‘You’ll live with us,’ Hunt said calmly. No need to tell the boy that was why Emma had agreed, but—‘In fact, it would make it very hard for the Duke to argue that your mama can’t look after you.’
‘But she does,’ Georgie said. ‘Even when we don’t want her to!’
Harry bit his lip, glanced at Emma and back at Hunt. ‘May I speak to you, sir? In private?’
‘Of course.’ Hunt laid his napkin beside his plate and rose. ‘In the hall?’
Harry nodded and followed him out.
Hunt glanced at the footman on duty. ‘Mark? A moment’s privacy if you please.’
‘Yes, m’lord.’ He retreated to the back of the hall.
‘Go on, Harry.’
Harry faced him, chin up. ‘I... I don’t mind, sir. Not if Mama is happy. And of course, we like you—’
He stopped, obviously uncomfortable, so Hunt prompted. ‘But? I doubt you can anger me, Harry, or offend me. Just take a deep breath and say it.’
‘I don’t want to call you Papa.’
Hunt swallowed. ‘I see.’ God help him, he hadn’t even thought of that. And the idea of being called Papa again, by another man’s child...there was that shameful resentment again. ‘Well, that’s all right,’ he said carefully.
‘So, do we just keep calling you Lord Huntercombe?’
Hunt thought. ‘Rather a mouthful. When it’s family you can call me Uncle Hunt. In more formal company, or with strangers, you can call me Huntercombe or sir. Like any other gentleman would.’
Harry mulled that over for a moment. ‘All right. It’s...it’s not that I don’t like you, you know...it’s just—’ He flushed.
‘Just that you remember your papa and miss him,’ Hunt said quietly. His own father had been gone for twenty years—he still missed him at times, and his mother. ‘I do understand and I’m glad you asked me.’ If only there wasn’t that little sigh of relief hiding away inside him.
‘You really don’t mind?’
‘Not at all.’ Hunt held out his hand and Harry put his in it to shake.
‘Do you have children, Uncle Hunt?’
There was a note of hope in the boy’s voice and longing for his dead children gouged a little deeper. ‘I’m afraid not.’ Seeing Harry’s disappointment, he summoned a smile. ‘But my friend Lord Cambourne has a young brother-in-law about your age. Fitch.’
‘Oh.’ Harry looked uncertain. ‘Is he very grand? I don’t know any lords.’
‘Fitch?’ Hunt let out a snort of laughter at the idea of anyone finding the boy Cambourne had adopted from the streets grand. ‘He’s not a lord and he’ll probably think you’re very grand. And you know me.’
Harry nodded. ‘Yes, but that’s different.’
Hunt hesitated. ‘Not so very,’ he said at last. Time enough later to tell the boy he now held the courtesy title Viscount Thirlbeck, that one day he would be a duke. ‘Shall we go back?’ he suggested. ‘Your mother is probably worried about all the untold rudeness you might be inflicting upon me.’
Harry grinned. ‘I thought you would think I was being rude.’
Hunt shook his head. ‘Not at all. Just settling things between us, one gentleman to another. But be warned; you don’t have to call me Papa, but I do have to carry out his job—that’s my responsibility to both him and your mother.’
Harry wrinkled his nose. ‘All right. But you can’t spank Georgie. She’s a girl.’
Hunt laughed. ‘Understood. Come along.’
* * *
Emma breathed a sigh of relief as Hunt and Harry returned, clearly at ease with each other.
‘He’s not going to be Papa, Georgie,’ Harry announced.
Emma’s stomach dropped until she saw the laughter in Hunt’s eyes.
‘I’m to be Uncle Hunt,’ he explained.
Harry sat down at the supper table again and helped himself to a piece of cake. ‘And he’s not allowed to spank Georgie, because she’s a girl.’
Georgie smiled beatifically. ‘But can we have a puppy? Mama wouldn’t say.’
Hunt opened his mouth and Emma cleared her throat, catching his eye. ‘Uncle Hunt and I will discuss that,’ she said firmly. ‘Finish your suppers.’
Hunt sat down, poured the merest drip of champagne into the children’s glasses and rather more into his own and Emma’s. ‘A toast—to our new family.’
