‘Hunt,’ he got out. ‘And sorry for what?’
‘Hunt, then. This mess I’ve dragged you into.’
‘I dragged myself into it,’ he said. And Emma. His visits had given Keswick the hammer with which to break her. ‘Keswick intends to refuse you all access to the children?’
She nodded. He saw her swallow, heard the rattle as she set down her cup and saucer, and knew just how frightened she was, how close to despair. Faced with losing her children, she’d had no one to turn to but him.
He thought it through. ‘You want me to appear in court as a witness. To deny we had an affair, but tell them I was courting you. That I made you an offer of marriage which you ultimately refused.’
She went white and bit her lip. ‘Yes. No. I’m sorry. I see now you can’t. It would make you look a complete fool.’
He took a very deep careful breath. ‘Emma, that doesn’t matter. I’ll bear witness willingly, but—’ He doubted it would work.
‘Will it be enough?’
‘No.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘The surest way for me to protect you and the children is by marriage.’
‘What? But—’
‘I know my offer was not very romantic, but I hoped we could be friends.’
‘Yes. I understood that.’
Her eyes were huge and was that a glint of tears? He wanted to hold her, kiss them away, but if she didn’t want to marry him...besides, he was offering convenience, not kisses and moonlight. A solution was needed here.
‘My offer did not insult you, then?’
She shook her head.
‘Then why did you refuse me?’ He swallowed. ‘I know I must be close to twenty years older than you. Does that repulse you?’
‘What? No!’ Her breath jerked in, her eyes wide and horrified. ‘You can’t think that! I... I wanted—’ She broke off, biting her lip.
Something in him loosened. I wanted to marry you? Was that what she had been about to say? Or even I wanted you? In either case, why had she refused?
He gritted his teeth. ‘I’m old enough to be your father.’
She glared at him. ‘I sincerely doubt that. Dersingham is sixty-five and he had a paunch even eleven years ago.’
He choked back a surprised laugh. He might have thickened in the waist, but he definitely didn’t have anything remotely resembling a paunch, thank God.
She eyed him thoughtfully. ‘How old are you?’
He braced himself. ‘Fifty, two months ago.’
She nodded, apparently unconcerned. ‘I’ll be thirty-three in January. I hope that puts you out of the might-have-been-my-father category?’
He couldn’t help grinning. ‘It does. I wasn’t quite that precocious.’
‘How old—?’ She broke off, blushed.
He laughed outright. ‘The first time? Twenty. And damnably clumsy, I’ve no doubt.’
‘Oh.’ She looked disconcerted. ‘Well, the thing is, Hunt, if you want children—’
She didn’t have to say it. He was being an idiot. Under the circumstances their age difference was unavoidable.
‘Then why did you refuse me?’
She flushed. ‘Do you think I want to ruin your life? You need a wife who won’t scandalise society. A marquess does not marry his mistress!’
He managed not to snarl at her. It was her mother and Keswick who deserved that. ‘Let’s pretend you didn’t say that. At my age a man is reasonably sure about what will and will not ruin him. Marriage to you doesn’t even come close. You weren’t my mistress and I’ll not allow society’s idiocy to influence my choice!’
She took an audible breath. ‘There’s more. Do you know Lord Pickford?’
‘Sadly, yes.’ Pickford was the sort of scum that gave ponds a bad name. ‘What about him?’
She told him.
‘What?’
‘I... I didn’t, but, Keswick—’
‘Damn it all to hell, Emma!’ Hunt found himself on his feet again, rage searing every vein. ‘You think I need to be told that?’ he demanded. ‘When you thought I was trolling for a mistress you gave me a flea in my ear that makes me itch just remembering it. And then you refused marriage? Hardly the behaviour of a loose, scheming widow.’
‘No, I suppose not. But my mother knew—’
‘Just like she knew about our supposed affair?’
‘—and Keswick is certain that Pickford will swear to it in court, that I...that I—’
‘Is he now?’ Hunt’s brain edged around his smoking temper. ‘How very interesting. Just when did Pickford approach you?’
