Emma kept her face impassive and her voice polite. ‘Lady Emma Lacy. My children and I are guests.’ Behind Lady Fortescue and Lady Caroline she could see Bentham, his face purple. ‘Bentham, please send a message to his lordship that Lady Fortescue and Lady Caroline are here.’
‘Lady Emma—?’ Lady Fortescue’s jaw dropped in a most unladylike fashion. ‘I warned Huntercombe how it would be!’
‘Uncle Hunt invited us. Didn’t he, Mama?’ Georgie, clutching the book of French fairy tales, had come to stand beside Emma and was staring at Lady Fortescue with open curiosity.
Emma dragged in a breath, touched a protective hand to Georgie’s shoulder. ‘Yes, Georgie. He did.’ She faced the formidable matron. ‘Huntercombe will be home very shortly, Lady Fortescue.’
Feathers trembled in Lady Fortescue’s bonnet and her nostrils flared. ‘My brother must be lost to all sense to have admitted you to this house!’
‘Quite so!’ Lady Caroline ranged herself beside her sister.
Emma caught sight of Bentham, still in the doorway. ‘Bentham, a tea tray, please, and milk for Master Harry and Miss Georgie.’
Lady Fortescue whipped around. ‘Do no such thing, Bentham!’ She glared at Emma. ‘You have no right to be issuing—’
‘She has every right, Letty.’
Emma’s breath jerked in as Hunt strode in. His deep voice was icy, all the more lethal for its very quietness. ‘Add coffee to that tray, please, Bentham.’
* * *
Hunt assessed the situation in one swift glance. Letty and Caroline had never quite lost the habit of treating his house as though it were still their London home to walk in and out of as they pleased. His not having a wife for the past eleven years had reinforced the tendency since occasionally one or the other acted as hostess for him. But it did not excuse them invading his library when he wasn’t even home and—
‘Huntercombe, what is this woman doing here? Have you lost your—?’
‘Lady Emma has done me the very great honour of accepting my hand in marriage.’ He viewed the results of this bombshell with satisfaction.
Letty’s startled squawk was counterpointed by a horrified moan from Caroline, who collapsed back on to the sofa in a suspiciously artistic fashion.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Caro!’ Letty snapped. ‘Stop play-acting!’
Caroline sat up at once, her mouth sulky. ‘Have you no sensibility, Letty? The shock—!’
Letty ignored this. ‘Giles, have you lost your mind?’
‘No,’ Hunt said. ‘But you and Caro appear to have mislaid both manners and dignity.’
‘Huntercombe.’ Emma’s quiet voice held gentle reproof. ‘This must be a very great shock for your family—’
‘It certainly is!’ Caroline struck in, her vapours forgotten. ‘In fact—’ She wilted under Hunt’s glare.
‘Caro, I was under the impression that you were fixed in the country for now.’ He didn’t miss the nervous look she sent Letty.
‘Naturally, Giles, when Letty informed me that you were, ah, considering a change in your estate...’
If he hadn’t been so annoyed, her floundering would have been funny. ‘Yes, Caro?’
She scowled. ‘Well, I, that is, Letty and I, felt that it was of the first importance that—’ She broke off.
‘Giles.’ Letty fixed him with her best chilly stare. ‘If you are so lost to all propriety as to have installed your—’ She seemed to collect herself. ‘Your betrothed in this house already, then—’
‘I’m staying with Cambourne,’ Hunt told her and took an unholy satisfaction in her dropped jaw. ‘Quite acceptable. Now perhaps you might like to congratulate me and wish Emma happy?’
Into the outraged silence another voice dropped. ‘Are we interrupting?’
Hunt turned and barely suppressed a heartfelt Thank God!
James stood in the doorway, his Countess on his arm, and an amused quirk at the corner of his mouth.
Hunt strode forward. ‘Cambourne. Ma’am.’ He shook James’s hand and bowed over Lucy’s as though he had not recently quitted their breakfast table.
‘Emma, my dear, permit me to present Lord and Lady Cambourne.’ His gaze fell on the young boy hovering behind them. ‘And Master Philip Fitzjames—Cambourne’s ward.’ He held out his hand to the boy, better known to his intimates simply as Fitch, who shook it with an expression of surprise.
