The Hopeless Hoyden

by Bennett, Margaret

  “It is my great honor to announce that the Honorable Miss Emily Pendleton has consented to be my future bride." With that, he planted a chaste peck on her cheek while whispering out of the corner of his mouth nearest to her ear, “It’s not a funeral, Em. Smile."

  But Emily wasn’t so sure. Sylvia and her mother both let out little shrieks of shock before pained smiles graced their faces. Deborah looked disgusted. Freddy, who had been taking a sip of wine, sputtered a mouthful back into the goblet. And Cecil looked like he wanted to kill someone before he made for the table that held a tray of wine glasses and several decanters of wine.

  Plastering a grin on her countenance, Emily did as he bid, though for the moment it meant she was committing herself to him and dreadfully complicating the situation. As everyone came up to the happy couple to extend best wishes, several people, including Chesterfield and Jane, appeared genuinely happy for her. And Aunt Esmeralda was simply ecstatic. So Emily smiled until she thought her face would crack.

  “You sly puss," Aunt Esmeralda said, pulling her aside and playfully slapping Emily's wrist with her ivory-spoked fan. “I should have guessed what you were up to when I saw you here. And you never let on with the slightest hint. What a smart one you are, to be sure!"

  Lady Raines was considerably less enthused. “Best wishes to you, my dear. I suppose the ton won't be seeing much of you in the future as there's no need for you to do the Season now. Of course, you do have an aversion for society, do you not?"

  Sylvia could barely be civil. With a flushed countenance that further attested to her anger, she grounded out her compliments through clenched teeth. “How clever of you, Emily. You have managed to do quite well for yourself. And to think of all the people who swore Lindemann wasn't the marrying kind."

  Of course, for Gabriel, the spiteful beauty was all smiles and happy wishes, bestowing two, nay, three warm congratulatory kisses on him. Emily fumed inwardly and would have kicked the blond cat if Freddy hadn’t claimed her attention.

  “Liked you best all along," the baron said, playing with a star-shaped patch on one chubby cheek. “Parson's mousetrap'll be good for him. Needs someone, you know. Won’t say I ain’t surprised," he added before giving her a peck on the side of her mouth. When he drew back, his eyes grew wide, and Emily watched, fascinated, as he brought his hand up to her face, one sausage index finger extended.

  “Beg pardon," he said, flicking the corner of her mouth with his nail, then swiping the air with the same hand. He opened his palm to reveal the black star before moving aside.

  “Excuse me," Deborah said, neatly cutting across Freddy's path. “Emily dear, what a splendid match. How nice that we’ll be cousins." Deborah’s smile looked as strained as Emily's felt before she let out a brittle laugh. “And just when is the wedding?"

  “No date has been set as yet," Gabriel intervened, slipping an arm about Emily's waist, drawing her close to his side. Emily wanted to hint that there might not be a wedding, at least anytime soon, but Gabriel's nearness effectively disturbed her senses, making it impossible for her to concentrate on much else.

  Then Tom was before Emily with a huge grin on his face, lighting up his blue eyes. "This is great, Em. It even tops the time you rode Squire Stratton's prize bull." His joy was obvious as he stuck out his hand to Gabriel.

  But the Viscount gave her brother a quirky grin. “You'll forgive me, Tom, but I'll forego your hand for now. I find myself disinclined to release your sister."

  “Like earlier, Cuz?" Cecil, with one sardonic eyebrow raised, sauntered up behind Tom.

  When Gabriel refused to rise to Cecil's baiting, Emily couldn't decide if she were glad or not. From his expression, she guessed the Viscount would like to ram Cecil's teeth down his throat. Emily figured the only reason Gabriel didn't was because of the questions such behavior would raise, questions that were better left unanswered.

  Ellison, standing on the other side of Gabriel, had another matter on his mind. “I say, was this the reason for all the noise I heard earlier?"

  “What noise?" asked Tom.

  “Gunfire," the dandy replied. “I was in the garden, searching for the right flower to match my puce waistcoat, when I heard shots."

  When Gabriel's chuckled, Emily cast a warning glance at him before saying, "Gab was teaching me to shoot--"

  “No, Em!" Tom exclaimed. “I promised Squire Stratton."

