“I see,” Lord Metcalfe said, and he moved her farther away from the other women, as if he did not want her to be reminded of the charms of the others.
Fiddle-faddle.
Emma would just have to show him some other way that she was not suited to him, no matter how much their kiss had sent heat rushing through her, and no matter how many butterflies gathered in her stomach when in his presence.
Emma stepped on his toe.
Lord Metcalfe’s eyes widened.
“Excuse me,” Emma said. “I am most clumsy.”
“That’s quite fine,” the marquess said.
She waited as he continued to swirl her about the room.
And then she stepped on his foot again.
And again.
And again.
“I’ve never met someone who stepped on my toe with such consistency,” the marquess remarked.
“Oh?” Emma averted her gaze.
If she were in a novel, she would be looking into his eyes, dwelling on the gold flecks in them and comparing them to the candelabras or light in general or some other ridiculous metaphor.
Emma wasn’t in a novel, and she wasn’t going to do that.
Besides, she’d noticed his eyes long ago.
She’d noticed everything.
“It is odd,” Lord Metcalfe mused, “that you can step on my toes with such frequency, especially with your proclivity at examining the floor.”
“I am not the best dancer,” she said.
“It would appear so,” Lord Metcalfe.
Emma remained silent.
She didn’t need to say anything more.
She’d achieved what she’d desired.
He could mark her as someone not good at dancing. She relaxed into his arms, allowing herself to succumb to the sound of the music.
The waltz was Austrian, and it had always been one of her favorite dances.
“Perhaps you’re learning,” he remarked.
“Oh?” She swallowed hard and stepped on his toe quickly.
Perhaps, in hindsight, she’d stepped onto his toe with too much haste.
His eyes narrowed.
The man was suspicious around her. A suspicion, unfortunately, that was entirely warranted.
“You should dance with Miss Carberry after this,” Emma said.
The marquess’s eyes glimmered. “Is that so?”
Emma raised her chin. “Miss Carberry is a woman of superior qualities. She is intelligent.”
“She did become an expert in earthworms quite quickly,” the marquess assented.
Emma pushed away a flicker of jealousy.
This was good.
Excellent.
“Indeed,” Emma continued. “What more could you ask for in a wife?”
Lord Metcalfe scrutinized her. “You are being very helpful in my search.”
“I think you will be happy with her,” Emma said.
“More than with Lady Henrietta?”
Emma raised her chin. “Naturally.”
He smiled. “What about more than with Lady Letitia?”
“Happier,” Emma said, without hesitation.
The marquess swirled her in his arms. “And why is that?”
“In addition to her intelligence,” Emma said, “Miss Carberry is kind and good-humored.”
“The exact qualities I appreciated in my former nursemaid,” Hugh mused. “That was a happy seven years.”
“And this will last a lifetime,” Emma said. “And I’m certain she has qualities that surpassed even that of your nursemaid.”
“But would I be happier with her than with you?” Lord Metcalfe asked.
“Me?” Emma’s voice sounded too high-pitched, and the marquess’s lips curled.
“You,” he said. “You, at my side, in my arms, for the rest of our lives.”
Emma’s heart fluttered.
She tried to dismiss the emotions, but they’d grabbed hold of her heart, grabbed hold of her mind. Visions of a future with him pummeled her. Visions of an older version of him, with gray hair sprinkling his head, and glasses perched on his nose, from when he could no longer see as well.
“N-nonsense,” she said. “That would be–er–ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” The marquess assessed her, and she shivered under his gaze.
She stepped onto his foot.
Hard.
“I’ve realized I’m not as suitable as the other women,” she said. “Not compared to–”
“Miss Carberry?” he asked.
“Indeed.” She nodded her head quickly. “Not compared to her. I see that now. You must dance with her.”
“Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully. “Though I must ask... Why are you here?”
“I-I–” Her heart clenched.
Her stammering did not compel him to withdraw his question.
Thankfully, the music ended, and Emma fled to the row of other women.
Her heart beat quickly, and she seemed to feel his touch on her long after they’d stopped dancing.
She wandered to the buffet table and took a glass of the lemonade a footman proffered. The sour taste didn’t halt the rapidity of her heartbeats.
She was in London.
And she’d just danced with the most handsome, most magnificent man in the world.
The other girls were gossiping, and she glanced toward the marquess. He was dancing with Miss Carberry. Evidently, he’d followed her suggestion, and they were twirling about the ballroom.
Perhaps Emma’s brother had convinced Miss Carberry’s parents their daughter would struggle to win the marquess, and perhaps Miss Carberry didn’t fit in with the other women, but observing them now, Emma was certain Miss Carberry would be a more than adequate marchioness. Miss Carberry knew the steps to the dances, and though her figure was unfashionably plump, resembling the milkmaids in certain romanticized painted clocks in Emma’s home country, her hair and dress were immaculate. Miss Carberry was kind, and she’d be a good marchioness. Besides, Miss Carberry’s family could never harm Lord Metcalfe.
