“Oh pooh!" Emily kicked the toe of her leather half boot in the grass while dabbing at the tears spilling down her cheeks. “The whole thing is a sham, Jane. Gab does not love me."
“But . . . you are engaged? And for many of us, love does not always enter into the making of a match. Surely you know this?"
“Well, yes, but . . . I won’t marry Gabriel if he doesn’t love me."
Jane stared at her for a long moment and was about to comment when Tom called Emily from where he still stood next to Prudence
“You're next, Em. Try to at least hit a tree this time," he chuckled unkindly.
“Ohhhh!" Emily fumed impotently.
“Now, Em," he chided her, “don’t tax your brain box thinking up unladylike thoughts.”
She could tell from the gleam in his deep blue eyes he was enjoying himself hugely at her expense. “Thomas Pendleton, you can go to--"
“Emily." Gabriel's breath warmed her ear as his large hand cupped her elbow. “Come and shoot." He sent Tom a quelling glance before leading her to the firing line. “Don't let Tom or the others goad you, Em."
“Ohhhhh! What does it matter, anyway? I will never make a good marksman." She tried to sound unconcerned but knew she'd come off more like a petulant child.
“True," he said, smiling down at her, “but you have other qualities that far outshine any of these ladies here."
She glanced up to meet his velvet brown eyes and felt that special warmth spread though her veins. “Pray tell, name one for me, my lord," she said, suddenly a bit breathless.
“Begging for a compliment, Em," he chided softly with a smile, then grew serious. “You are my lady love."
Emily’s breath caught in her throat. She wanted to believe him, but she knew better. It was only because of Cecil that Gabriel announced their engagement. “About the engagement--"
“Not here, Em." His manner instantly turned brusque. “You're up next. You must concentrate on your target."
He propelled her over to the firing line where Chesterfield put a loaded pistol in her hand.
“I am impressed that you have the nerve to try again," Sylvia's strident tone baited Emily from the sideline. “Of course, they do say practice makes perfect."
Before stepping away, Gabriel leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Remember, concentrate and squeeze the trigger slowly."
“Better stand back, my dear Sylvia," drawled Cecil's deep voice behind Emily. “Her aim is such, she might shoot you."
If only she could, Emily thought irreverently. Then a mischievous smile curved her lips. She studied the target, picturing Sylvia's milky white complexion framed with guinea curls. Carefully, Emily took aim, this time seeing Cecil's visage, with the bull's eye placed dead center between his dark demonic eyes, and cheerfully emptied the pistol.
She missed the center, but her shots had hit the target!
The contest concluded with Chesterfield scoring highest among the men and Gabriel coming in a close second. And while Sylvia and Deborah tied for first, Emily felt as though she'd won with all the attention she'd gotten after her last round.
Gabriel had given her the highest praise, coming up and, relieving her of the pistol, took both of her hands in his. He leaned forward and gave her a warm peck on the check. “By Jove, Emily, you'll become a superior marksman yet!"
“Tell us, Cuz," Cecil's drawled behind her, "what tender words of advice did you whisper to the . . . lady?"
Gabriel's smile morphed instantly into an angry scowl. As his eyes glared at Cecil over her shoulder, Emily grabbed his coat sleeve. “Pay him no heed, Gab. It is what he wants--to put me in a scandalous light."
Gabriel remained immobile, his igneous gaze locked on Cecil. Emily wondered if he had heard her, but gradually the fire in his eyes was replaced by a cold steely stare. She was amazed at his control, and while neither man said a word, Emily was aware of silent promises exchanged between the two men.
She tugged Gabriel's hand, and finally his eyes came back to her. He linked his arm through hers and, with the others, slowly walked with her back to the house.
When they reached the rear salon door, he stepped aside to allow her to enter, and Emily said, “I want to thank you.”
“For what."
“For coaching me. You helped to make the day special."
They lagged behind the others traversing the hall, headed for the drawing room, where a light luncheon of breads and meats was laid out. But as they passed the music room, Gabriel took her arm and ushered her inside. She barely had time to note the small arrangement of sofa and chairs about a pianoforte in one corner and a harp in another before he swung her about.