As a diversionary tactic it was superb. While James bowed over Emma’s hand his pestilential sisters regained their control.
‘I think that Caroline and I should take our leave.’ Letty spoke in calmer, if still arctic, tones.
James straightened. ‘Not on our account, I do hope, Lady Fortescue. Hunt announced his happy news at breakfast and we thought to come and pay our respects to Lady Emma. I don’t believe you are acquainted with my ward?’ He turned to the boy. ‘Lady Fortescue, Fitch. And Lady Caroline Chantry. And of course, Lady Emma Lacy.’
Lady Fortescue gave a visible shudder. ‘I had heard something, I believe.’ She fixed the boy with a basilisk stare. ‘Lady Cambourne’s brother, is he not?’
Not noticeably abashed, the boy made a very passable bow to Letty. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He repeated this for Emma and Caro’s benefit.
‘Well done, Fitch.’ Hunt tried not to laugh. ‘This is Harry Lacy and his sister, Georgie. No need to bow to them. Why don’t you accompany them out to the stables with Fergus? You know the way. Tell Masters that I sent you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The Countess cleared her throat and Fitch scowled at her. ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ He looked back at Hunt. ‘Congratulations, sir.’ He looked at the Countess. ‘That was what you said, wasn’t it?’
She looked pointedly at Emma. The boy grimaced. ‘Oh, right.’ He turned to Emma. ‘I hope you’ll be very happy, ma’am.’ Cocking his head on one side, he added, ‘He’s not bad for a toff.’
‘The stables. Now,’ James muttered.
Hunt inclined his head to Fitch. ‘Thank you. I believe that was a compliment?’
The boy gave Hunt a cheeky grin, and headed for the door. ‘Yes, sir. You’re pretty good in a tight spot.’
Hunt laughed. ‘I could say the same of you. Off you go.’ He smiled at Harry and Georgie. ‘Go with Fitch. Obey Masters and you won’t get kicked.’
* * *
Emma heaved a sigh of relief when Bentham and a footman arrived with tea, coffee and cakes. The atmosphere could have chilled champagne. She could only hope hot tea would thaw Hunt’s sisters out a trifle.
Bentham set his tray before her. ‘I took the liberty, my lady, of sending the milk and cake out to the stables with the children.’
‘Thank you, Bentham. I’m sure Harry thinks breakfast was a very long time ago.’
Lady Cambourne laughed. ‘Poor Fitch always thinks his last meal was far too long ago. Tell me, when are you to be married? We were so pleased to hear Hunt’s news.’
Emma had no answer for that, but Hunt stepped in. ‘With Lady Emma’s agreement, we will be married as soon as the special licence is granted.’
Lady Fortescue cleared her throat in a very decided fashion. ‘My dear Huntercombe—’
‘Tomorrow if it arrives today,’ Hunt continued.
Lady Caroline looked pained. ‘Really, Huntercombe! Surely there is no need to be in quite such a hurry. After all—’
‘I am sure that I have any number of important engagements this week,’ Lady Fortescue announced. ‘And next week. Perhaps next month would be better. I shall provide you with a list of my engagements and Caroline will do the same—’
‘Thank you, Letty,’ Hunt said gravely. ‘Your lists are always so enlightening. I’ll send you a note when the marriage has taken place, shall I?’
Lady Caroline looked as though she had swallowed a brick. ‘You will surely
wish us to attend!’
‘Certainly,’ Hunt said. ‘But—’
Hunt’s secretary, Mr Barclay, entered unannounced. ‘Sir, these have arrived from his Grace, the Archbishop.’ He held out a thick bundle of documents.
James grinned. ‘Lucy, my love, I believe we’re attending a wedding tomorrow. Remind me to have my own secretary clear my day.’
Hunt broke the seals and glanced at the documents. Relief flooded him. ‘All is in order. And a private note from my cousin, David.’ He glanced up at Emma. ‘David is attached to Lambeth Palace as a chaplain. The old chap has offered to perform the marriage.’
Emma blinked. ‘How very kind of him.’
Hunt didn’t dare glance at his sisters. ‘More a case of David saving his own skin actually. He’s seventy, unmarried and my extremely reluctant heir.’