  The expression of horror on her brother's face had Gabriel grinning broadly. “It's all right, Tom. She'll not get near a gun unless I'm around to protect the unsuspecting populace."

  Ellison shook his head in confusion. "I say, what's all this?"

  “Em can't sight a target," Tom loudly pronounced for the edification of all.

  “Really? I am surprised," crooned Sylvia. "I would have thought our provincial miss would be a dead shot."

  Aunt Esmeralda reached over and patted Emily's hand. “Pay her no mind, Emily dear. You landed your viscount. I call that excellent marksmanship."

  Fortunately, while Emily tried to ignore her fiancé’s suspicious coughing and Sylvia’s offended gasp, no one commented on Lady Spivey's remark.

  “Great sport,” Freddy said. “Shooting that is."

  Cecil quirked one dark eyebrow. “Do you think so, Fordyce? Perhaps a small contest would be in order. What say you, Cuz?"

  “What a wonderful idea," seconded Sylvia, throwing Emily an arched look. “A contest in which everyone participates?"

  “Yes, fair lady," Cecil smirked. “Gabriel can have the servants set up targets tomorrow. Then we'll see just how much our dear Emily learned today.”

  Emily inwardly cringed at Cecil’s crude double entendre, though Gabriel scowled at his cousin. She was relieved when Gabriel let the slur go by and called for champagne instead of his cousin's blood.

  The rest of the evening passed in much the same way, and a melancholy haze enveloped Emily, even though Gabriel steadfastly stayed by her side. This enabled her to endure with composure Aunt Esmeralda's giddy elation, Sylvia and her mother's snide innuendoes, and Deborah's sugary patronage.

  Even Ellison and Chesterfield acted queer, the former stating he regretted not having the opportunity to develop a more colorful relationship with her--whatever that meant--while the latter sought her opinion on the merits of night crawlers over blood worms for catching trout.

  The only persons who truly seemed happy for her were Tom, Freddy, and Jane. In an excessively jolly mood, Freddy commandeered from Pickering the tray of champagne filled goblets to pass around. With a flourish, the baron proffered the silver server first to Emily. She noticed he'd reapplied the black star, though the patch quivered with his wide grin and appeared dangerously close to falling off again.

  But before she could warn Freddy, he was proffering the tray to Sylvia when his star patch fell from the corner of his mouth and landed in the middle of Sylvia's pink satin lap.

  “Good heavens! What is that?" the blonde exclaimed while attempting to shake the black speck off her skirt. But while the patch would not stay on the baron's face, it remained stuck fast to her shiny satin gown.

  “Beg pardon," said Freddy. Precariously balancing the tray with one hand, he licked the tip of the index digit of his other hand, and aimed it toward Sylvia's lap.

  “Don't you dare touch me, you baboon," Sylvia growled under her breath.

  Prudently, Freddy took a step back.

  “Point that disgusting finger elsewhere," Sylvia said, slapping at his hand. She came to her feet, and Freddy's star fluttered to the floor. This time when the baron swept the air in an effort to save it, the tray full of elegant crystal flutes he held went crashing to the floor.

  Pandemonium erupted. Sylvia shrieked. Freddy babbled. Lady Raines railed about oafish peers aping servants. Chesterfield fell into a chair, convulsed in laughter and Ellison tried to explain where the baron had gone wrong.

  With a word of apology to Emily, Gabriel went to rescue Freddy by solicitously offering Sylvia his
arm. Smiling graciously, he listened as she filled his ear with a litany of Freddy's faults while escorting her from the room to change her soiled gown. Moments later, the efficient Pickering appeared with a footman who removed the debris, the offending patch and all.

  Gabriel returned from turning Sylvia over to her lady's maid and ordered more champagne. A quarter hour later, Sylvia, resplendent in a pale blue silk, reappeared to plague Emily with malevolent glares as the champagne flowed and toasts abounded.

  Emily noticed that while Cecil drank to each toast, he had subsided into a brooding silence. But as the evening progressed, Cecil joined the festivities, making Emily’s cheeks burn at his off-colored comments.

  By bedtime, she was more than tipsy, though she'd sipped sparingly throughout the numerous toasts.