He pulled her into an embrace, his chin resting on the top of her head. “My wish is to make all your days special, Emily." He leaned back to look at her.
Emily sucked in her breath. A smoldering fire lurked in the depths of his velvety brown eyes. She wanted to believe it was generated by love. But when his lips descended to hers, she suddenly didn't care if it was only desire. His hold tightened. She brought her arms up to circle his neck. That now familiar warmth seized her, and she pressed against him. How appropriate, she thought, that she should hear crashing cymbals, but an instant later she realized it had been the door banging open.
“Luncheon is waiting upon the host." It was Cecil--again.
With a muttered curse, hardly fit for a young lady's ears, Gabriel released her and smiled when she giggled.
“I do beg pardon," he said, though he didn't sound at all contrite, before offering her his arm with an exaggerated gesture.
Matching his flamboyant action, she accepted Gabriel’s arm and allowed him to grandly lead her from the music room, past his despicable cousin, holding her nose disdainfully in the air.
###
Deborah didn’t know which was worst, being disgusted or bored. Unfortunately, she was both. All during lunch Chesterfield had practically ignored her, preferring to rehash the shooting contest with the men. What hogwash.
Excusing herself before finishing a light repast, she headed for her room to repair her toilette. When she reached for the door handle, she was startled out of her ennui as her brother's hand closed around hers and pushed the door open. He followed her in and closed the door with a vicious kick.
“Better quit making up to Chesterfield. He just informed us that his pockets are to let until his father opens the purse strings," growled Cecil without preamble.
“That hardly leaves me much of a choice." Deborah walked over to the vanity mirror and closely inspected her dark brown curls. Running one finger along the perfectly curved arch of her black eyebrow, she glanced at his image in the mirror and added, “I do believe Ellison preens more than I do."
“For your edification, my dear sister, he's hardly a good choice, either. Get it through that pretty head of yours that it matters not how rich the father is. Ellison's the fourth son of a duke and, while he’s been given a title, he is likely to end up as poor as a church mouse."
A frown marred her smooth brow as Deborah picked up a monogrammed silver hair brush. “That leaves only Freddy Fordyce," she said, making a face in the mirror. “Ugh! He is so...fat."
“At least his pockets match his appetite and, more to the point, yours."
“Cecil, do not make me do this."
“You’ve little choice. Neither of us can show our faces in town without our creditors banging down the door.” He reached for one of her curls and pulled it rather savagely.
“Ouch!” Deborah exclaimed.
“Come, come, dear sister. I'm not making you do anything. The choice is purely your own. You do, after all, have the Scottish laird waiting in the wings.”
Deborah messaged her tender scalp and glared at him, long and hard. “Very well,” she said, arching one brow in a meaningful way. “Then, I must count on you for help."
“What? You expect me to turn traitor on one of my own kind." Cecil's laugh was hatefully sardonic. “Don't tell me I'
ve underestimated your talents, my dear. Surely, even a jeune fille could contrive to bring that imbecile Fordyce up to scratch." He turned on his heel and left, soundlessly closing the door behind him.
Deborah slammed the hairbrush on the vanity table. She had been tempted to throw it at her brother, but she knew from past experience that he might decide to beat her with it. Slowly she walked over to the chaise lounge and gracefully stretched out upon it.
Life could be so unfair, she mused. Why did her cousin Gabriel get to inherit Lindemann Park? At the very least, he should have gotten himself killed like other heroic soldiers fighting at Waterloo. And that little nobody Pendleton gets to marry all that money--money that should have been Cecil’s and hers if their father had not been the second son of Viscount Lindemann, who had had the good grace to die young in a carriage accident and take his wife with him.
She’d gone through any number of suitors before Cecil had approached her about the precarious condition of their finances, thanks to his penchant for the cards. Now the only viable suitor she had was Angus MacLeod, a crusty middle aged man who wanted a breeding machine to populate his estate in the northern wilds of Sheffield.
Deborah leaned back against the couch’s gold satin pillow and released a deep moan. Life was so unfair.