Chapter Ten
Hunt scowled into the looking glass the following morning as he tied his cravat with even more than his usual care. A wedding should be special. Not rushed, not entered into in any hole-and-corner fashion. Although he thought there was rather more ground between hole-and-corner and the pomp and circumstance his sisters considered his due. He suspected they had hoped, given a month, that they might scuttle the marriage.
His jaw hardened. Even without the threat of Keswick he wouldn’t have been prepared to let them try to frighten Emma out of it. But a woman should have time to feel like a bride. She should not be rushed from proposal to betrothal to marriage in the space of two days. Well, a couple of weeks if he counted from their initial discussion of marriage.
For God’s sake! He inserted a finger between neck and collar. His cravat felt too tight, just as it had at his first wedding. He’d known Emma for three weeks. Oh, he’d known her by sight when she made her come-out years ago. Enough so that he’d greeted her at parties and chatted to her a couple of times. She had been one of the flock of young ladies in whom he had no interest beyond his acquaintance with her father. Now he was dragging her to the altar in less than an hour. He hoped she had found something pretty to wear at least. Lucy had taken Emma shopping yesterday afternoon with carte blanche to order whatever was needed for herself and the children. It was the very least she deserved.
He liked her children. He liked her. He was attracted to her.
It terrified him.
What if he failed them? Emma was marrying him to protect her children. What if a magistrate deemed him insufficient as a guardian? In itself Keswick’s claim was undeniable. It all came down to his own reputation and influence. And a little bit of luck as to which magistrate Keswick had in his pocket.
What did he have to offer Emma if he couldn’t protect Harry and Georgie?
He made the final adjustments to the folds of his cravat and stared critically at the greying, middle-aged gentleman in the looking glass. Fifty. Hell. He had not paid a great deal of attention to his birthday for the past ten years. He had said he was too old for birthdays. He had always made sure he did something for Gerald’s birthday when his half-brother was a child, had taken his goddaughter out on her birthday if possible, but he had shied away from any mention of his own birthday. Better not to remember...
He held out his hand for the pearl pin his valet was holding. ‘Thank you.’ Carefully he set the pin in place in his cravat. Precise, neat. Exactly where it ought to be.
He had nothing to offer because there was nothing left. He had already given it all and been hollowed out, emptied, eleven years ago. What little had been left had shattered last year when Gerald died.
All that was left was the empty shell, an automaton who was geared to do the right thing, the decent thing, and tie his cravat perfectly. It was safer that way.
He caught his valet’s eye in the looking glass, holding his coat ready. ‘Thank you, John.’
The valet eased the coat on. Dark blue superfine, it was one he kept for occasions when it was important not to look as though he’d shrugged himself into his coat. Not that he’d been thinking of a wedding when he ordered it.
John gave the shoulders a tweak and stepped back. ‘There. That will do.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Congratulations, my lord.’
Hunt met the man’s eyes with a brief smile. ‘Thank you. I’m a lucky man.’ He was. He had to remember that. And remember how to keep everything perfectly in its place. Like the pearl in his cravat.
John nodded. ‘You are now that you’ve looked for a bit of luck.’ He smiled. ‘Nice to have some young life in the house again, too. Not but what Mrs Bentham is muttering about the eating capacity of young boys.’
‘Is she now?’ Hunt glanced at the clock, preferring not to think about John’s previous comment. ‘I’d better not be late. Thank you, John.’
Hunt left his dressing room, wondering exactly who would show up for his wedding.
* * *
He got part of the answer at the door into the music room where he and Cambourne were supposed to wait until they got word the bride was coming down. Then they would go through to the drawing room.
Dersingham met him at the music-room door. ‘I received your invitation, Huntercombe.’ His scowl threatened to leave indelible evidence of its presence. ‘If invitation it could be called.’
Hunt inclined his head. ‘Naturally we wished you to attend, Dersingham.’
Dersingham huffed. ‘Well, it’s a nice thing when a man is invited to his daughter’s wedding!’
Hunt raised his brows. He’d merely informed Dersingham of the time of the wedding. It hadn’t been an invitation, as such. How did one invite the parents of the bride to their daughter’s wedding? ‘Lady Dersingham is here?’
