by Diane Gaston
She twisted around as if to look for something else to throw at him.
‘I cannot believe it!’ she cried with a voice low and harsh and echoing his own rage. ‘You are like him.’
‘Like who?’ he couldn’t help but ask.
‘Like him.’ Her eyes shot daggers at him. ‘You are a liar and a gamester, and I cannot believe I have married a man like my father. I thought I had escaped him!’
Her words stung as sharply as if she’d slapped him in the face. He stooped down and picked up the book, Modern Concepts in Agriculture, 1732, hardly modern, but a book he thought might be useful should he ever again have crops to plant.
Words leapt to the tip of his tongue. He would tell her he was nothing like her father. He’d done it all to save his family and estate and all the people who depended upon him.
What was the use? He had lied to her. Manipulated her. Tried to take her money from her. He was too painfully like her father.
She brushed past him with a swish of skirts, leaving the room like a Fury of ancient Greek mythology. It felt like she sucked the air from the room as she left.
Guy sank into a chair and put his head in his hands. He could not spare a thought about what he had done to her. He needed to think his way out of this morass.
What else could he do to save them? He had to try to reverse his ill luck in some manner.
Nothing came immediately to mind. If one could no longer marry for money, where was one to win a fortune?
The answer reluctantly dawned, but he could only feel like a condemned man awakening to the day of execution.
He would become a gamester, haunting gentlemen’s clubs and gaming hells for the next big game. Just as she accused him, he would wager all their futures on a turn of the cards, exactly like his father and brother before him.
Exactly like her father as well.
Chapter Four
A week later, Emily walked into the Upper Assembly room on the arm of her husband, her first public appearance as his wife. She would have gladly forsaken the opportunity, but his mother pined for entertainment, and he had relented. Emily could hardly refuse her husband’s request she accompany them.
Only two tiers of seating had been set up on the sides of the large room, and perhaps a hundred guests filled it. Not a bad showing for early October, but not even approaching the numbers at the height of the Bath Season. She glanced nervously around.
Her mother sat on the opposite side of the room next to the ageing Lord Cranton, whom Emily knew to be her latest flirtation. She leaned over the gentleman, giving him an ample view of her generous bosom. He laughed and whispered something in her ear. Emily touched her cheek, hot with embarrassment. Even more mortifying, her mother-in-law and husband were also gazing in Lady Duprey’s direction. Her mother-in-law gave a disapproving huff.
Emily supposed she would have to greet her mother for propriety’s sake. She dearly hoped her mother would be civil and return her greeting. Much depended upon how many glasses of wine her mother had consumed at dinner. On the other hand, if her father was present this evening, she hoped to avoid him altogether. He was bound to be in the card room, where her husband would certainly be headed.
Like a true gamester, her husband had been out every night since their arrival in Bath, coming home with the first glow of dawn. She knew because she was often still tossing and turning when he came in and could hear him moving about. Sometimes his step was light. A winning night, no doubt. Sometimes he moved like his feet were bound with irons. A losing streak. Only when the sounds from his room ceased could she sleep.
A dozen or so people looked towards the new Lord and Lady Keating, the ladies whispering behind their fans. Emily knew her marriage to Guy had been announced in the papers, because she’d read it there, but she and her husband had seen little of each other. They had conversed less, although he seemed inclined to put up a good front in the presence of his mother and the aunts.
‘You have made us the latest on dit, Guy,’ Lady Keating said in a petulant voice. ‘I confess, I thought it might be worse. I don’t suppose anyone will cut us, not that it would be of any consequence. Half of them are from the navy or the army, for goodness’ sake. I declare, Bath has been overrun by military men.’
‘You forget I was once a military man. Retired soldiers have to live somewhere,’ Guy said.
She sniffed. ‘Well, they are fair to ruining Bath. In any event, we ought to be at Annerley this time of year.’
‘You know we cannot be at Annerley,’ he said.
Emily wondered at the reason they could not go to the family property for the winter months. Was it rented like Malvern? She would not be surprised, but she would not ask. She had decided to converse as little as possible with the man she married. Otherwise, she feared losing her temper again.
‘Let me find you some seats,’ he said.
Emily noted that he spoke more to his mother than he did to her, so perhaps he felt the same as she. He was angry with her for having no money, even though her father had been the real villain in this perfidy. Not Emily. She had not deceived Guy Keating. He had deceived her.
Was there ever a man who could be trusted? Even Lord Devlin had deceived her, making her think he would offer for her when he was living with her sister and in love with her. At least he’d done right by Madeleine. Their marriage had been announced months ago.
She sighed. She’d never truly believed Devlin meant to marry her anyway. But she’d thought Guy Keating to be different. Why? Simply because he’d shown such kindness to his great-aunts? It seemed an absurd notion now, to believe that one glimpse of his kindness meant he’d be kind to her.
Guy seated them near friends of his mother’s and very properly introduced her as his wife. Emily endured the ladies’ appraising looks, knowing they were dying to ask why this attractive man had married the very plain Emily Duprey, daughter of the shocking Baron and Baroness. Never mind. As was her custom, she would behave so properly no one would have a thing to say about her.