  The same could not be said for the majority of the party, however. Two footmen were called to carry Aunt Esmeralda upstairs, and Sylvia, slurring every other word, insisted Gabriel's strong arm was needed to support her up the flight of stairs as a wobbly Lady Raines brought up the rear. Singing a bawdy tune, Ellison and Chesterfield linked arms to brave the high flight of stairs. And Freddy insisted Jane accompany him, all the while exclaiming loudly, “Yer a deuced fine -hit, Jane."

  Following this procession up the stairs, Emily tried not to giggle. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw Deborah and Cecil. Brother and sister both wore contemptuous expressions as they neared the top of the stairs. But for once, Emily didn't care as she sashayed to her chamber. There, she set up post just inside the door to wait for the pair to pass.

  As they crossed her field of vision, Emily merrily sang out, “Good night...cousins."

  Then she used one satin slippered foot to close the door in their disgruntled faces.

  ###

  Sailing into her room, Deborah turned on her brother who had followed her and charged, “If you had not made a fuss, we would not be in this predicament."

  Languidly, Cecil moved over to the fireplace where he took up a position, folding his arms and propping one shoulder against the mantle. He eyed her through half-closed eyelids.

  “What if they do marry?" Deborah complained. “We will have double the worry."

  “We've more immediate problems, dear sister," he drawled with a sneer. “That ill-bred hoyden practically attacked him this afternoon. As randy as she is, they must be prevented from spending any time alone, or the heir apparent may well be conceived before the vicar blesses their union."

  Deborah had been pacing the room, kicking the soft swirl of her crepe gown behind her, but at his words plopped down on a chaise lounge. “What can be done?"

  “For one thing, Anslow must act soon. We can't afford to wait. I shall see him tonight. And you, my devoted sibling, will commence to babysit the little slut. Keep her within your sights at all times. Those two must not be left alone for a minute."

  “But what will it matter if she is enceinte and he dies?" She posed the question with a hopeful glint in her eyes. “Bastards do not inherit.”

  “True, it would come to nothing. However, should anything actually occur between the two of them, I wouldn't put it past our honorable cousin to obtain a special license and wed the chit out of hand." He pushed off the fireplace and in three strides loomed over her, his cold black eyes boring into hers. “You'd better make damn sure nothing untoward occurs."

  “Honestly, Cecil, you ask too much," Deborah laughed nervously, letting her eyes slide to her hands clenched in her lap. “I positively detest the girl. Besides, I cannot possibly watch her throughout the night?"

  Cecil reached down and grabbed Deborah's chin, forcing her face up toward his own. “Make no mistake, dear sister, should you fail, we are completely undone. Neither that dandy Ellison or the buffoon Freddy are likely to make you an offer," he spat out contemptuously. “No, sister, it will be that old Scottish laird, Angus MacLeod, and his five thousand pounds per year for you.”

  ###

  Gabriel blinked at the early sun streaming through the opened window. Blinded as the light fell across his face, he rolled over on his back and let his mind review the events of the previous evening. He remembered a fleeting moment or two when his plans for a bachelor's existence surfaced and his cravat had felt binding as the noose of marital bonds tightened. On the other hand, his wood sprite had looked so adorable in her empire waisted gown, caught up under her bosom with a wide gold embroidered sash. But then he smiled as she'd given him reason to live again. Life without her appeared a bleak and empty prospect.

  And he'd found it impossible to keep his hands off her. He was surprised she allowed him to keep his arm about her tiny waist for a good part of the evening. Of course, there had been those few moments in the beginning when she'd tried to pull away.

  It didn't worry him that she didn't want to marry him. He'd felt her passion, knew she must care for him to respond to his kisses the way she did, and he was determined to make her happy. He'd neatly fobbed off her objections, too. More than likely, her busy brain box had been working overtime on who was trying to kill him. But she had already discussed that with him earlier. He frowned, trying to recall something she'd said. It had to do with Cecil. And she'd looked so worried. He would have a private word with her later today. They were officially engaged now, and sharing a few moments alone was very appealing. In fact, he decided, bounding out of bed, being alone with his beloved was of a high priority. He would insist on a short engagement period.

