I-I should go,” she blurted.
“Of course,” the servant said, and she exited the room, finding herself looking back at the door as she strolled through the corridor toward the chamber she shared with Miss Carberry.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A KNOCK SOUNDED ON the door, and Hugh grinned.
He’d expected this.
No doubt the young lady had returned. Perhaps she’d happened upon one of his portraits in the painting gallery and desired to seduce him, declare herself compromised, and wrangle the entire house party to a halt while securing herself the position of marchioness.
“Do enter,” he said, keeping his voice at the low pitch some women were prone to favoring. He leaned against a bureau in a nonchalant pose that still showed his best angles.
The door swung open, and Jasper strolled through.
Hugh’s shoulders slumped.
Jasper gave him a wry smile. “Usually, you mask your displeasure at seeing me more.”
“I’m glad to see you,” Hugh said, but his voice felt oddly tight, and when he smiled, his lips stretched reluctantly.
Jasper settled onto the bed, incognizant he was ruffling the covers. “Are you excited to meet the chits?”
A Kiss for the Marquess (Wedding Trouble, #5) Page 4
