Their eyes met, hers shy, questioning. Now his heart really did stop. Would she regret this? Then she was moving, tugged along, it seemed, by Harry and Georgie, and he could see the laughter in her eyes. He nearly laughed aloud in response. Apparently those two had no qualms. And Emma was smiling now, all shyness gone, as she came to him down the length of the room and the guests watched her progress. Only the faintest blush betrayed her awareness of their scrutiny. Her chin was high and he knew a sudden fear, as she came to him so confidently. What if he had miscalculated and his strategy to confound Keswick misfired into a scandal?
Letty and Caroline sat at the front with their husbands, gracious smiles pinned in place. The pair of them had concluded that open disapproval would only cause gossip, according to Letty when she had spoken to him earlier. He had politely pointed out that any disapproval, open or private, would cause a family breach. Letty’s mouth had thinned, but she had accepted the rebuke.
But if he’d got it wrong with Keswick...
Across from his sisters, Louisa Dersingham was all sweet smiles and a lace-edged handkerchief that she dabbed to her eyes when she thought anyone was watching. Dersingham’s face was utterly rigid. More than one puzzled glance had been cast at him by guests obviously wondering who was going to give the bride away.
Then Emma stood beside him with the children. Harry, solemn and serious with responsibility, and little Georgie radiant.
Feigning a confidence he was far from feeling, he bent to Emma and spoke very softly. ‘Trust me. Keswick has arrived. I have given instructions for him to be shown in here.’
Only the swift intake of breath betrayed her. Wide, questioning eyes met his.
‘Trust me,’ Hunt repeated, praying she was right to do so. ‘He won’t dare.’
‘Giles, dear boy?’
He glanced at his cousin, waiting to marry them. ‘A moment, David. A late arrival.’
David nodded obligingly. ‘Of course.’
A moment later the drawing-room door opened and Barclay ushered in Keswick, Lord Martin Lacy and a small spare man Hunt recognised as the magistrate Sir Hector Sloane. Keswick’s jaw dropped as he stalked in, leaning heavily on his cane, and realised the room was full. Lord Martin’s startled gaze fell on Hunt and Emma and his expression froze. Swiftly he bent to his father, whispered something. Keswick’s eyes bulged.
Hunt took a step forward. ‘Welcome, your Grace, Lord Martin, Sir Hector. Please, be seated.’ He waited—an instant that stretched into an eternity—praying it wasn’t about to blow up in his face. Keswick’s mouth opened and Hunt held his breath.
If Keswick simply walked out the scandal would be cataclysmic. If he made a scene... Lord Martin muttered in his father’s ear.
Keswick’s mouth shut like a trap and he stalked to the seat a footman was holding for him. His son and Sir Hector sat down to either side.
Releasing his breath, Hunt turned back to David. ‘We’re ready.’
David smiled at them, settled his preaching bands, and began. ‘Dearly beloved...’
Only rarely did Hunt really listen to a clergyman enumerate the reasons for marriage, starting with procreation and advising the parties to be reverent, discreet and sober about it.
According to David they were marrying for all the right reasons. And it felt right, although he hoped the wedding night would not be particularly reverent. Sober, yes, but not reverent.
And then the question: ‘Who gives this woman to be married to this man?’
‘We do.’
The young voices rang out, accompanied by a startled murmur from the assembled guests.
Georgie placed Emma’s hand in Hunt’s and Harry handed her the prayer book. He took his sister’s hand and they stepped back to stand with Lucy and Fitch in the front row of chairs. His throat tight, Hunt closed his fingers over Emma’s, felt her tremble. All the right reasons, he reminded himself, as he turned to smile down at her, and he prayed that the ceremony would give Keswick time to come to his senses.
* * *
Emma kept her chin high and her smile gracious, as Hunt led her through to the music room to receive their guests. One by one they filed past and Hunt presented her. Bentham had already whisked the children back to the nursery, promising that there was a special meal up there and that it would be all boring speeches and adult chatter at the wedding breakfast.
Better, Hunt had murmured, if Keswick’s heir and lost booty were not paraded under his nose for too long. She could only agree.
