‘Then how will we get home?’ Amy’s pale blond hair was coming undone from the spray of white roses that was her only adornment.
Emma wanted to shout at her, but there was nothing to say. They had no way home unless a hackney carriage appeared out of thin air or their hired coach miraculously materialised.
She darted a glance at the man responsible for this awful situation. He stood watching her, his face unreadable. If he had only left them alone.
She was sure the freckles stood in stark relief on her nose and her cheeks shone like ripe apples. Not an attractive picture—and just the thought of that made her angrier. She ground her teeth, even as she realised this fury was not like her.
Emma took deep calming breaths, refusing to meet his gaze. People milled around them, some looking, others careful not to.
‘We are presenting the polite world with fuel for its wagging tongues,’ he said dryly.
He was right.
‘Emma, we should accept Mr Hawthorne’s offer of help.’
Emma scowled at him. ‘Are you in your brother’s barouche or must we all squeeze into your phaeton?’
He had the grace to look mildly embarrassed, nothing more. ‘I hadn’t anticipated this situation, Miss Stockton.’
‘I imagine you didn’t.’ The tart words were out in a trice. He brought out the absolute worst in her.
‘I am in my phaeton.’
‘Well, that solves it.’ She wondered where her vaunted self-control had gone as she noted the acid in her tone. She should be speaking calmly and rationally, not like a fishwife. ‘We cannot all cram into that vehicle. It would not be at all respectable.’
‘Nor is this bickering in public.’ Amy’s voice cut across them.
‘The pot calling the kettle black,’ Charles murmured.
Emma cast him a sharp look but said nothing. Amy was right. But she could not allow her young sister and herself to pile into his phaeton. They would be much too close.
‘I shall get a sedan chair.’ Charles moved to the street and hailed two down. Turning back to them, he said, ‘I will walk along side until you are safely home.’
‘Sedan chairs are for old dowagers,’ Amy’s disgusted voice rang out.
Emma nearly laughed. It certainly cut across the retort Emma had planned to make. Her fury of minutes before seemed to evaporate and for the first time since her waltz with Charles Hawthorne, she felt as though her mind worked properly.
‘We have no need of those, Mr Hawthorne. We are country girls and quite capable of walking home.’ She looked at the still crowded street. ‘It is just that I don’t believe it would be safe.’
‘Then I shall escort you.’ When she opened her mouth to decline his offer, he added, ‘Or hoist you into my phaeton.’
‘Neither, thank you.’
She was proud her voice was calm and not burdened with fury. Her lapse had been momentary and would not repeat itself.
‘Then how do you propose to get home?’
‘Here is our hired carriage,’ Amy said, moving toward the vehicle. ‘It is early.’
‘Thank goodness.’ The heartfelt words followed on the relief Emma felt.
Charles moved into the street and motioned the coach to stop. Without waiting for the groom perched on the back to dismount, Charles opened the door and handed Amy in. She gave him a radiant smile that put the lie to her former peevishness.
Emma noticed he did not kiss her sister’s hand even though Amy let it linger overlong in his. An unwelcome, piercing relief lanced Emma. She refused to study the sensation—or try to name the cause of it.
Instead, she walked to the carriage door, ignoring Charles Hawthorne’s outstretched hand. She lifted her skirt and put her foot on the carriage step. He took her arm to steady her. Instantly awareness of him flooded her: his smell, the warmth of his hand on her arm. He was a man it was impossible for her to ignore, try as she might.
Better that he did not touch her, but she knew from her previous experiences with him this evening that he was too strong for her to make him release her. He would have this his way just as he had had everything else his way this evening.
‘I am sorry for all the trouble I have caused you tonight,’ he murmured.
Surprise held her immobile as his barely audible words wafted against her neck. He was apologising? She could not believe her ears.
Turning her head, she gazed at him, realising too late that only inches separated their lips. A dip of her head and his mouth would touch hers. Just this once, she wanted to close the distance and let her senses rule her head. Her eyes widened in shock at the realisation.
