“Dearest!” Hugh rose.
His heart soared. This past week, his heart had been lifting and fluttering, as if prepared to take off in flight.
“Hello,” she said. Her voice was more tentative than normal, and her eyes didn’t quite meet his, as if she were struggling with emotion.
Well.
That was to be expected.
He was going to propose to her formally today. She must know that. His mother had a tendency to feel emotional during certain uplifting songs. Marriage must rank equally high in a woman’s mind.
“May I speak to my brother?” she asked. “A-alone.”
He blinked. “Of course. And you needn’t ask such questions.”
Three more hours.
The betrothal would be in the evening, before dinner. After she accepted, there would be a great feast, and then there would be happiness for the rest of their lives.
He could hardly bear to wait.
“She’s all yours,” he said to Emma’s brother.
But not for long.
“I will go upstairs.” He turned to Emma’s brother and bowed. “I hope to see much of you in the future.”
Emma’s brother gave an uncertain smile.
What was it with this family? Never mind. For decades to come, he’d have long Christmases and Easters to figure all that minutiae out.
Hugh strolled from the room, down the corridor and up the stairs to his rooms.
He strode inside his bedroom. His valet was putting some unpacking his clothes.
“Perfect timing, Callaway,” Hugh said.
His valet turned to him.
“Now is a time for you to do your best,” Hugh said. “Dress me in the tightest attire and tie the fanciest cravat know.”
“My lord!” Callaway rose, and his eyes gleamed. “Do you mean it?”
“I do,” Hugh said. “This is a night I shall remember forever, and I may as well be looking my best.”
“You will, my lord,” Callaway said. “You’ll look most splendid.”
Hugh nodded, and his heart only tightened slightly when he saw Callaway pull some clothes from the wardrobe.
“I haven’t seen those before,” Hugh murmured.
“I was saving them for a special occasion,” Callaway said. “They’re fresh in from Paris.”
Personally, Hugh didn’t think anything brought from a country mourning their recent loss against England–a loss they’d valiantly tried to avoid by spending the previous two decades slaughtering and slicing anyone who opposed them–would be good. It would be just like the French to delight in convincing gullible people that they absolutely must squeeze into torturous devices to look fashionable, when all the French wanted to do was torture.
Still, this was not a time for philosophical protestations.
This time was for Emma.
And if there was a chance that she thought he would look more proper constrained in these garments, then yes, he would be constrained.
“Dress me, Callaway.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“YOU NEEDN’T HAVE INTERRUPTED me with the marquess,” Bertrand said. “I’ve decided even I can’t stop the man’s obvious affection for you.”
“Don’t be so certain.”
Bertrand’s eyes widened, but he stretched his legs onto a pouffe. “This is quite nice. Rather beautiful. I could get used to this.”
“Don’t.”
“Have you come to cast me out so soon?” Bertrand asked in mock sorrow. “I’m hurt. You’re not even marchioness of the castle yet.”
“Is it true you did your best to destroy some poor woman’s career at a ball in Yorkshire?”
He sniffed. “You make me sound like a monster.”
“Perhaps you are.”
Bertrand’s face stiffened. “That’s not how you speak to your older brother.”
Emma remained silent.
“Who told you?” Bertrand asked.
“Lady Agnes.”
“That blasted busybody,” Bertrand said. “She should mind her own matters. Like ensuring her own daughter is appealing.”
“Then it’s true,” Emma said weakly.
She’d urged herself not to hope that in this regard Bertrand had acted with honor.
And yet, somehow, she must have been clinging on to hope after all, for her heart shattered. He’d not only lied about his past, he’d lied about what he was doing now.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Bertrand said quickly.
“That’s why you’ve kept us away from London,” she said. “That’s why you didn’t want me to become betrothed to him.”
“I thought someone would tell you,” Bertrand said, “if you were the marquess’s wife. Someone would be jealous and would tell you, and then you would despise me.”
He looked so pitiful, and she wanted to stop and tell him everything would be fine.
And yet...
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Emma said. “You shouldn’t have hurt her.”
“She’s fine,” Bertrand said. “She’s married. To an–er–baron.”
There was an awkward pause. Perhaps he was reminded he was not a true baron.
“I’m happy for her,” Emma said finally. “And I’m–er–glad you haven’t done anything like that again.”
“I hope I haven’t said anything that would cause you to change your mind about the betrothal. What is one indiscretion? That woman provoked me. Besides, Englishmen do those sorts of things all the time, and yet, they’re more protected because of their class. If only I’d gone to Eton or Rugby with them. Things would be quite different. If you think I was prejudiced, consider how prejudiced those people are against me.”
Bertrand was about to go off on another diatribe about his pain, even though he seemed oblivious to how he impacted others.
Emma’s heart heaved. She wanted to scream and flee the room.
But instead she swallowed hard and gave her brother a hug.
“Schatz?” Bertrand’s voice was confused, but Emma didn’t have the answers for him.
She only knew something would have to change.
“I found a letter in your satchel,” she said.
“Oh?” His body stilled, and his voice sounded curiously high-pitched.