‘A private word with you, Huntercombe.’ Keswick sounded as though his back teeth were glued together. He glared at her, his face mottling.
‘As many as you like, sir,’ Hunt said calmly. ‘After our other guests have left. Harborough!’ He smiled at the peer behind Keswick. ‘Good of you to come at such short notice.’
His breathing audible, Keswick moved on, making room for Lord Harborough and his lady who were full of cheerful congratulations. Emma kept her smile firmly in place as she greeted one after another of Hunt’s relations and close friends. And then Lord Martin Lacy and Sir Hector Sloane...
‘Ah, Huntercombe.’ Sir Hector was perspiring. ‘Happy occasion, what? Hope you don’t think I intended...that is—’ He wiped his brow.
Hunt smiled enigmatically. ‘You’re very welcome, Sloane. Emma, my dear, Sir Hector Sloane.’
Emma smiled the charming social smile she had perfected over a decade before and pretended that Sir Hector didn’t know that she knew he’d come with Keswick and Lord Martin to take custody of her children. Instead she reminded herself that, as Hunt’s wife, she outranked every other woman in the room, including her own mother, and most of the gentlemen, including her erstwhile brother-in-law and the unfortunate magistrate.
* * *
After a wedding breakfast that gave no indication the marriage had been conducted with rather less than twenty-four hours’ notice, the guests began to take their leave. Louisa took a sweetly tearful, very public farewell of her daughter.
‘A mother’s heart, you know,’ she said in lowered tones that somehow carried to everyone. ‘So glad, dearest, to see you so well settled.’
Emma’s dignified smile held. ‘Thank you, Mother.’
Louisa sailed from the room, Dersingham bobbing in her wake, on a positive wave of social sentiment and approval.
With their departure the laggards began to take their leave. Emma saw Hunt stroll over and speak very quietly to Lord Martin, who for the past two hours had been the perfect wedding guest, laughing and smiling with the best of them, although giving his hosts a wide berth. Lord Martin’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded and walked to where his father and Sir Hector stood chatting to Lord Cambourne and Mr Fox.
Emma returned polite platitudes to Lady Fortescue as she watched Keswick and his companions take a punctilious farewell of Hunt.
A few moments later the last guests were gone and Emma let out a shuddering sigh. Even Keswick had left without a fuss and they were alone. Except for the children and a houseful of servants.
‘Alone for a moment.’ Hunt picked up a glass and poured champagne into it. ‘Here. Have this. I think a little fortification is in order.’
Something about the tone of his voice had Emma’s eyes snapping to his as she accepted the champagne. ‘Is something wrong?’
His mouth hardened as he poured a glass for himself. ‘Keswick, Lacy and Sloane are in the library. No.’ He touched her wrist lightly as she made to set the glass down. ‘Finish it.’
‘But, surely we should—’
‘Make them wait.’ A faint smile curved his mouth. ‘Strategy. Making them wait at our convenience is to our advantage. Sloane is deeply uncomfortable anyway. Give him time to stew a little more.’
He touched his glass to hers. ‘It will be all right, Emma. Trust me. By attending our wedding Keswick overplayed his hand. He can h
ardly turn around now and claim either of us to be an unfit guardian.’
* * *
Keswick stood scowling by the fire with Lord Martin and Sir Hector Sloane. The scowl deepened as Hunt and Emma entered, and the moment the door closed he started forward.
‘Huntercombe, whatever folly you have embarked upon, I demand that my heir be—’
‘Your heir? Not your grandson?’
Keswick spluttered. ‘What nonsense is—?’
‘You are not in a position to demand anything, Keswick.’ Hunt kept his voice utterly calm, fiercely aware of Emma’s hand gripping on his arm. Even though he had just married her for an heir, no child should simply be the heir. Or the spare. ‘Naturally as Emma’s erstwhile father-in-law you are a welcome guest, as are Lord Martin and Sloane.’