As though he knew what she wanted, his fingers tightened on her arm and his mouth parted. His eyes were as dark as the sky behind his head. Emma knew it was her imagination only that whispered he would kiss her. Her wanton desire for something she knew was wrong and the illusion caused by unclear lighting. Nothing more. She wouldn’t let it be anything more.
‘You have done more damage than an apology can rectify,’ she finally managed to say, her voice breathy. ‘Let me go.’
He held her a moment longer. She thought he would say something. Her stomach tumbled.
He released her and stepped back. ‘You are right, of course.’
His tone was flat, as though he felt nothing, and she was infinitely glad she had not reacted on her unbidden response to him. It was her need that had prompted her to think he meant to kiss her. He did not care for her.
She hurried into the carriage and sank into the seat opposite Amy. The vehicle lurched forward. Emma fell backwards before righting herself and squaring her shoulders.
‘I saw you.’ Amy’s words were an accusation. ‘You want him.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She closed her eyes, unable to look at Amy when she said the words.
Emma admitted to herself that she lied. It was not that she wanted him in the sense of love and permanence, but for just this small period of time she wanted to feel his arms around her and his lips on hers. So, yes, she did want him.
When she opened her eyes, Amy was a dark silhouette in the unlit interior. Emma hoped she looked the same to her sister because she knew the blush on her face would tell Amy the truth.
She was always honest with Amy no matter how hard it might be at times. She had prided herself on that openness. Now Charles Hawthorne was the cause of her first untruth to her sister. Just another thing to hold against the man. She nearly sobbed in regret.
They did not speak the rest of the drive.
When the coach stopped, Amy bolted from her seat and out of the door. Emma alighted and saw Amy had used the key in her reticule to let herself into the dark house. Now there was a wedge between them when they needed each other the most.
She turned to the coach driver and offered him the money. ‘Thank you.’
‘No need, ma’am. ‘Is Lordship paid me.’ The driver gave her a gap-toothed grin, indicating the amount had been more than adequate.
Emma forced a smile and turned away. She wanted to push her money into the man’s hand if only to prove to herself that she did not need or appreciate Charles Hawthorne’s act of generosity. But that would solve nothing. She had to control herself.
The glow from the single candle Gordon kept burning when she and Amy were out cast a puddle of pale light at her feet. The rest of the street was dark. No one fashionable lived here to be entertaining in the small hours of the morning.
She shivered in the cool air and followed Amy into the house.
Charles stood watching the hackney coach long after it disappeared around the corner. The tip he’d given the driver should ensure Emma Stockton and her sister got home safely and with promptness. It was the least he could do after causing the rift between the sisters.
He turned to look at Princess Lieven’s glittering mansion. It had been an impulsive decision to come here, based solely on boredom. He had wanted to irritate Emma Stockton by offering to escort them, and when that failed, he
’d wanted to amuse himself by pursuing her at the ball. He had not realised how it would escalate.
Even he, spoiled and filled with ennui, had been uncomfortable with the argument between the sisters. He had underestimated Amy Stockton’s infatuation with him, something he rarely did. That’s what came of meddling with schoolroom chits.
It was bad enough that he had found himself reacting to Emma Stockton’s nearness. She was a prude and high in the instep, traits he did not care for. Yet, he had nearly kissed her.
It must be the scent of sweet peas she wore. He had always liked them. It could not be her.
Irritated with himself and his behaviour, he pivoted on his heel and strode down the street. A few minutes later, he remembered his tiger and phaeton were at Princess Lieven’s. He stalked back and signaled a footman to call for his carriage.
Chapter Five
Having slept suitably late to compensate for not getting to bed until six in the morning, Charles sauntered into White’s Club in the early afternoon. He moved towards the bow window where Beau Brummell, Alvanley and others had once sat to watch any female brave enough to walk along St. James.
