by Lynn Messina
“Dear, don’t be such a melodramatic miss. There was only one witness, and he was a lovely man. Indeed, we’re going to dance the waltz together tomorrow night at the Bennington ball. There’s no cause for alarm.”
“You can’t dance with the man who saw you steal the orchid. What if he tells the duke?”
Emma shrugged. “Let him. I don’t see why the duke should care who his cousin dances with.”
“No, what if the cousin tells the duke you stole his Rhyncholaelia digbyana? What a fine pickle that would be. Sir Waldo would be horrified by the scandal, and I can’t say that I’d blame him.”
The mention of her sister’s awful fiancé caused Emma to answer more harshly than she intended. “Well, if Sir Waldo Windbag doesn’t—”
“Windbourne.”
“—like it, then I suggest he align himself with another family. The Harlows of Derbyshire cannot spend their lives worrying about what little thing might set him off. You need someone with less delicate sensibilities, who doesn’t take a pet every time a lady says ‘devil’ in his presence.”
Lavinia, who knew her sister’s passions intimately, gave fair attention to this speech but was unswayed by it. “Your language could stand an improvement, my dear.”
Emma made an inelegant grunt that sounded like something one would hear from a horse.
“You know that Sir Waldo comes from one of the oldest families in England. His people are very proud and correct, and they do not do things the Harlow way. But I believe he’s a good man.”
“Too good,” Emma muttered.
“What dear?”
“Nothing.”
“I know you’re upset that I’m marrying, but it won’t change anything, my darling. You shall see. Sir Waldo is not quite the ogre you think he is. I expect we’ll both be changed by our marriage. He’ll become a little more free in his ways, and I’ll become a little less so. Compromise. That’s what marriage is about.”
Emma’s experience with Sir Waldo had convinced her that he was a man incapable of compromise, especially when dealing with a woman. But she held her tongue, unwilling to fight anymore with her sister. “Please, let’s not tease ourselves over this. The important thing is that you have a flower to show at the Horticultural Society exhibition next month. Now do help me select a dress for tomorrow night’s ball. Imagine! Me finally dancing the waltz with a man who’s not a relation.”
“I cannot use this flower,” Lavinia said.
“Why ever not?” Emma asked, beginning to despair of ever finding a dress. When had her wardrobe become so bland and missish?
“It’s not mine. I haven’t raised it. Using it would be a violation of the society’s rules. Besides, think of the scandal if the duke was to recognize it. What if he entered the very same flower? They would toss me out of the society on my ear.”
This was the last thing Emma wanted. “Of course it wouldn’t do to pass the duke’s orchid off as your own. I meant for you to use it with another one of your plants to make a new plant.”
“Cross-fertilize it to make a hybrid?” Lavinia’s eyes lit up. “That would be just the thing. I have an excellent Altensteinia nubigena. No, not excellent like the duke’s is excellent, but the colors are vibrant and the stem fine and erect. Yes, it would go very nicely with this orchid, assuming the cross-fertilization worked. Oh, wouldn’t that be marvelous. I could call the new hybrid the Stolen Trent or something like that.”
“Wonderful. I look forward to seeing it at the exhibition.”
Lavinia laughed. “My dear, how silly you are. You can’t grow a new orchid in six weeks. It might be ready for showing next year but even that’s doubtful. It usually takes two or three years to get a show-quality flower.”
“Oh,” said Miss Harlow. The thought of waiting two or three years to get results seemed intolerable to her. “Well, in the meantime, what do you think of this gown?” She held up a high-waisted cerulean blue silk dress.
Lavinia barely glanced at it. “Very becoming, I’m sure. But I can’t spare much time. I must plant this before the bulb dries out. You’re the best of good sisters to give me such a thoughtful present.” She kissed her sister on the cheek before flying out of the room and leaving Emma to her unsatisfying wardrobe.
Emma craned her neck but couldn’t see above the awful crush at Lord Bennington’s ball.