“You didn’t tell me our aunt and uncle were alive.”
“No?” His voice sounded almost casual.
“No,” she said more seriously.
He sighed. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“I know. And you shouldn’t have lied to me. How could you have told me they perished? I mourned them.”
He shifted his legs awkwardly, even though Bertrand never behaved awkwardly.
“There truly was a fire,” Bertrand told her.
She observed his face. Perhaps he had thought their aunt and uncle had perished. Perhaps he only learned later they had not. Perhaps he was wary of the expense of returning to the Austrian Empire.
“It was two villages over,” Bertrand confessed. “It made the newspaper. And—”
“It gave you the idea?” Her heart squeezed.
He nodded miserably. “I’m sorry.”
“But why lie? I don’t understand.”
“You didn’t want to leave the Austrian Empire. And I was so certain we could have a better life here. And we have had one. We’ve mixed with the very best of society. We’ve done countless things we never would have had the opportunity to do before. And now you’ll marry the marquess, and our future will be secured. You would never have met him if it hadn’t been for me.”
She smiled sadly. “I know.”
“So you needn’t look so serious,” Bertrand said. “Everything is wonderful.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“No?” His voice roughened.
“I’m going to need some of that payment you received from Mr. and Mrs. Carberry.”
“So you can leave?” He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
�
�I’m your sister.”
“I won’t have you leaving,” he said firmly, and tears prickled Emma’s eyes.
Even now, he was controlling her.
Even now, nothing had changed.
“Very well.” She left the room quickly, before Bertrand could recite a monologue on why she should always listen to him.
She headed down the corridor, her heart beating quickly. She considered visiting Hugh and telling him everything.
Perhaps he would be understanding, but she didn’t want to make him choose.
Because she knew the choice he should make.
But he should do all the things he wanted to do. He should find a bride who would make an ideal marchioness. He’d cared about it so deeply he’d organized this entire event. She wasn’t going to fulfill the expectations of the worst gossips. She wasn’t going to saddle him with an improper wife.
Tears prickled her eyes, and she resisted the temptation to rush up to her room.
Right now, she needed to act.
And unfortunately, she would need help.
There was one person whom she could ask. One person who could take her back to her country with a minimum of difficulty. One person who despised her and would not talk her out of her plan.
EMMA SAT IN LADY LETITIA’S room, wondering at how many personal items Lady Letitia had managed to bring.
“You want to abandon England and return to the Austrian Empire?” Lady Letitia’s eyes danced.
“I can work for you,” Emma rushed to say. “I can do many tasks. I could be your lady’s maid. You mentioned on the boat that you needed one.”
Lady Letitia’s arched her eyebrow in an elegant manner not unlike the hand of a perfectly tuned clock.
Lady Letitia stared at her. “You would do that? You would dress me and bathe me and–”
“Yes,” Emma said, before Lady Letitia could list all of her duties.
Out of all the women in the manor house, Emma had found Lady Letitia the least likable. And yet... Emma refused to not try to change her situation.
“The marquess is most certainly going to propose to you,” Lady Letitia said. “You are his favorite. You’ve always been. You would give that up?”
Emma nodded. Speaking felt too difficult.
“What have you done, my dear?” Lady Letitia asked.
Emma shifted her legs. “I need to leave the country.”
“Ah,” Lady Letitia said. “Was it murder?”
Emma blinked. “Of course not!”
Lady Letitia laughed. “I only wondered if something truly exciting would occur to me. It would be quite thrilling to have a murderess for a servant. Think how many rivals you might poison for me.” She laughed, and then, no doubt sensing Emma’s unease, she shot her an annoyed look. “Naturally, that was a joke.”
“Naturally,” Emma said, her voice weak.
“To think, this whole time you’ve been a fraud.” Lady Letitia wrinkled her nose, and Emma’s cheeks flamed. “It would almost be amusing.”
“I understand that the ethics of my behavior might–”
Lady Letitia jerked her wrist, so her bracelets clanged together. “I do not concern myself with ethics. That is the territory of vicars and curates and nothing with which I concern myself. I hope you do not think I look like a curate.”
“O-Of course not,” Emma stammered.
“Good,” Lady Letitia said. “It seems you must have done something quite terrible to give up the chance of living in this beautiful manor house, with that handsome man at your side.”
Emma was silent.
Lady Letitia laughed. “But I will take you with me to the Austrian Empire.”
“You will?” Hope surged through Emma. “Thank you so much. I am so grateful.”
Lady Letitia sniffed. “But I assure you, you will not be my lady’s maid for long. A lady’s maid is a much too important position.”
“I understand.”
“I will hire a new lady’s maid in Vienna, one who will have a better grasp about what hairstyle is en courant in the Austrian Empire. Though usually I can just subtract fifteen years from the fashion trends of other countries. The Viennese are quite out of fashion. It is amazing they are so near Paris. I suppose they concentrate on their tortes.” Lady Letitia wrinkled her nose.
“But you’ll still take me with you?” Emma asked uncertainly.
“Naturally,” Lady Letitia said. “I hope you don’t suffer from sea sickness.”