Keswick snorted. ‘Poppycock! I don’t know how she hoodwinked you into offering marriage, but my heir needs a proper education and guardian! While as for the girl—’
Hunt raised his brows. ‘Again, your heir. And are you suggesting that I am an improper guardian?’ Sloane, Hunt noted, had paled. He continued, ‘Or that I cannot see that Harry—yes, he does have a name, Keswick—is educated and trained to his position? You are aware that my marriage to Harry and Georgie’s mother makes me their guardian-in-law?’
Sir Hector cleared his throat. ‘As to that—’
‘And surely no one,’ Hunt continued as if Sloane had not spoken, ‘is suggesting that the Marchioness of Huntercombe—’ his hand covered Emma’s, felt it tremble ‘—is an unfit mother?’
The silence thickened and Lord Martin’s mouth flattened.
After a blistering moment, Hunt nodded. ‘Good. Because I would have no hesitation in my response.’
Emma’s fingers tightened on his arm and Lord Martin scowled.
‘Now, Huntercombe, I am sure no one means anything of the sort.’ Sir Hector looked as though he wished himself elsewhere. ‘But as Lord Peter’s father, his Grace would be the natural guardian, so your claim to be guardian by right of marriage to the mother is—’
‘In addition to Lord Peter’s will naming Lady Emma as sole guardian and specifically excluding his father,’ Hunt said, his voice icing over, ‘Keswick forfeited his so-called rights when he repudiated his grandchildren at the time of Lord Peter’s death.’ He sent Keswick a cold look. ‘Perhaps, Sloane, you might like to read the letter Keswick sent then? I assume you know the contents, Keswick, since the original bears your signature and seal.’
Keswick scowled. ‘That’s beside the point. The boy is now my heir and—’
‘I’d be interested to see it.’ Lord Martin ignored his sire’s mutterings and held Hunt’s gaze with his own. ‘Very interested.’
Hunt inclined his head. ‘Of course, Lacy.’ He stalked over to his desk. ‘I had my secretary make a copy. My solicitor has the original in his keeping and is arranging for notarised copies to be made.’
Lord Martin snorted. ‘Careful, aren’t you?’
Hunt drew the copy from his desk drawer. ‘Extremely. Read it. Then ask yourself what the effect would be if it were read out in court. Or if one of those copies somehow found its way into someone else’s hands.’
Keswick’s eyes bulged at the implied threat as Lord Martin took the single sheet and scanned it. Slowly he looked up at his father. ‘Do you remember what is in this, sir?’
Keswick shrugged in apparent unconcern, but his gaze shifted under the hard stare of his son. ‘I don’t recall exactly. It was years ago, for God’s sake!’
Lord Martin handed the letter back to Hunt. ‘Illuminating. I’ll bid you good day, Huntercombe.’ His gaze flicked to Emma and he executed a stiff bow. ‘Ma’am. Accept my felicitations.’
‘Where the devil do you think you’re going?’ Keswick demanded as his son walked towards the door.
‘I have another engagement, sir. And after reading that I’ve nothing more to say to Huntercombe beyond congratulations.’ He shot the Duke a scathing glance. ‘I suggest you have a look at that letter if you can’t recall its contents. Believe me, you don’t want it read out in court. Or anywhere else.’
He nodded to Hunt, bowed to Emma and left, closing the door behind him.
Hunt met Keswick’s furious glare. ‘Do you need to refresh your memory?’
Keswick clenched his fists. ‘Come now, Huntercombe. Be reasonable. Bygones should be bygones. The boy is now my heir; that changes things materially.’
‘Of course, Keswick.’ Hunt glanced at the letter. ‘But it won’t change the fact that four years ago you informed your son’s widow that she and her spawn were welcome to end in the gutter where they belonged.’
‘I say, Huntercombe!’ Sir Hector looked scandalised. ‘That’s a little strong, don’t you think?’
Hunt held out the letter. ‘Not my words, Sloane. Read it for yourself and tell me if you think the man who could write that about his grandchildren, after cancelling their father’s annuity, is a suitable guardian.’ He glanced at Keswick. ‘I’ll have no hesitation in making the contents of this letter public, Keswick, if you attempt to wrest custody of the children from me.’