She stared, clearly not seeing what he had seen. ‘Last May.’
‘Thirlbeck died in March, as I recall,’ Hunt said. ‘God knows why I didn’t put it together that Harry is the heir now, but Keswick knew at once. And Pickford is one of his toadies. All very convenient.’
Emma’s jaw dropped. ‘He said he’d tried to have the marriage disproved.’
Hunt nodded. ‘That would have taken a little time and he must have known it was unlikely to succeed, so he set Pickford on to stir up gossip to make claiming the children easier now.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, my God! That’s why Dersingham tried to get custody of the children.’
‘He did what?’ Hunt crouched beside her and took her hands, enclosing them safely in his own. ‘When?’
Her fingers clung. ‘The other day. My mother relayed the offer. He’d give me my dowry and arrange a respectable marriage if I signed over custody of the children.’ It came out in a croaking whisper. ‘He tried to use them to get at Keswick! I’ll kill him!’
‘Marry me first and I’ll help you with that.’
She stared at him in patent disbelief and he realised that as a marriage proposal, no matter the provocation, an offer to help kill her father wasn’t really appropriate. He dragged in a breath, reaching for control.
‘Hunt—’
‘Emma, I can protect them as their stepfather and co-guardian. If the only reason you refused me the other day was a misguided attempt to protect me, will you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage?’
That was better. He was even on his knees in the prescribed manner.
Emma stared, those blue eyes wide and shocked. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, please.’
He raised her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her trembling fingers. Her fragrance, Emma, just Emma, broke through him, shattering every defence, desire storming in behind it. He took a careful breath and gritted his teeth against the urge to kiss her, taste those soft lips again, feel them tremble and part for him. This was to be a marriage of mutual convenience. Desire was all very well, even desirable. This leap of joy was anything but. No matter how much he wanted it, kissing her senseless the way he had the other day wasn’t what was needed here. He had to be practical, logical. Exactly as their marriage would be. ‘Excellent. That’s settled. I’ll have Barclay in and we’ll get this arranged properly.’
She stared up at him, a slight frown creasing her brow. He touched it lightly. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll sort everything out. You’ll see.’
Logical. Rational. A partnership.
* * *
Hunt put Emma into his town carriage, wrapped in the warmest fur cloak he could find, with every available hot brick and told her to expect him later. ‘I’ll bring supper,’ he said. ‘Enough for all of us, including Bessie. You get back to the children.’ He didn’t like to think of Harry and Georgie wondering where Emma had gone, frightened their grandfather might come back and snatch them.
‘I’ll have to tell them about our betrothal.’
He shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
She frowned. ‘It might be best if I—’
‘Wait for me. I’m not trying to wriggle out of it, you know.’
‘I know that! But—’
‘Trust me.’
She immediately gave way. ‘Very well. Do you wish to tell them?’
‘Something like that.’ He wasn’t sure what he intended. All he could think of was the kiss he hadn’t taken in the library. He cursed. He was betrothed to her. Was he really going to let her go without kissing her at all? She was safely in the carriage. Surely he could kiss her now? He leaned in and kissed her gently. Her breath caught and those soft lips parted just as he’d imagined. Unable to help himself, for an instant, he deepened the kiss, tasted her. Then he stepped back and closed the door. He glanced up at his coachman, whose back radiated discretion. ‘Drive on, Masters.’
‘Aye, sir.’
The amusement in the man’s voice left no doubt he knew exactly what had been going on behind his back. The carriage rattled away from the curb and Hunt watched until it swung around the corner. Then he stalked back inside. Several people, starting with his soon-to-be father-in-law, were going to be extremely sorry for themselves.
He held his fury in check, while he went through all the arrangements. Letters had to be sent. Most notably the one Barclay had already written for him to his Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury, requesting a special licence. Since his cousin, David, on his father’s side was attached to Lambeth Palace, he sent the letter under cover to him. He needed Emma and the children under his protection before Keswick could act.