He nodded to several acquaintances and angled to where his brother sat near the window reading The Times. Charles sank into the overstuffed leather chair closest to George. His brother was tall and slim with golden brown hair and matching eyes. Their sister took after George.
Charles stretched out his long legs with a sigh of pleasure. ‘What are you doing away from your beautiful bride and bouncing baby Robert?’
Lord George Hawthorne looked up and smiled at his brother. ‘I was reading the paper, quietly minding my own business.’ His gaze shifted to his brother’s coat, and he rolled his eyes. ‘And what are you doing with a sweet pea in your lapel?’
Charles grinned. ‘Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.’
‘Just like old times, huh?’ George set down the paper he wasn’t going to read for awhile. ‘I left Rose and Robert in the company of Juliet. Adam is at Tattersall’s looking at horseflesh. They plan on touring the Continent, and he wants to take his own conveniences.’
‘Oh, Adam.’ Charles scowled as he thought of his disreputable brother-in-law.
‘Still on that note?’ George shook his head. ‘He’s reformed, and he makes her happy.’
Charles’s scowl lightened marginally. ‘True on both counts, but that doesn’t mean I have to like the situation.’
‘What about you and the Stockton chit? Is your behaviour any better?’
Charles bristled. ‘You are no one to be talking about the Stocktons and how we treat the women in that family.’
George paled but he held Charles’s gaze. ‘You are right. I did poorly by Miss Stockton. The only redeeming feature of that incident—which I tell myself—is that I did not love her and she didn’t love me. Ours was to be a marriage of convenience. I am now married for love and happier than I have ever been, and Miss Stockton has the chance to find a man who will value her like I could not have.’ He stared into space for a minute. ‘Love is a powerful emotion. I found just how much it could change me.’ He looked back at Charles. ‘I hope some day you have the experience.’
‘Yes, yes.’
Charles found himself unwilling to talk about Emma Stockton and her finding a suitable marriage partner. Something about the topic made his stomach twist. Nor did he want to talk about finding love. So far, he was not impressed with what love had made his siblings do.
‘As for the sweet pea in my lapel.’ He grinned again. ‘I am performing a test.’
One of George’s golden brows rose.
‘Yes, a test. To see how many sheep there are in the ton.’
‘Sheep in the ton? In other words, how many men will have a sweet pea in their lapel by this evening or tomorrow.’ George shook his head. ‘You are incorrigible.’
Charles made a mocking bow from his sitting position. ‘I try.’
Even as he bantered with George, raised voices caught Charles’s attention. Glancing in the direction of the commotion, he saw a group sitting by a window. One of the men was Bertram Stockton. All Charles’s former ire at his brother-in-law, the injustices done to Miss Emma Stockton and young Green several nights before, and other emotions he could no more describe than he could banish, surfaced.
‘What is that good-for-nothing doing here?’
George looked over his shoulder. ‘You mean Stockton?’
‘Who else?’
‘I imagine the same thing we are. Looking for company and entertainment on an otherwise boring afternoon.’
‘He shouldn’t even be in London.’
George’s eyebrow rose again. ‘And why is that?’
Charles gave him a scathing look. ‘Because the man is in debt—he’s deep in the River Tick and likely going deeper. He will make it impossible for Amy Stockton or Miss Stockton to make suitable marriages because of the family debt they will expect their prospective husbands to pay off.’
‘Ah, that explains your interest and irritation.’ George drawled the words as he put one hand up to cover the smile he couldn’t stop. ‘And what about your past? Aren’t you the pot calling the kettle black?’
Charles sat up straight. ‘My peccadilloes are in the past. And what I did only impacted on me. My losses made no difference to your future or Juliet’s. I hurt no one.’ A muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘I learned the hard way and don’t want to see anyone else in the position I was in several years ago.’
‘I am sorry for that.’