Sloane took the letter, frowned as he read it.
Emma held her breath. Hunt had possession of the children now, but if Keswick chose to fight he still had a claim that a court would be bound at the very least to consider. How much did he care about public opinion?
Sloane shook his head. ‘While it could be argued that this letter does not waive your claim, Keswick, I couldn’t advise you to pursue it. Your only remaining argument, now that Lady Emma has married Huntercombe, is that the boy is your heir. Huntercombe’s own position negates that. The lad can clearly be trained to his position by his stepfather. It might be different had you taken some interest in the children before this, but as it is—’ He shook his head. ‘Unless you wish to question Huntercombe’s moral fitness or his wife’s moral fitness—’ He cleared his throat. ‘In which case very clear evidence would be required.’
There was a moment’s shattering silence. Then Keswick turned on his heel and stalked out. Hunt heard the careful breath Emma released.
Sir Hector gulped. ‘I think that concludes the matter, Huntercombe.’
Fierce exaltation shook him. He’d done it. He hadn’t failed her. ‘Thank you, Sloane.’ Hunt kept his voice easy, as though a minor point of ownership had been settled. ‘One thing—are you acquainted with Lord Pickford?’ Best to get everything clear.
Sloane went very red. ‘We’ve met.’
‘I thought you might have,’ Hunt said. ‘An acquaintance of Keswick’s, I believe. Perhaps you would convey to him anything from this meeting that you consider pertinent to his, shall we say, continued good health?’
Sloane wiped his brow. ‘I could do that.’
‘Thank you.’ Hunt strolled to the door. ‘I could deliver the message myself, but I feel it would not be at all conducive to Pickford’s continued survival, I mean health, for me to speak with him. Permit me to show you out.’ After which he would have to find something to take his mind off the temptation to sweep his bride off to bed, lock the door and ignore the existence of the entire world for at least twenty-four hours.
Chapter Eleven
Hunt wondered, as the children raced in the park with Fergus, just how many men spent their wedding day teaching a ten-year-old boy to play chess. Not to mention playing backgammon with a six-year-old girl. And then took them for a walk in the park. Shouts and shrieks of delight rang in the frosty air, interspersed with Fergus’s barks as the ball flew.
However, a man had to do something while waiting for the clock to proclaim it a decent hour to take his bride to bed. Not that the clock’s lack of progress would have stopped him doing precisely that...but Georgie and Harry needed to spend time with their mother, they needed to know him. And he didn’t feel at all equal to the ta
sk of banishing them to the nursery and the care of servants just so he could bed their mother. But beyond all the practicalities of the situation, he was enjoying himself in a way that he had forced himself to forget.
‘They are having such a good time,’ Emma said. ‘Thank you.’
He raised his brows. ‘For taking a walk in the park? What else might we have done to pass the time with them?’
She flushed. It was a pretty flush, he noted. The wind had whipped colour into her cheeks anyway and he found himself wondering just how far the flush might extend. There was something to be said after all for anticipation. If only he wasn’t so nervous about the whole business...
‘I thought you might have said that the proper place for them was the nursery and—’
She stopped and he wondered if the flush had crept a little lower. ‘It occurred to me,’ he admitted. Anticipation could be wearing on a man’s nerves. Too much time to think about everything a fellow could get wrong...
Emma’s flush deepened to burning crimson and he laughed despite the nagging sensation in his stomach. Ignoring the dictates of propriety, he put his arm around her shoulder, drew her close.
‘Hunt!’
‘We’re married.’ He wanted to be a great deal more married.
‘Yes, but we’re in the park!’
‘So we are.’ He kept his arm precisely where it was and consigned the park, and all the world, to Hades. How long could the children run? Fergus would run until the ball wore out, but surely the children would tire?
Eventually Emma called them in and much to Hunt’s surprise they came without protest.
Georgie, in fact, had an air of suppressed excitement. As Hunt drew his handkerchief from his pocket to wrap the cricket ball, she announced, ‘We have a present for you, Uncle Hunt.’
He stared. ‘A present?’
His Convenient Marchioness Page 13