  Later that morning, Gabriel conferred with Pickering about where to set up targets on a grassy knoll some distance away from the house. He'd first considered the area behind the stables since in the past such events had been held there. But taking into account Emily's deplorable aim, he deemed it prudent to remain as far away as possible from all buildings, servants and animals.

  At breakfast, Gabriel joined Chesterfield, Emily and Jane in setting forth the rules. It was quickly decided that only one person would shoot at a time. There would also be a winner for each sex, and no special concessions would be granted for the women. All would share the same targets, set at the same distances.

  By eleven, everything was in place, and everyone was ready to begin. As expected, the men's competition was close and fierce. Gabriel and Chesterfield led the field with Ellison showing very poorly.

  “Don't like guns," the dandy said each time a loaded pistol was placed in his hand. Even still, he managed to hit the target though he never came close to the bull's-eye.

  Whereas Ellison philosophically accepted his poor performance, Emily fretted over hers. The other girls had made decent showings, especially Jane who'd never before shot a gun. For a novice, Jane’s eagle-eye aim scored bull’s eyes each turn. Emily, on the other hand, consistently missed the target--and always by a wide breadth. Needless to say, advice abounded.

  “Don't close your eyes, Em," Tom shouted from the sidelines just as she pulled the trigger. That shot went wide and struck the target next to hers.

  The rest of her shots vanished into thin air.

  Sylvia laughed derisively. “You might try aiming, dear Emily."

  On the second round, one of Emily's balls went high into the woods, bringing down a small branch. Behind her, Chesterfield, who was the official scorekeeper, muttered, “The chit must be blind."

  Deborah, hanging onto Chesterfield's arm, chirped, "Is that not what love does to one?"

  “Perhaps Miss Pendleton is nearsighted," offered Ellison diplomatically.

  Emily gritted her teeth with determination, and her shot nicked the side of the target. But since Emily couldn't duplicate it again, all agreed it was accidental, and Emily, shamefacedly, stood aside for Deborah to take her turn.

  Gabriel ambled over to where Emily stood. Although his heart went out to his wood sprite, he resisted giving her advice, fearing she'd heard plenty already, good and bad. “Cheer up, Em. It's only a game."

  “Oh pooh," was her unhappy reply.

  Just then, a cheer went up for Deborah, w
hose shot hit the target dead center, and Emily hung her head.

  “This contest isn't that important, Em. You're still the love of my life even if you can't hit the broad side of a barn," Gabriel said, lifting her chin so she'd see his smile. As she fixed her sad violet eyes on his, he wondered what was going on inside that adorable head. He suspected he knew. “If I need a body guard, I’ll hire one."

  With tears pooling in her eyes, she shook her head, then turned and walked over to where Miss Taber stood by herself. After Jane welcomed her company, Emily congratulated her without rancor. “You have done extremely well to hit the target every time, Jane. And so close to the center."

  “Perhaps, but I do feel ‘tis beginner's luck, Emily," Jane said, trying to offer Emily encouragement.

  “Not beginner’s luck, Miss Tabor. You don't close your eyes," Tom interjected with a cheeky smile.

  “Do not tease her, Tom." This unexpected salvo came from Prudence, who'd chosen not to participate in the contest. “Not everyone can shoot like you," she added, shyly peering through her lashes at him.

  Emily looked from Prudence to her brother, who was preening like a peacock. This was a Tom she hadn't seen before. In the past, he'd always made fun of girls simpering about him. Now, strutting around like a fancy cock, he obviously relished Miss Burke-White's praise. Emily moved away from the pair, and Jane followed her, linking one arm through hers.

  “Are you feeling ill, Emily?" she asked.

  “Oh no," Emily replied on a sigh. “I had hope to make a good showing. . . to impress Gabriel."

  Jane smiled at Emily and gave her arm a squeeze. “Oh, Emily, you do not need to impress the Viscount. He adores you."

  But Jane's reassurance only brought unbidden tears to Emily's eyes, and she ducked her head. All she could manage was a weak, “No."

  Jane glanced about, then quickly stirred Emily further away from the target site. “Do you wish to tell me what is troubling you, Emily dear? I am quite good at keeping confidences."