Chapter Nine
By the time they finished supper it was so far after the children’s bedtime that Georgie was yawning, all the while insisting that she was not in the least bit tired.
‘Of course not,’ Emma said. ‘But you will like to see where we are to sleep tonight.’
‘Oh.’ Another yawn. ‘Where does Fergus sleep?’
Hunt cleared his throat. ‘Ah, there is a basket in my bedchamber.’
Emma viewed with interest the faint tinge of colour that stole along his cheekbones, noting that he hadn’t actually said where the dog slept...just that there was a basket.
‘When we have a puppy it could have a basket, too,’ Georgie said.
‘Uncle Hunt and I can discuss that after you’re in bed.’ Emma rose, held out her hand. Georgie took it. ‘What do you say, sweetheart?’
‘Goodnight, Uncle Hunt. Thank you for a lovely time and marrying Mama.’
Not so much as a twitch betrayed amusement as Hunt also rose. ‘It was very much my pleasure, Georgie. Goodnight. And you, Harry.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’ Harry flushed. ‘Uncle Hunt.’
Hunt watched as they left with Emma. Somehow his house felt a great deal fuller than it had that morning. An odd thought, that. How could a mansion the size of this feel full simply because of the addition of two children to the nursery and their mother? He let out a breath as he faced the truth. It wasn’t the house that felt fuller. He felt fuller, in a way he hadn’t expected and didn’t want. What on earth had he let himself in for? When he’d decided on taking a widow, he hadn’t expected this feeling of involvement. Which was ridiculous. He’d intended to be involved, to be a husband, a kindly guardian to any children. But he hadn’t intended this. Whatever this was. It was more. More than he and Emma had agreed on. More than either of them wanted. And he couldn’t see any way to avoid it.
* * *
Emma hesitated outside the library. Bentham had assured her that Hunt was still there. The question was—should she join him? Was the library his private preserve? A place where a wife was only invited? In her parents’ marriage the drawing room was Louisa’s domain, the library Dersingham’s. She took a deep breath. There was only one way to find out how Hunt preferred to live. She opened the door.
He was seated by the fire reading. She saw his surprise as he looked up and hesitated. Was she overstepping the bounds?
But he rose, set the book on a wine table and came towards her, smiling. ‘I thought you’d stay until Georgie at least fell asleep.’
Emma smiled. ‘She was asleep about two minutes after her head hit the pillow and Harry wasn’t far behind. I shouldn’t stay long though, in case either of them wakes. But I need your advice, if...if you don’t mind me coming in here.’
‘Mind? Why should I mind?’ He handed her to a chair opposite his. ‘Emma, this will be your home—indeed, as far as I am concerned, it is your home now. Shall I ring for tea? Or will you have a brandy with me?’
Plenty of men disapproved of a female taking anything stronger than ratafia, but if he’d offered... ‘Brandy, please.’
He poured a glass and handed it to her. ‘What’s bothering you?’
‘Harry.’ She sipped the brandy, felt it burn its way down. ‘I haven’t told him that he’s Keswick’s heir.’ It weighed on her. Harry’s future glittered golden. She ought to be delighted, glad his future was assured.
Instead it terrified her.
‘You hav
en’t had time to arrange your own thoughts, let alone tell Harry.’ Hunt looked at her closely. ‘Ah. You’re still frightened of losing him.’
‘Yes.’ She forced back the fear, managed a smile. ‘Silly, but—’
‘No.’ Hunt shook his head. ‘Even with us married, Keswick will probably do his damnedest to insist on custody. Trust me, Emma. I can protect you and the children.’
She looked up at him. He stood beside her chair, tall, reassuring in his quiet confidence. Her heart ached for the bargain they were making. He deserved so much more...except he did not want more. She had to remember that and respect it. She had to be a conventional, sensibly married lady, not headstrong Emma Brandon-Smythe who had flung her cap over the windmill for a younger son and never regretted it. She had loved Peter, had believed she would never truly desire another man. But apparently she did. She desired Hunt. Was she a wanton to want it to be more than duty? Even if love was forbidden, she wanted him to want her. Emma. She wanted to desire and be desired. Not to submit out of duty to a man who only bedded her out of duty.