“Really, Emma, do cease twitching in that ghastly manner,” Sarah Harlow said sternly. “You are making me terribly nervous.”
With effort, Emma stopped her fidgeting and glanced at her sister-in-law. Her brother’s wife was a tall, slim woman with excellent posture and a refined manner. She never twitched or squirmed or chafed, and she could always be relied upon for useful, sensible advice. She and Emma were opposites in many respects, but they rubbed together very well indeed. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I’ll try to behave.”
“I don’t know what your problem is today. You’re never a pattern card of correct behavior, but you usually have enough sense not to stand on your tippy-toes and teeter about. You look like an oak tree about to fall over.”
“I am sorry, dear. It’s just that I am very excited to be here.”
Sarah snorted. It was an unladylike sound and one not often heard emanating from her elegant person. “You’re never excited to be anywhere this crowded.”
“Pooh,” she dismissed, trying to stretch her neck in a covert way that would not reveal her true intentions. Alas, all she spied were the jeweled curls of the lady in front of her. “I often enjoy social outings of this stripe.”
“You can’t hoodwink me, my dear. You loathe packed drawing rooms and overstuffed balls. If you enjoyed social outings, then your poor mama would not despair of marrying you off.”
Emma momentarily abandoned her ineffectual search and looked her sister-in-law in the eye. “Now you are telling fibs, Sarah. You know very well Mama would despair of me whatever I should do. As long as I’m unmarried and ostensibly still her responsibility, she will continue to despair,” she said without the heat of resentment. “You’ll note that I say ostensibly, since she dumped me and Vinnie on you and my brother without a second thought. I’m not complaining, of course. I’d much rather stay with you than with my mother anyway.”
Sarah knew Emma’s assessment was correct—Margaret Harlow’s maternal instinct was sadly lacking—but she didn’t want to admit that to Emma. She would rather that the girl had some illusions left. “Surely dump isn’t quite the right word.”
Emma laughed, said no more on the subject and strained her neck again. If only she were just a little bit taller…
“Really, my dear, tell me what has you in this tizzy,” Sarah ordered.
“I’m going to dance the waltz for the first time,” answered Emma, a becoming blush instantly staining her peach cheeks.
Sarah witnessed the flood of color and marveled at its cause. “Rubbish, you know very well that Roger has danced the waltz with both you and Lavinia. You make a handsome pair with your blond heads so close together.”
Not caring to explain yet again the difference between dancing the waltz with a relation and every other man in the world, she simply said, “Well, it will be like the first time.”
Sarah stared at her with a familiar quizzical look. “You’re a strange child.”
At three and twenty, Emma was certainly no longer a child, but she did not take offense at this appellation. She’d been called a strange child ever since she had put her hair up.
The orchestra began a second waltz, and Emma began to fear that the duke’s cousin was not going to show after all. She really wasn’t surprised, of course. Town life offered many delights and distractions to the unencumbered male, especially those just arrived from the wilds of Yorkshire, and a tedious ball with warm lemonade could not compare. Perhaps she should seek out the duchess and strike up a conversation. Surely the duchess would know if he was coming or not. Now, if she could just see over this crowd…
“Well, now,” said Sarah in a
contemplative tone, “this is an unexpected development.”
Emma wasn’t interested in Sarah’s unexpected developments but was well bred enough not to show it. “What’s unexpected?” she asked, her eyes straining to see something above the fluffy blond head in front of her.
“Your sister,” answered Sarah.
“My sister?” Emma was unable to conceive of Lavinia doing anything unexpected.
“Yes, your sister is dancing with a duke, one with whom I didn’t know she was acquainted.”
Emma gasped with surprise and clapped her white-gloved hands. “Lavinia is waltzing with a real live duke? But that’s marvelous!” Instantly she was back on her tippy-toes, trying to get a clear view of the dance floor. Oh, why couldn’t she be tall like Sarah? “Tell me. I can’t see. Is he handsome? Of course he is. All dukes are handsome in their finery,” she said before a thought struck her. “Oooh, is Sir Windbag here? Do tell me you see him! Wouldn’t that be above all things wonderful if she were to jilt Sir Windbag for a duke! Very proud of his heritage, is he? He doesn’t have anything on a duchy.”