Emma swallowed a sour taste that had nothing to do with Sir Seymour’s imperfect lemonade.
She wasn’t going to contemplate her brother.
She was going to be happy.
Perhaps she was discovering the marquess’s qualities were not as deplorable as she’d assumed, that they were not deplorable at all, but she was not going to linger on the fact she would never have associated with any of these people, had her brother not lied about his position. Marriage to the marquess would always be impossible.
Still, most people were not members of the aristocracy, and Emma needn’t dwell on life’s imperfections. She was in London, in the capital, for the first time in her life.
Perhaps the only time in my life.
A thought occurred to Emma, and for the first time since she’d left the clasp of Lord Metcalfe’s hand about her waist, she found herself smiling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
WIND FLUTTERED THE leaves outside Emma’s window. The sound resembled that of wind rushing through the leaves of trees in Brighton, trees in Surrey, trees in Germany. And yet this time, the leaves belonged to a London tree.
She was here, in the capital, for the very first time in her life.
Sleep alluded her. When she closed her eyes, the only vision before her was the marquess. She wished she could share the events with Miss Carberry. She wished the Duchess of Vernon had not sailed for the Channel Islands. She’d been able to share confidences with her.
She sighed.
She didn’t want the only people whom she knew, to be people whom her brother had targeted.
She shut her eyes again.
No, there was Lord Metcalfe, dancing before her.
The idea that had come to her yesterday at the ball fluttered through her mind again. It had remained all day today, when they’d taken tea and done all manner of proper things. Tomorrow, they would return to the country, and London would only be a memory.
I mustn’t do it.
And yet...
When else would she be in London? When else would she be so close to Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens? Obviously, it would be dangerous to travel by herself, but she could always disguise herself as a man. The maid had packed the satchel her brother had left behind, and it did contain some of his clothes. Why not make use of them?
Because once this time ended, she wasn’t going to go back to her brother.
She was going to return to the Austrian Empire.
It was where she belonged, even if she hadn’t been there in years, and even though her heart ached at the thought of leaving Britain forever.
This was her final time in London, and she wasn’t going to spend it musing about a man whom she could never marry. It didn’t matter how succulent his lips had been, or how much a mere glance from him sent butterflies fluttering through her.
Emma slipped from her covers and quickly slid the bedspread off of her. She grabbed the satchel from the wardrobe, removed her shift and changed, taking care not to wake Miss Carberry. Then she left the bedroom, before she might convince herself that lying on a bed without sleep was preferable.
Emma only needed to go from the townhouse to a hack that would take her directly to Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. Once she was there, she would be more protected. After all, people had to pay an entry fee, and even the finest ladies and gentlemen were known to go there.
She considered tiptoeing to the main entrance, but she couldn’t allow the chance that anyone might see her in these clothes. Instead, she pushed open the window and slid onto the ledge, thankful it was thick so as to best showcase the columns and embellishments below.
HUGH STIRRED. HE COULD almost swear he’d heard a sound. Had some ruffian decided to make his home a target? He marched toward the balcony.
London was a large city, and he suddenly regretted taking so many people with him here. What sort of jewelry had the women and their mothers brought with them?
His valet had already assisted him in removing his clothes, and Hugh felt mildly ridiculous in his nightshirt. Cold wind wafted in from the window, and Hugh grabbed his robe and flung it over him, reminding himself that thieves did not require proper presentation. People followed Beau Brummel’s advice for his opinions on fashionable attire at balls, not when confronting bastards.
He pushed open the window, wincing as it screeched. Obviously, the servants had not anticipated his penchant for late night balcony wanderings. He couldn’t blame them: he hadn’t either.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness.
There was definitely a figure there.
Damnation.
Hugh needed to act quickly. Thankfully, athleticism was one of his strengths.
He grabbed hold of the figure and dragged him inside, slamming his hand over the stranger’s mouth.
It would not do for the women to know that some riffraff had been loitering on their balcony. That was the sort of thing that might make chits fearful. This gathering had already gathered more notoriety than Hugh had intended, and the last thing he needed was gossip to gather about inferior protection.
The figure struggled against him, and he patted him to remove any weapon.
“No one steals from my household,” he growled.
The stranger continued to squirm. In fact... Something about the stranger seemed...familiar.
Either thieves had taken to smelling like some delightful mix of vanilla and lemon, or this was no thief.
He pulled the person toward the window, where the moonlight was strongest, and flung his gaze over a familiar upturned nose, familiar high cheekbones, and familiar luscious lips.
“Miss Braunschweig?” His voice sounded too loud, driven more by surprise than reason.
If she’d had the indecency to sneak about on the balcony, he shouldn’t raise the household, even if she might benefit from a scolding from her chaperone. “What are you doing here?”
Her gaze didn’t meet his.
It was her, though.
It didn’t matter that the glow from the moon was an imperfect source of light, not even equaling that of a cloudy day. Something about her seemed...odd. Her hair was evidently up, even though any lady’s maid would have taken it down for bed. She seemed more embarrassed, and her figure seemed...thinner.