*** Chapter 9 ***
The festive mood from lunch carried on into the evening. Over the dinner table, the marksmen once again bemoaned certain shots while recounting others. The winners, Chesterfield, Sylvia and Deborah, smugly smiled around the table and, in general, lauded it over the losers.
Emily wasn't offended in the least by the suggestions Chesterfield offered to improve her aim, for his were said in a playful way. The two ladies, however, liberally fired their malicious verbal bards at Emily. But it didn't bother her, for Emily had done better than she'd dared to hope, thus allowing her to salvage her pride and bask in Gabriel's sweet praises.
After dinner, Emily made straight for her corner in the drawing room with Jane on her heels. “Do tell me, Emily, how you managed that last volley."
Emily glanced toward Sylvia, who was clinging to Chesterfield’s arm on the other side of the room before she replied, “It was something Cecil Caldwell said." Then, with a gleefully smile, she proceeded to describe her method of concentration. By the end of Emily's tale, both women were wiping tears of laughter from their cheeks.
“What's so funny?" Freddy asked, drawing a chair up to Jane, who colored up prettily.
“We cannot tell you, Freddy." Emily beamed a cheeky smile. “And it is not because we do not want to, but rather that Aunt Esmeralda would only chastise me if she were to hear."
Freddy sagaciously nodded his head. “Wouldn't want that."
“What is it you do not want, Freddy dear?" All three heads turned toward Deborah as the dark beauty took a stance by the baron's chair.
“Don't know exactly," he truthfully replied and received a playful rap on his knuckles from Deborah's fan.
“Have it your way, Freddy, but do play with me tonight," she cooed while beckoning him to follow her to where the card tables were being set up. "I need a better partner than Ellison if I am to recoup my losses from the other night."
Emily watched Freddy observe Jane's closed expression, then giving a fatalistic shrug, he rose to do Deborah's bidding. Once the baron was out of ear shot, Emily turned to Jane. “You do like Freddy, do you not, Jane?"
“Would it matter if I did?" was the girl's wooden response as she rose to answer a summons for her to make up a fourth with Ladies Raines and Spivey and Ellison.
Emily sat deep in thought. Not at all put off by Jane's answer, Emily was convinced a budding relationship existed between her friend and Freddy. But she was suspicious of Deborah's odd behavior. For Emily would bet her eye tooth the sophisticated beauty didn't care a fig for Freddy. Yet tonight, Deborah had deliberately sought the baron out. As she observed Gabriel approaching her corner, Emily made the mental note to keep an eye on Deborah.
“I've nominated you as my partner for a game of whist." Gabriel followed this with an apologetic grin. "Unfortunately, we've drawn Sylvia and Cecil for partners."
“You are jesting." But her smile faded when he shook his head.
Gabriel nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders and extended a hand to help her reluctantly rise out of the chair. “Little as I like our opponents, I am the host," he replied offhandedly.
Despite Emily's misgivings, Cecil kept a reign on his sarcastic comments, and Sylvia, taking her cue from Cecil, her brooding partner, likewise had little to say. Emily hid her face behind her cards when Cecil ungallantly asked Sylvia if she had something in her eye as the blonde continually battered her lashes at both gentlemen.
As the play heated up, Emily and Gabriel ran up their score. Naturally, this loosened Cecil's tongue. When Emily trumped Cecil's jack with a queen, she let out a triumphant squeal.
“Must you caterwaul like a banshee?" he drawled.
Sliding the cards toward her, Emily fired back, “Must you be so horrid?"
“Children, children," Sylvia sighed dramatically. “Do cease carping. You give me the megrims."
Unfortunately, Cecil's comment had spoiled Emily's good mood. And after the next insult from Gabriel's despicable cousin, she begged to be excused. Once in her room, she didn't undress but lay upon the bed, fully clothed, to ambush Gabriel on his way to his chambers.
They had to talk. As much as she loved Gabriel, she needed him to love her. And she knew it was the compromising situation Cecil had caught them in that was the catalyst for Gabriel’s announcement. She’d seen other marriages that were begun this very same way. Eventually the gentleman came to resent how he was trapped. She could not tolerate a marriage like that.