Charles knew George blamed himself for the plight Charles had got himself into. ‘Don’t be. I did it to myself and I am doing my best not to do it again. My business interests pay me well even though trade is not considered respectable by the ton. I do not gamble anymore and I stay within my means. It was a hard lesson to learn.’
‘I know. I didn’t know any other way to help you.’
‘There wasn’t.’
Still, if he let the memories take him, they were painful. He did his best to keep them at bay. Just as he stayed away from gambling dens, knowing how hard it was to resist temptation. The other night had been the first time in three years that he had entered a gaming establishment. But his club was different. More than gaming went on here.
‘I am merely out to make enough money to do the things that are important to me.’
‘And those things are…’
Charles waved a hand to indicate White’s. ‘Belonging here. Good horseflesh. My estate…’
‘And women.’ George’s voice held a hint of exasperation.
Charles’s eyes flashed. ‘You are certainly on your high horse today. I shouldn’t think what I do is any concern of yours.’
George smiled gently. ‘Everything someone in my family does is of concern to me. I care for you.’
‘I am not duelling and I am not breaking any laws.’ Charles felt as though he were in the witness box defending himself to a judge. ‘Nor am I going to mend my current ways.’ He sighed. ‘I have made the only major change I intend to.’
George nodded. ‘And I know it was hard for you. I admire your strength. But think how hard it was for you and maybe you will find a little compassion in your heart for Bertram Stockton.’
‘I didn’t lose my family’s fortune and force my sister to put herself on the Marriage Mart to save us from ruin.’
‘True. Even when you lost everything, I was able to cover your debts. Today you are more careful with money than I am even if you are still reckless with women.’ He paused to consider. ‘But then, women encourage you shamelessly.’
Tired of the subject and more than a little defensive, Charles stood. ‘I am going to go and see what is going on.’
‘It really isn’t any of your business,’ George said reasonably.
Charles looked down at him, his black brows a V of ire. ‘Someone must stop the man from gambling away what he doesn’t have.’
‘That someone isn’t you,’ George said poi
ntedly. ‘And you don’t know if they are gaming.’
Charles stared at his brother, knowing George was right. His impulsiveness and tendency to fight for the underdog—or in this case, underlady—had nearly put him into a position that was untenable for him and for the Stockton ladies. It was not as though he was engaged to either one of them or owed them more than common courtesy and manners required. No matter that baiting Miss Emma Stockton seemed to occupy more of his thoughts than it should.
He sat back down with a thud, his usual gracefulness gone. ‘You are right.’ Charles beckoned for one of the waiters. ‘A bottle of port.’
‘A little early isn’t it?’
‘No.’
As though the waiter’s movement had started a chain reaction, Bertram Stockton broke off whatever he was saying to the man beside him and looked at Charles. Their eyes met. Charles looked away without acknowledging the other man, giving Stockton the cut direct. He was being unreasonable, but couldn’t help his anger over the burden Emma Stockton bore. She was an underdog.
The port arrived at that instant and Charles sniffed the cork, approved the wine and then accepted the glass poured by the waiter. He took a long swallow, wishing he could wash away the bad taste left in his mouth from Stockton’s presence, and knowing he couldn’t. So he watched the man who was to blame for Emma Stockton’s situation.
Charles finished his wine and poured another glass. He didn’t even like Emma Stockton. He merely enjoyed irritating her and even that was to stop. He had no wish to further compromise either her or her younger sister. Nor did he want to be responsible for another rift between the sisters.
Perhaps it was time to stop provoking Miss Stockton.
Bertram Stockton said something to the man he was with and turned and headed toward Charles. Charles’s eyes narrowed to slits as he watched Stockton approach. The man had nerve after receiving a direct cut.
‘Charles Hawthorne.’
Charles gazed up at the man who had a paler version of Emma Stockton’s red hair and hazel eyes instead of Miss Stockton’s striking grey ones. He was in no mood to be polite.
Georgina Devon Page 6