‘Emma?’
He had asked her to trust him. ‘I know you will.’
She rose on her toes, intending only to brush her lips over his jaw.
* * *
She intended a kiss on the cheek. Chaste, completely non-sexual. But he didn’t want that. He took her into his arms and captured her mouth. He felt her shock, felt her quiver to utter stillness against him. But then her body softened, the lush, soft mouth trembled under his and opened in invitation. He stroked his tongue inside and she tasted exactly as he remembered: spicy-sweet, tart and wild. She responded on a sigh of pleasure, her tongue answering his, their mouths melding. Heat poured through him and his arms tightened. Soft, supple curves, warm and so damn tempting under his hands. Her mouth a miracle of wild delight, answering his need with her own. He could taste it, feel it. Desire, welling up in her to meet his head on. He wanted her. Wanted her now. And the sofa was right there... No. Some semblance of honour reared its head, struggling for a footing in the surging riptide. Not like this. No matter how much they both wanted it.
Somehow he broke the kiss and wondered if part of him had ripped away. Emma blinked up at him, her eyes clouded and fathomless, mouth swollen from his kisses. He eased her back a little, his whole body rebelling, demanding that he sweep her up, lay her on the nearest horizontal surface and finish what he, what they had started. Because it had been they. Not just him. She wanted as much, as deeply, as he did.
‘No.’ He scarcely recognised his own voice. Rough, shaken.
Emma flinched. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—’
‘Don’t apologise.’ His hands tightened on her shoulders for an instant before he released her and stepped away. ‘That was my fault. I shouldn’t even be here.’
‘Shouldn’t be here? This is your house.’
He drew a careful breath. How the devil had a kiss reduced him to burning need? ‘Regardless, I’ve arranged to stay across the square with the Cambournes until we marry.’
‘Oh.’ She looked as she might have argued, but sighed. ‘I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble.’ Her cheeks flushed. ‘Choosing someone without all these complications would have been a great deal easier for you.’
‘No.’ He turned away, picked up his brandy and drained it. That wasn’t true. With another woman it would have been easier to keep his life untrammelled. But he had met Emma and now he didn’t want anyone else. He wanted Emma. It just meant he had to work harder to keep everything on an even keel.
He gave her a kindly smile, setting the empty glass down. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight, Emma. My staff will look after you.’
‘Of course. Goodnight, sir.’
* * *
Emma stared at the door for a moment after it closed. Something had changed in Hunt. Was he regretting his offer of marriage? She probably shouldn’t have come in here after all and he was too polite to have said so.
A marriage of convenience. That was what he had offered. What he wanted. She had to accept those boundaries. And if something in her didn’t want those boundaries, then that was her problem. She could not make it his.
* * *
Entering the breakfast parlour of Cambourne House at an unconscionably early hour the next morning, Hunt was not surprised to find James, Earl of Cambourne, enjoying a plate of ham and eggs. He had seen neither James nor the Countess last night since they had been dining with friends.
James finished a mouthful and set down his knife and fork. ‘Morning, Hunt. Penfold mentioned that we had a house guest. Sheets not aired to your satisfaction across the square?’ He gestured at the coffee pot. ‘It’s fresh. I trust you passed a comfortable night?’
‘Thank you.’ A restless night was nothing unusual and certainly couldn’t be blamed on the bed. Hunt took refuge in the coffee pot and niceties. ‘Lucy is well?’ He poured a cup of coffee, added cream.
James’s mouth curved. ‘She’s very well. And just as curious as I am to know why you slept here last night.’
Hunt sipped his coffee. ‘Propriety. My betrothed moved in last night.’
James’s coffee cup rattled in its saucer as he set it down. ‘You have my undivided attention.’
Although almost twenty years younger than himself, the Earl was one of Hunt’s closest friends and Hunt had no hesitation in explaining the situation to him and the hastily summoned Countess, and issuing a very open-ended wedding invitation.
‘I can’t say when it will be,’ he said. ‘A day or so. I hope you’ll attend.’ Letty and Caroline were going to be furious. A couple of friendly faces would be very welcome.