Emma frowned, remembering the unpleasant trip to England. Her brother and she had even been in a shipwreck on their way to Brighton from the Channel Islands once. Sailing in a ship again was a most unpleasant thing to do.
“It doesn’t matter,” Lady Letitia said more brightly. “If you are prone to seasickness, it will be most amusing to watch you struggle to dress me.”
“Then it’s settled,” Emma said.
“Yes.” Lady Letitia fixed a stern expression on Emma. “Mind you, you won’t get any advantages in the Austrian Empire from me. You will be on your own.”
“If I could just have money for a fare to take me to my mountain village,” Emma said.
Lady Letitia smirked. “This is mortifying for you, isn’t it? I am certain my father can find the funds to manage a coach passage for you.”
“Thank you,” Emma said.
“And when I return to England, if the marquess has still not chosen someone, perhaps he’ll choose me.” Lady Letitia tossed her hair. “After all, I am titled, and I do make sense.”
“Yes,” Emma said meekly, even though it occurred to her the marquess had set up this marital game precisely because he suspected choosing the woman with the father who ranked the highest was not the best way to choose a wife.
She’d derided him, but he had collected diverse contestants, and he had looked beyond rank.
Emma forced herself to think of other things: Hugh was in the past. A blissful, passionate past, but one that was best forgotten.
Entirely.
“I must go say goodbye to him,” Emma said.
“No,” Lady Letitia said quickly.
Emma blinked. “Pardon?”
“Please tell me that you actually have trouble hearing. You are bringing me delight. I just wish that you had decided to bring me such delight during the competition, before the marquess grew completely–and most wrongly–besotted with you.”
“I heard you,” Emma said. “You want me not to say goodbye to him. But that will hurt him.”
“Hurt him?” Lady Letitia’s eyes flashed. “You will hurt him anyway. But if you say goodbye you will give him warning. I don’t think you want that.”
“No,” she admitted.
“And I certainly do not want some nobleman throwing about money to stop my carriage,” Lady Letitia said. “It would be painfully sentimental. All quite maudlin. And the sort of thing that might cause us to the miss the ship.”
Emma swallowed hard. “He’ll be confused. He’ll...despise me.”
“And so he should,” Lady Letitia said, turning her lips into a smile. “I know he’s intending to propose to you. He’ll be heartbroken. But if he despises you, perhaps he can banish you from his thoughts more quickly, and perhaps, when I return from Vienna, he will marry...me.”
“You would still be interested?”
“My dear, he’s a marquess. I’d be a fool not to be interested. You should see the sorts of men my father normally has around to dinner. Unctuous, horrid men, old enough to be father, and sometimes old enough to be my grandfather. We all had so much hope. It’s a shame the woman he chose does not even desire to marry him.”
Guilt surged through Emma, but Lady Letita was correct.
Emma raised her chin. “I won’t tell him.”
Lady Letitia’s eyes sparkled. “How very wise.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
HUGH STRODE FROM HIS room, took a glimpse of himself in the silver-framed mirror in the corridor, and beamed. He resisted the urge to tell him
self that this was his last moment of being single, yet he did think it.
Every moment seemed momentous.
“My lord?” the housekeeper looked at him uncertainly. “Are you going downstairs?”
“I am,” Hugh said. “I’m about to become very, very happy.”
“I see.” The housekeeper did not look nearly as jubilant for him as he might have expected, and he sighed. “But don’t worry. I know it can be nerve-racking to get a new mistress. But I promise, I haven’t seen any tyrannical impulses in her.”
Mrs. Holland still did not look adequately relieved at those words.
“In fact,” Hugh continued, “I’ve only seen the best impulses from my intended. She’s been caring and kind and sweet to everyone.”
Worry seemed to descend over Mrs. Holland’s face with more force.
“I imagine you didn’t desire to chitchat with me over my love affairs,” Hugh said, giving a laugh that sounded extraordinarily loud, though he was certain it was only because of the fact that Mrs. Holland’s lips did not ascend into anything resembling a smile. “Perhaps there’s some household task you desired my opinion on? Some sudden issue? A fire in the reception room? A problematic guest?”
Mrs. Holland swallowed hard, as if she were gearing herself to demand a better position at St. Peter’s Gate, aware a more comfortable cloud could be useful for the rest of eternity, but reluctant to annoy the person who could help her.
“I’m certain it’s fine,” Hugh said in his most soothing tone. “Whatever is troubling you.”
“Miss Braunschweig is not in her room,” Mrs. Holland said quickly. The housekeeper generally had a slow, deliberative manner, as if to contrast with the lower servants, and Hugh blinked, unable to take in anything more than the oddity of the speed of Mrs. Holland’s words.
Or perhaps, he simply didn’t want to ponder her words.
Because when he mused on them, they were not good.
“I don’t understand,” Hugh said. “She must be here.”
“She’s not,” the housekeeper said. “Her things are gone.”
“But...”
He swallowed hard. There was a reason. Naturally, there was a reason.
A Kiss for the Marquess (Wedding Trouble, #5) Page 19