The scowl assumed epic proportions. ‘Certainly.’ Dersingham adjusted his cuffs. ‘Now if one of your servants would be so good as to show me where I am supposed to be, I’ll get there.’ He shot a filthy glance at the footman further along the hallway.
Following his glance, Hunt beckoned to the footman. ‘Robert, do show his lordship to his seat.’
Dersingham’s teeth ground. ‘In case you have forgotten, Huntercombe, a man is supposed to escort his daughter down the aisle.’
Hunt’s control teetered. ‘No, I hadn’t forgotten. But since you forgot that the last time Emma married, I believe other arrangements have been made.’
Dersingham stared at him. ‘What? Are you insane, Huntercombe? Other arrangements? What will people say?’
Hunt shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’ Over Dersingham’s shoulder he saw Barclay, wearing his This is urgent expression. ‘You will excuse me, sir. There is something I must attend to. Robert—’ he gestured again to the footman ‘—his lordship’s seat, if you please.’
Ensuring only that Dersingham was in Robert’s capable hands, Hunt turned to Barclay. ‘What is it, William?’
Barclay spoke very quietly. ‘The Duke of Keswick has arrived with a magistrate. Demanding the return of his grandchildren. He knows they’re here.’
* * *
Heat pricked at the back of Emma’s eyes as she came downstairs. A bride usually carried flowers and a prayer book, but Emma’s hands were otherwise occupied. Harry held one and Georgie the other. Harry carried the prayer book and Georgie clutched a posy of flowers.
‘We practised with Mr Barclay and Bentham and Mrs Bentham,’ Harry had informed her. ‘When the priest asks, “Who gives this woman?” we have to say, “We do.” Georgie puts your hand in Uncle Hunt’s and I hand you the prayer book.’
‘I keep holding the flowers,’ Georgie said, ‘because Mr Barclay said you wouldn’t have enough hands.’
Neither child appeared to be in the least nervous. Which was a very good thing, because her own knees were shaking. The first time she had been married she had not been nervous at all. The only people present had been herself, Peter, his great-aunt, the groomsman and a very disapproving clergyman. The absolute legal minimum for a
valid marriage.
This time the hum of chatter swelling through the open drawing-room door told her that the congregation was markedly larger and her stomach turned somersaults at the enormity of what she was doing. She was contracting—that was the only word for it—a marriage for financial gain and mutual convenience and need. She needed her children safe: he needed an heir.
‘Ready, Mama?’
She managed a smile for Georgie, who beamed in utter confidence.
‘You look like a princess, Mama.’ Georgie sighed happily. ‘Just like Cinderella.’
‘Thank you, sweetheart.’
Tears threatened again. Georgie’s whole idea of marriage was what happened at the end of Cinderella. Wicked stepmother vanquished, the slipper safely on Cinderella’s dainty foot and a happily-ever-after to follow.
At thirty-two, Emma knew it was not that simple.
There could be happiness, yes. Happiness together, even joy. But even she and Peter had not always been happy. There had been worry. About money, the children, sometimes the fear that the other might regret their choice. But they had been happy together. Happy, even joyful, to be together. Neither had ever regretted their choice. Because they had loved. Deeply and to the end. That and the children left no room for regret. ‘No regrets, Emm,’ had been Peter’s last words before he left her.
But this marriage was different. Love did not enter into it. This marriage was about duty. For herself and for Hunt. She had to remember that, and that her children, their happiness and safety, and Hunt’s heirs must be at the core of her marriage.
But Georgie still believed in the innocence of fairy tales.
Emma blinked back the tears. She smiled at Harry, so solemn and grown-up in his breeches, stockings and brown-velvet coat. ‘Let’s not keep your Uncle Hunt waiting.’
* * *
The sudden hush told Hunt that it was time. He turned and wondered if his heart had stopped. Certainly his breath caught. She stood just inside the door, the children on either side. Gone was the shabby, threadbare grey that had leached all colour from her face. Instead she shimmered in lace-trimmed amber silk. Her dark hair was uncovered and arranged so that soft curls framed her face. The pearls he had given her yesterday glowed at her throat and ears.
His Convenient Marchioness Page 12