Sarah sent her a quelling look. “Emma, my dear, you must learn to be discreet and not quite so childish. Sir Waldo Windbourne is an excellent catch and a very nice feather in your sister’s cap.”
“Bah! One does not marry feathers.” Emma dismissed. She would not listen to a favorable word said on his behalf. “Just tell me if he’s here.”
Sarah used her height to advantage. “Yes, I can see him. He’s standing on the other side of the dance floor and he looks none too pleased.”
Emma giggled. “Of course not. So much for his consequence.” Her balance was precarious, and when she felt herself begin to fall, she clutched Sarah’s arm—and accidentally elbowed the lady in front of her. Although Emma apologized charmingly, the woman took offense and haughtily walked away, leaving a clear view of the dance floor in her wake. Greedily, Emma’s eye drank in the scene until she caught sight of her sister’s dancing partner. Then she paled.
“But, Sarah,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, “that’s not a duke.”
“I assure you, dear, that is a duke.”
She refused to accept this. “No, you must be mistaken.”
“Really, Emma, I’ve been out for almost ten years. Surely I know the Duke of Trent when I see him.”
CHAPTER TWO
Alexander Keswick, the seventh Duke of Trent, watched the last guest of his mother tea party climb into her carriage before seeking out the duchess. He found her in the front parlor with note cards on her lap and wire frames perched charmingly on her nose. He sat down on the settee across and helped himself to a leftover scone.
“Don’t pick,” admonished his mother, putting the pen down and removing her spectacles. “That has been sitting out for an age. If you’re famished, I’ll have Stuart prepare you a plate.” She pulled the bell and waited patiently for a servant to appear. “Stuart, a small morsel for the duke and a fresh pot of tea for me.”
Trent’s hunger was far from acute and the much-criticized scone served the situation very well, but he knew better than to try to derail a plan of his mother’s. Once she got an idea in her head, it lodged itself firmly there. As the order of tea clearly demonstrated, she was about to embark yet again on her favorite topic: the marriage of her only son. The duke sighed and began thinking of ways to extricate himself from another long, fruitless coze with his single-minded mother. It would take more than a pot of tea to convince him to get leg-shackled.
“How was your party?” he asked, picking at the scone despite his mother’s exhortations.
Although the dowager duchess could not be distracted, she didn’t mind a short-lived diversion. “Delightful. Mrs. Parker is redecorating her town house in the latest style, and she brought swatches of fabric with her in order to get my opinion. I was very flattered by her consideration and did my best to steer her in the right direction.”
“Nonsense, madam. As the prevailing arbiter of style, you thought it was no less than her duty to ask your opinion. What did you tell her?”
“That the oriental fashion is just a passing fancy and the lavish splendor of the pavilion in Brighton is a poor example for a drawing room in London. She was a bit surprised by my fervor—although how one can defend the charms of good old-fashioned English furniture without passion escapes me—but I’m confident that in the end she will be guided by my wisdom.”
Familiar with his mother’s vehemence, he could only assume that Mrs. Parker was even now ordering Gillow, Druce, and Cubit for her drawing room. “Excellent,” he said, as Stuart entered with a tray. He set a plate of fresh scones and jam in front of the duke, then placed the pot of tea in front of the duchess. The duke watched her pour the tea. “I say, did I see the Harlow Hoyden leaving with her mother?” he asked with calculated casualness and her grace noticed nothing amiss.
“Yes, Margaret Harlow came with her younger daughter in tow. We’ve never met before and I must admit I was a bit cross at the notion of having the Hoyden in my parlor, but she was everything that was well mannered and proper.” The duchess put the teapot down and spooned a small amount of sugar into her cup. “She sat so quietly in the corner that at times I could have sworn she wasn’t even here.”