James nodded. ‘Since you aren’t marrying Amelia Trumble we’ll stay in town for a few more days.
Hunt and the Countess stared at him.
‘James—’ Lucy Cambourne sounded puzzled ‘—why would you think that Huntercombe was going to marry Mrs Trumble?’
James grinned. ‘Because Letty Fortescue cornered me last night after dinner, singing the Virtuous Widow’s praises as a suitable bride. At first I thought she’d forgotten I was married, but when I reminded her about you, she clarified.’ He poured more coffee.
Hunt regarded him balefully. ‘You didn’t think to say something earlier? Warn me, perhaps?’
‘Of course, but you broke your news first.’ James sipped his coffee. ‘And if you’ve already installed Emma Lacy in the Marchioness’s suite and moved in here to keep it all above board, then you’re safe. Letty’s left holding the baby, or rather the Virtuous Widow, and there isn’t much she can do.’
Hunt thought it was a fairly safe wager that Letty, and Caroline, would find something. If not to do, then to say. Repeatedly.
‘Hunt?’
He turned to Lucy, sipping her tea by the window. ‘Yes?’
She gestured out the window. ‘You’re always welcome here, but it might be time you went home.’
Hunt strode over, glanced across the square and choked back a curse.
* * *
Following breakfast in the nursery, Emma took the children down to the library. Routine was important and since lessons followed breakfast, the library seemed the best place with the schoolroom still being readied. The housekeeper had assured her the room would be ready later that day and that his lordship’s secretary, Mr Barclay, was working not in the library, but in his office.
Both children had been fascinated by the large and detailed globe in the library and it seemed a good way to frame a lesson for Harry. She set him down at the table with paper and pencil to produce a map of Europe, complete with capital cities. Fergus, clearly at home, settled himself by the fire and went to sleep, his chin on the fender.
A quick glance at the bookshelves found something she thought Georgie would enjoy. She sat down, the child in her lap, and began to read slowly. In French.
Georgie scowled, but chewed on her lower lip, listening hard. After a moment her face lit up. ‘It’s Cinderella!’
Emma laughed. ‘En Français!’
Georgie wriggled, looked hard at the print. ‘C’est Cen... Cendrillon!’ She snuggled closer, listening happily.
Harry looked up as the doorbell clanged. ‘Should we see who it is, Mama?’
‘Bentham will see to it,’ Emma said absently.
‘Oh.’ Harry sounded impressed. ‘Don’t we ever have to answer the door?’
Emma looked up from Cinderella. ‘No. Not here.’
‘But what if Mr Bentham lets someone in we don’t like?’ Georgie asked.
Emma smiled. ‘He won’t. He’s very good at his job.’
A few moments later a carrying female voice was heard. ‘Nonsense, Bentham. If his lordship is out at this unlikely hour we shall await him in the library.’
Emma’s stomach turned to lead. Only a family member would presume to such familiarity... Fergus had raised his head and was looking intently at the door.
Emma turned to both children. ‘Not a word out of either of you.’
Harry scowled. ‘But, Mama, you said—’
‘Not a word.’
The door opened and Fergus uttered two loud barks.
‘Don’t tell me he leaves that wretched dog inside unsupervised!’
A tall, commanding woman, whom Emma remembered to be Hunt’s sister, Lady Fortescue, stood in the doorway, her disapproving gaze on the spaniel. ‘Bentham, what is this creature doing in—and who, may I ask, are you?’
Lady Fortescue’s expression switched from disapproval to outrage as her gaze shifted from the dog to Emma.
Extricating herself, Emma rose, fiercely conscious of her plain, not to say shabby, gown, simply dressed hair and complete lack of a cap.
Another fashionably dressed lady entered the room and raised a quizzing glass. ‘Good heavens!’ she uttered in pained accents.
Emma gritted her teeth and summoned a smile. ‘Good morning.’ She remembered both Huntercombe’s sisters perfectly well. The younger was Lady Caroline Chantry, wife of an M.P.
‘But who are you?’ Lady Fortescue demanded, ignoring the greeting. ‘What are you doing here and where is his lordship?’
His Convenient Marchioness Page 11