She chatted politely to Lady Keating’s friends, and within moments, her husband excused himself, promising to return in time for tea. Emily supposed he’d been eager to escape to his cards. He’d certainly not felt compelled to ask her to dance, though eight couples were at this moment forming the first set.
Her mother-in-law, having her friends to converse with, required nothing of her, so Emily occupied herself by watching the dancers perform their figures. The ladies’ dresses swirled prettily, like flower petals in a breeze. She found her toes itching to tap time to the music. She kept still, however, and tried to appear perfectly content.
Her mother glanced her way and gave her a halfhearted wave. Emily acknowledged the greeting with a nod of her head. She quickly continued to scan the room, lest she see her mother beckon her to walk over. Her eyes lit on an impeccably dressed gentleman, tall and elegant.
Mr Cyprian Sloane.
He caught her looking in his direction, and she could almost feel his steel grey eyes travelling over her in that manner that always made her think he knew what she looked like without her clothes. His full lips stretched into a knowing smile.
Oh, dear. He probably thought she’d been staring at him, but she never stared at gentlemen.
Not that Sloane was a gentleman precisely. By birth, perhaps, but he had the most shocking reputation as a rakehell. Ladies, from much younger than his thirty-odd years to much older, were said to throw themselves at him every bit as much as Caroline Lamb had at Lord Byron.
To Emily’s total dismay, Mr Sloane excused himself from the people he was with and crossed the room. He could not be coming to speak to her. He could not.
He walked directly to her. ‘Good evening, ladies.’
His white-toothed smile encompassed the whole group and brought their chatter to a sudden halt. Emily saw more than one set of raised eyebrows when he turned exclusively to her.
‘I understand I must wish you happy, Emily…Lady Keating.’
He spoke her Christian name as if she’d given him permission. She most assuredly had not. He extended his hand. What could she do but raise her own hand to him? He lifted it to his lips.
Her cheeks burned. ‘Thank you.’
He held her hand a moment too long and she was forced to pull it from his grasp. He continued to discomfit her with the intensity of his gaze.
‘If your…husband has not otherwise engaged you, I wonder if I might have the pleasure of the next dance.’ His smooth voice paused significantly on the word husband.
Emily wished he would simply go away, but she could think of no excuse to refuse his request. Besides, she longed to dance. ‘Very well.’
He bowed and walked away, leaving her to endure the knowing looks of her mother-in-law’s cronies. The attention of Bath’s most notorious womaniser did her reputation no good at all.
Emily could never quite comprehend why Sloane had bothered to pay his addresses to someone as plain as she, but, in the weeks before her elopement, he’d begun to notice her. She’d been so relieved when Guy began courting her. She’d fancied Guy had plucked her from the salivating jaws of a veritable wolf.
That was nonsense, of course. She knew that now. Guy had been far more dangerous. She’d fallen for Viscount Keating—no, for his kindness. She’d fallen for his kindness. But he’d turned out every bit as false as Cyprian Sloane.
Her gaze lifted to the crystal chandelier above the dancers, and she pretended to blink from the brightness of the flickering candles. Suddenly all was as clear as those twinkling crystals. Sloane must have heard her father’s tale about her being an heiress. That was why he’d given her the scant attention he had.
But she was married now. Why attend to her still?
When the musicians tuned up for the next set, Sloane appeared at her side and threaded her arm through his to lead her to the dance floor. Emily could hear the murmurings of her mother-in-law’s friends wafting behind her.
Sloane faced her in the set, his intense grey eyes riveted on her face. ‘Well, Emily, my dear, you have desolated me entirely.’
My dear. What maggot entered these men’s brains to assume she’d believe herself dear to them?
‘I do not understand you, sir.’
They needed to complete the figure before he could speak to her again.
One corner of his well-defined mouth turned up. ‘You have eloped with Keating and quite broke my heart.’
The steps parted them and they had to thread through the other couples before coming close again.
Emily narrowed her eyes. ‘Do not speak nonsense to me.’
His brows shot up in surprise, but he retained the amusement in his countenance.
For the remainder of the set Emily endured more pretty words, more falsities. She pretended she did not hear them, but instead let herself keep step to the music. At the end of the dance, he bowed and she curtsied. He escorted her back to her seat.
To her astonishment, Guy stood there, a grim expression on his face.
‘I return your lovely bride to you,’ Sloane said to him with a wicked smirk.
Guy merely inclined his head, but when the man sauntered away, he gave her a stern look. She’d clearly displeased him by dancing with Sloane, but where had he been when the music started?
‘You are finished with cards so soon?’ she asked in a casual tone, determined to get her barb in first.
He did not appear to notice. ‘It is time for tea,’ he said, turning from her to his mother. ‘Shall I escort you both to the tea room?’
As a good husband ought, he fetched tea for her and sat next to her at a table shared by his mother and two of her friends.
As the older women engrossed themselves in their own gossip with words such as that man and shocking audible, Emily was left in Guy’s company.
He gave her a sombre look. ‘I do not wish to criticise you, my dear—’ those words again ‘—but Cyprian Sloane is not precisely the sort of company to keep.’