At this statement, the duke smiled, but fortunately his usually observant mother did not noticed. She was too busy stirring her tea.
“She was so well behaved that I begin to suspect that the tales of her exploits have been greatly exaggerated. Surely it is not possible for a gently bred young lady to drive four horses at breakneck speed along the Newmarket road.” Jane Keswick took a delicate sip of her tea and began shaking her head. “Now that I think upon it, I’m convinced it did not happen. If I recall the story correctly, her brother was with her. I can only assume that he was the whipster and scandalmongers put her in the driver’s seat because it made a much better story. You know how people can be. The plain truth is never interesting enough.”
Having met the lady in question, Trent doubted very much that the widespread tale had done its subject a disservice. He had no trouble believing Miss Emma Harlow was in the driver’s seat, and he could well imagine her taking offense at his mother’s conclusions. “Her mother is a great friend of yours?”
“Not a great friend, no, but certainly a good one. We went to school together an age ago, and she’s just recently returned to town.” The dowager duchess helped herself to a scone and generously applied strawberry jam. “She’s been rusticating in Derbyshire, although I believe her husband remained in town. I can’t recall where the family seat is, but I trust it’s somewhere very provincial and dull. Nevertheless, her older daughter—I think her name is Lucy—managed to nab Windbourne. They are to be married early next year.”
“And the other daughter?”
“Emma? Oh, I would be very surprised if she had any eligible partis sniffing about. She’s very beautiful, of course, and most likely unfairly maligned by society, but no man wants a hoyden for a wife.”
Recalling his encounter this afternoon, Trent thought that there were a great many things worst than finding oneself wed to the Harlow Hoyden.
“Since we are speaking of wives,” his mother said, causing the duke’s heart to sink in his chest. The topic of Miss Emma Harlow had so thoroughly distracted him that he’d momentarily forgotten the disagreeable point of this coze. “Your sister and I are very concerned about you, Trent dear. You are not a boy any longer. You are, in fact, thirty and must start thinking of the succession. You know that it was your father’s dearest wish to see you happily wed to an amiable woman of upstanding birth equal to our own.”
The duke knew nothing of the sort. His father’s wishes and desires were a complete mystery to him. Although a kind enough man, the previous duke was rarely at home, and the only contact he had with his son were the infrequent occasions when he bumped into him at the club. And then he’d only apologize for his clumsiness and walk away. It was his mother’s h
abit, when either backed into a corner or short on logic, to drag his father into the discussion.
“The previous duke enjoyed the company of a certain type of woman, and it’s obvious to me that you are following close in his footsteps. That is fine. You’re men and you will behave as men have always done. However, it should not stand in the way of your forming a suitable connection.” The dowager duchess of Trent was nothing if not practical, and the finer emotions had little or nothing to do with the decisions she made. “Your father thought highly of Portia Hedgley and believed the two of you would rub together very well. Miss Hedgley is a biddable girl, soft-spoken and well bred, and would make an excellent duchess. I have spoken to her mother and she’s assured me that her daughter would welcome your attentions. It was your father’s one regret, my dear,” she said, introducing a well-placed note of tragedy into her voice, “that he couldn’t see you comfortably settled with Portia.”
The duke knew this was patently false. Portia Hedgley was a green miss just out of the schoolroom and could not have been above ten years old when his father died. He doubted very much that his father had been aware of her existence.
“I would love to linger, Mama, but I must leave you to finish your tea alone,” he said, deciding it was time to make his escape. He was an agreeable and patient man who dealt with most situations with good-natured acceptance, but he would not marry to please his mother. “I have an appointment with Cousin Philip at my club, and I’m loathe to leave the boy waiting for too long. He is new to town and still wet behind the ears and seems game for all sort of trouble. Please accept my apologies.”
His mother squinted her eyes in suspicion, but she didn’t try to detain him. She knew what it was like with willful men. His father had been the same way. “This is not over, Trent,” she said warningly, a hint of steel in her otherwise charming voice. “I will get my way.”