His gaze drifted to her attire.
And then he swallowed hard.
Perhaps there were a myriad of reasons why Miss Braunschweig would have decided to wear men’s attire, but Hugh couldn’t think of a single one.
“Why are you–?”
Her face, illuminated by the moonlight, darkened. “My lord?”
He gave her a hard stare. “Your attire is–”
“Unexpected?” she offered, and he nodded.
That was one word.
He suspected her chaperone could offer other, even more negative ones.
As far as men’s attire went, her clothes were of the sort that his valet would toss. Her rumpled shirt billowed, though she probably didn’t mind that it obscured her elegant, ever-so-sumptuous frame.
“I’ve never met a woman who wore men’s clothes before.”
“It’s not a common past time,” she said.
He snorted. “Was this why you were in my dressing room?”
Her eyes widened. “Nonsense.”
“Perhaps you can tell me why in heaven’s name you are dressed in this manner.”
Her face paled, and he pushed away the faint guilt.
“What if a servant saw you?” he asked. “Or another guest?”
She raised her chin. “I wore it for safety.”
“Safety?” he exclaimed.
Whatever he’d thought she’d answer, it hadn’t been that.
“Yes,” she said. “Safety. I–er–wanted to go outside. And I know it isn’t advisable for women to do that–”
“That’s an understatement. Evil people lurk in this city.”
“But they might pay less attention to a simple servant boy.”
Oh.
There was some strange resemblance to logic in her statement.
Not enough, though.
“There shouldn’t be any reason for you to cavort about the capital.”
“I wanted to see it,” she said.
“But you can see it anytime.”
“My brother does not permit it.”
“You did this just to see London?” He furrowed his brows.
“Yes.”
The answer didn’t make sense. Nobody should risk sneaking out of a safe home purely for tourist purposes.
“It’s my first time here,” she said after a pause.
“I hadn’t forgotten.”
He scrutinized her. Perhaps, she had a lover tucked away in one of these townhouses that she hoped to see. But her gaze didn’t shift to the side, as he might expect someone intent on telling him a lie.
“Perhaps this is your first time in the capital, but I’m certain it will not be your last time.”
She was silent.
Why?
Finally, she gave him a wobbly smile. “I expect you’re correct and I will return to London.”
“Naturally.”
He was always correct.
But her voice hadn’t seemed as firm as it should. It was almost as if she doubted the veracity of his statement.
He cleared his throat. “Well, if you’re determined to see the city, I suppose I can show it to you.”
“Truly?”
He nodded.
The suggestion was improper. If they were to see him now, even his friends most given to a roguish lack of responsibility might find their eyebrows lurching upward.
“But if people see us...”
“You’re dressed like a man,” he said. “And I’ll make certain they don’t look too hard.”
“You would do that for me?” she asked.
He smiled. “Let’s go.”
Hugh contemplated getting his groom to prepare his carr
iage. After all, he was fond of it.
Tonight, though, was a time for a hack. Hacks offered some modicum of privacy. A driver wouldn’t necessarily know who he was, and he certainly wouldn’t know Miss Braunschweig.
“Allow me to–er–change,” Hugh said.
Miss Braunschweig shifted her feet and glanced toward the window. “This was a mistake. I’ll return to my room.”
“As if I would trust you to do that now,” Hugh said. “No, we’re going out. It’s decided.”
“Take a seat.” He gestured toward his bed and stepped behind an oriental screen, doing his best to not imagine Miss Braunschweig on that bed in other circumstances.
He dressed hastily and then emerged. “Let’s go.”
“We can’t walk out the corridor,” Miss Braunschweig said.
He shrugged. “Fortunately, Jasper is the only person on this corridor. Trust me.”
She nodded, and they soon exited the house and marched down the street.
If he had any luck, no one would notice their absence at all.
One of the advantages of traveling in the night was that the hacks were unimpeded by the stylish carriages that thronged through the neighborhood in the daytime, when every member of the gentry seemed intent on calling on as many other members as possible within a short period of time.
No one visited anyone now.
Most of the people had returned from various balls and were now sensibly sleeping. He ought to be like them–the sensible thing would be to get this trip over with as much haste as possible. Miss Braunschweig would still see the city, and he would feel confident that he’d protected her. He was certain she expected nothing more.
He, however, was not acting sensibly. That fact should have bothered Hugh, and yet a thrill moved through him.
If Miss Braunschweig wanted to see London, he would show her London.
“Where to?” the hack driver asked.
“Vauxhall,” Hugh declared, and Miss Braunschweig’s eyes brightened. “Take the long way, though. We want to see the city.”
“That will cost more,” the driver warned.
“That’s fine,” Hugh said, enjoying his newfound anonymity. “I want the journey to be special.”
“Very well,” the driver said, and they soon barreled through the streets of London.
A Kiss for the Marquess (Wedding Trouble, #5) Page 14