‘Indeed?’ she responded, having difficulty maintaining her precise standard of composure. ‘And, pray tell, how am I to fend him off without creating a scene and calling even more attention to myself?’
A flash of surprise lit his eyes. ‘I concede your point.’
She took a satisfying sip of tea, disguising it as an ordinary one.
The look he gave her next seemed almost…caring. ‘I…I would not wish your reputation to suffer. Sloane’s partiality cannot bring any good.’
He reached over and for a moment she thought he might touch her, but he did not.
‘I shall not behave with impropriety, I promise you.’ She kept her voice low. ‘But I cannot prevent him from seeking me out and I cannot stop those who wish to comment on it.’ Her insides were churning, but she was not sure if it were because he sat so close that she could feel his breath on her face, or because he dared comment on her behaviour. After all, he had rushed off to wager sums at whist, leaving her to fend for herself.
‘True.’ His ready agreement unnerved her more than if he’d given her a good scold.
It was his turn to sip his tea and for her to wonder what thoughts ran through his head. It was inconceivable he took Sloane’s attentions seriously. She had never been the sort sought after by rakes. Or any other type of gentleman, for that matter.
He turned to his mother. ‘Mother, would you enjoy some cards this evening, or do you prefer to watch the dancing?’
‘I had hoped to play cards, I must confess,’ Lady Keating replied. ‘Are there other ladies in the card room?’
‘Several ladies,’ he said. He leaned towards Emily. ‘Perhaps if you came in the card room with me, Mr Sloane would not disturb you further.’
In spite of herself, her heart fluttered.
‘You can partner my mother,’ he added.
Ah, he did not desire her company after all. Emily lifted her cup to her lips again. After a fortifying sip, she said, ‘If your mother wishes it, I should be happy to partner her.’
Very shortly after, Emily found herself seated across from her mother-in-law at a whist table shared by an elderly gentleman and his wife, who were acquainted with the Keatings. Unfortunately, she was positioned so that her husband was in her view, seated in a corner with other black-coated men who hunched over their cards with grave, resolute expressions on their faces.
She’d seen an identical expression on her father’s face. He was in the room this very moment. She’d seen him when she entered, but, to her relief, he was too engrossed in his play to notice her.
Emily picked up the cards to deal. As soon as the deck was in her hands, habit took over. The cards rippled rhythmically as she shuffled. She could almost deal the cards without looking. Such were skills honed in a household obsessed by card-playing. She, her sisters and brother had been weaned on whist and piquet and quadrille. When her father could find no one else to play cards, he sought out his children. It was the only time he sought them out. In those days Emily would play whist until night left her yawning and rubbing her eyes, if it meant having her father’s regard. Like a good father’s daughter, she’d prided herself on playing better than her sisters and brother. If she’d thought it would win her father’s respect, she’d been mistaken. When she won against him, he became furious.
The dealing done, Emily picked up her hand and spread the cards in a fan. A shiver ran up her spine. She felt the spades, diamonds, clubs and hearts call to her, as if beckoning her back into her father’s influence.
Lady Keating and the other couple appeared not to notice. They seemed rather to find great enjoyment from the game. Lady Keating turned out to be merely competent as a player, and their opponents not as skilled. Emily held herself back from getting pulled totally into the game. Instead, she let her gaze drift to where her husband sat. He was an effective distraction.
She marvelled at the sheer symmetry of his face, the fineness of his chiselled features, the softness of his lips. She could swear the blue of his eyes glow
ed like sapphires in the room’s candlelight. He concentrated on his cards, sitting very still in his chair, while the other men shifted at times, even occasionally rising to their feet when taking a trick.
So her husband was as cool a player at cards as he was at marriage. She shrugged. She did not care, did she?
She allowed herself to be lured back into the card game.
Cyprian Sloane leaned lazily against the door-frame of the card room, an amused expression on his face. So Keating had persuaded the so very plain and all-too-correct Emily Duprey to elope to Gretna Green? How daring.
He gave a mirthless laugh. With parents like the Baron and Baroness Duprey, a daughter might do anything to get away, even a woman as lacking in spirit as Miss Duprey.
When several gentlemen, including Keating, had turned their attention to Emily Duprey, Sloane had joined the competition. Now he could not help feel that Keating had won and he had lost.
Too bad he hadn’t thought of asking her to run away with him. Not that he’d have contemplated taking her to Scotland like Keating did. Rather out of character for Keating to be so on the ball. Sloane had misjudged him.
He glanced at Keating, deep into his cards. That was a surprise as well, but he ought to have known. Bad blood always won out. Keating looked to be cut from the same cloth as his father and brother after all and would probably complete the family’s journey to the River Tick.
An idea struck Sloane. Maybe Keating had believed Duprey’s hum of a story about his daughter inheriting a fortune. Poor fellow, if he had. Would serve him right for winning the girl.
Sloane gave an imperceptible shrug. Virgins were more trouble than they were worth anyway. Besides, taking a maid’s virginity was below even his low standards of conduct.
There were plenty of other women in the world. His eyes swept the card room. None of them, unfortunately, were in Bath.