Sometime later, hearing noises in the corridor, Emily groggily noted her candle was nearly gutted and concluded it was late. She must have dozed off. Fearing she’d missed Gabriel, she quickly rose and cracked the door barely an inch to peer into the hall. Although the hall lamps had been extinguished, she made out Freddy's portly figure entering Deborah's bedroom.
That was strange, she thought, especially since on more than one occasion the baron had intimated to her his dislike for Deborah Caldwell. And Emily would swear the feeling was mutual on Deborah’s part.
Curiosity got the better of her. She opened the door wide and stuck her head out to glance in both directions. The house was quiet as she dashed soundlessly down the hall to Deborah's door and shamelessly pressed an ear to it.
“Over here, Freddy," Deborah's voice cooed. “Come closer. I have something for you.”
What was the conniving witch up to now, Emily wondered.
“No, no. You've the wrong idea. Ain't here for that." There was no mistaking the note of panic in the baron's voice. “Thought you said you heard noises?"
“Oh, I did and was quite frightened...all alone...all by myself. Come here, darling."
Emily might not have understood Deborah's motive, but she'd been exposed to enough drawing room gossip to know the game and meant to spoil it. Without knocking, she barged in, then pulled up short.
The scene was comic as both occupants turned to face the door. By the glow of a small fire, Emily saw Freddy's terrified expression from where he stood in a heavy brocade robe next to Deborah, draped across a chaise lounge, clad in an indecent gossamer gown. The dark beauty's smile resembled that of a tigress about to devour her prey rather than a seductress. In one hand extended toward Freddy, Deborah held a crystal goblet filled with amber liquid while her other hand clutched his sleeve. Closing the door behind her, Emily was suddenly seized with a fit of giggles.
After a moment, Deborah joined in Emily's mirth with a half convincing laugh. “Oh dear, Freddy, I fear we have been caught. And Cecil will not care for this, not at all," she added archly.
Emily sobered instantly upon hearing Caldwell's hated name. “What nonsense," she scoffed, taking a step further into the room. “You lured Freddy in here."
The exposed portion of Deborah's bosom expanded with the beauty's angry intake of breath. “I did no such thing."
“No?" Emily shrugged her shoulders. “Whom do you think they will believe?"
“How dare you," Deborah railed. “What are you doing in my room, anyway?"
Freddy, who was slowly showing sings of reviving, tugged his arm free from Deborah's hold and gave Emily a weak smile. “Glad to see you, Em."
“I’ll wager you are," Emily replied with another giggle, which she quickly stifled when his face fell.
“Said she needed help, she did." Freddy's woebegone expression proved he thought himself neatly comprised.
“Really?" Emily's eyebrows raised in dubious query. “And just what sort of help did you have in mind, Cousin Deborah?"
“None of your damn business," Deborah hissed, yanking on the thin strap of her gown that had slipped off her bare shoulder.
Walking over to the bed, Emily picked up a white silk wrapper and held it out to the other girl. “You must be cold."
Deborah snatched the robe from Emily while leveling a malevolent look at her. “Get out."
“You know, Freddy," said Emily, gesturing with one hand that he follow her out the door, “it was very sweet of you to come to a lady's aid."
“Think so?" he asked, scurrying for the door. “Might turn over a new leaf. Stay out of trouble that way."
Out in the hall, Freddy firmly closed Deborah's bedroom door just as a loud crash came from within.
A worried frown furrowed Freddy's unusually smooth brow as he rubbed the arm Deborah had abused. “Think she's all right?"
“Care to find out?" asked Emily mischievously.
“Eh?" For a moment the creases in the baron's brow deepened, then cleared. “No. Don't really care, either."
“I think you ought to avoid Miss Caldwell's company for a while, Freddy."
“Think so, too.”
“She is not as kind as Jane Taber," Emily could not resist adding for good measure.
“No, she ain’t."
The Hopeless Hoyden Page 12