Having seen the letters off with various footmen and a groom, and ordered his carriage to be ready for him when it returned from Chelsea, Hunt walked around to Dersingham House in Berkeley Square.
Dersingham received him, with rather heightened colour, in the library. ‘Huntercombe. This is...er...an unexpected surprise.’
Hunt raised his brows. ‘Aren’t they all?’
Dersingham blinked. ‘Aren’t they all what?’
God only knew where Emma had got her brains from, but Hunt seriously doubted it was Dersingham. ‘Surprises. If they were expected, they wouldn’t be surprises. Would they?’
The Earl took a moment to work that out, then essayed a feeble laugh. ‘Very amusing, Huntercombe. Will you not be seated?’
Hunt took a seat by the fire. ‘Thank you. I fear, Dersingham, that I am guilty of an impropriety.’
Dersingham made a noise trapped between a turkey’s gobble and a squawk. ‘Oh, well. As to that, she’s nothing to me. As long as you’re discreet—’ And he waved away the supposed debauching of his daughter. ‘Dare say the gossip will soon die down.’
Hunt reined in the urge to knock Dersingham’s teeth down his throat. ‘You misunderstand me. I am pre-empting your demand to know my intentions towards your daughter.’
‘Your intentions?’
‘Yes. And not only that, I have completely missed the bit where I am supposed to ask your permission.’
‘My permission?’
Hunt permitted himself a chilly smile. ‘Yes. Lady Emma has done me the very great honour of accepting my hand in marriage.’
‘Marriage?’
Hunt sighed. ‘Dersingham, try not to echo my words. Someone might think you a halfwit.’
Apparently debarred from any response at all by this remark, Dersingham simply goggled.
Hunt went on. ‘Speaking hypothetically, because I am sure the situation will not arise, should any man ever again level an insult at Lady Emma and it comes to my ears, he will need to cough his teeth back up the next time he wishes to use them.’ Hunt settled a cold gaze on Dersingham. ‘I will not be taking account of his age, nor his relationship to Emma.’
Dersingham found his voice. ‘You’re going to marry her?’ Some colour returned to his face. ‘Why?’
Hunt looked him up and down. ‘That’s very close to my definition of insult.’
‘Damn it all!’ Dersingham blustered. ‘She’s my daughter.’
Hunt let out a crack of scornful laughter. ‘Having failed to defend her from insult, nor demanded to know my intentions towards her and, worse, having attempted to snatch custody of her children when you realised you could use the boy to score off Keswick, it’s rather late to remember she’s your daughter.’
He rose to leave. ‘One thing, Dersingham—Emma’s dowry.’
‘Her dowry?’ Dersingham sneered. ‘She doesn’t have a—’
‘Oh, yes, she does,’ Hunt said. ‘The dowry she would have had if she’d married Gus Bolt as you planned. How much was it?’ He caught a calculating look in the Earl’s eyes, and added, ‘Or should I ask Bolt?’
Dersingham scowled. ‘Twenty thousand. But I had to pay out five thousand to Bolt.’
Hunt shrugged. ‘More fool you, trying to force her into a distasteful marriage. The dowry—the full amount—is to be settled upon her daughter, Georgiana Mary Lacy.’ Under other circumstances he would have stipulated half for each child, but Harry wouldn’t need it.
Dersingham’s jaw dropped. ‘Settle it on Lacy’s get? Keswick’s granddaughter?’ His face mottled. ‘Damned if I will!’
‘It’s rather damned if you don’t, Dersingham,’ Hunt said softly as he strolled towards the door. ‘Have your solicitors contact mine for my instructions. Don’t bother your butler. I’ll show myself out.’ It wasn’t that he wouldn’t have provided for Georgie as generously himself. But by God he wanted Dersingham to pay for what he’d done to Emma. As he closed the library door behind him, he thought that Lord Peter Lacy would have appreciated the irony.
Chapter Eight
Dusk was falling as Emma reached home and the chill cut to the bone despite hot bricks and a fur travel rug. The footman opened the carriage door and let down the steps.
‘Thank you.’
He went ahead of her to the door. ‘His lordship said I was to see as nothing was amiss, m’lady.’
‘Amiss? Oh.’ Emma’s stomach clutched. Surely Keswick wouldn’t have returned already...
The door flew open and Harry and Georgie tumbled out.
‘Mama!’
‘We’re all going to run away!’ Georgie’s thumb was in her mouth.
Harry was holding Georgie’s free hand. ‘We planned it with Mr Adams, Mama. If we move they can’t find us and—’
‘It’s all right, Harry.’ She turned to the footman. ‘Thank you. Everything is safe, tell his lordship.’
A faint smile flickered. ‘Yes, m’lady. Good day to you, young master and miss.’ He gave a little bow and went back to the carriage, swinging up behind.
‘That looks like fun,’ Harry said. ‘Do you think I could do that one day?’
‘We’ll see.’ Emma shepherded them indoors.
‘Mama, where did you go?’ Georgie spoke around her thumb. ‘Should we pack?’
‘Not quite yet, sweetheart. I saw Lord Huntercombe. He is sorting it all out.’
Georgie’s thumb popped out. ‘Did Fergus bite that horrid old man?’
Emma bent down and swung her up. ‘No. But I’m sure he would have.’
‘Mama?’ Harry’s eyes still held fear. ‘Are you sure it’s all right?’
‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘Lord Huntercombe is coming to explain.’
The tension ebbed from Harry’s slight frame. ‘Oh. All right then.’
Georgie positively beamed. ‘Did he hit the horrid man?’
With a pang, Emma realised the confidence the children already had in Hunt. ‘No, he didn’t.’
‘But he could,’ Georgie insisted. ‘And Fergus could bite him and then he’d know he had to leave us alone.’
Emma hugged her. ‘Lord Huntercombe will tell him that you are staying with me.’
‘Good.’ Georgie snuggled in and Emma rested her cheek on the soft curls, fighting the urge to weep. The time for weeping was past. The children were safe. Safe because of Hunt’s kindness and decency. All her problems vanished, as if they had never been. The only thing
left to worry her was how to maintain the sort of marriage Hunt wanted—a marriage of convenience when her heart was anything but convenient.
* * *
Full dark had come. The children had helped set out plates, glasses and cutlery. Emma grimaced, remembering Hunt’s elegant, unchipped porcelain. The luxurious furnishings which once she had taken for granted. And yet when Hunt had visited here he had appeared not to notice what his tea was served in, nor that the chair in which he sat was less than comfortable, that the fare was plain.
She could hear the gossip now...
Married him for his money, you know...
Eager to claw her way back, of course...
She let out a breath. Perhaps it was true. Amazing how everyone almost without exception married for money, but only recognised the fact when someone else did it. Someone they disapproved of. If they approved of you then you had made a very good marriage, or an excellent match. She wouldn’t let it matter. Gossip was always a nine days’ wonder and died if you refused to feed it.
She had made the only decision possible, for herself and for the children. That was all that mattered. Not snide comments and sneers. And right now, faces and hands washed, Harry and Georgie stood at the window, behind the shabby curtain, speculating on how soon Hunt might arrive.
‘I hope he doesn’t meet a highwayman.’
‘He could hit him.’
Silent laughter shook Emma. Georgie wouldn’t be happy until Hunt had hit someone apparently—hoof beats sounded, drew closer, slowed and halted.
‘Oh. He’s riding, Mama, and—no, wait!’
Georgie scrambled out from behind the curtain, eyes wide. ‘It’s someone else!’
Harry appeared, his face white. ‘It’s another man!’
She stood up, summoned every scrap of courage. ‘If he’s riding he can’t take you away. But go upstairs and wait there.’
‘I’ll stay with you, Mama.’ Harry’s voice wobbled, but his chin was up, shoulders braced.
Through her fear, pride swelled. ‘No. Look after your sister. That’s what Papa and Lord Huntercombe would expect. Go.’ She gave him a little push.
‘Come, too, Mama.’ Georgie’s thumb was back in her mouth.
His Convenient Marchioness Page 9
