Cardiff Siblings 01 - Seven Minutes in Devon

by Catherine Gayle

  Emma had only managed to say, “I wouldn’t mind at all, but—” when Miss Weston darted to her feet.

  “Lady Morgan? Would you care to sit with Miss Hathaway and me?” Her previously soft voice carried throughout the room, and silence descended all around them as everyone turned to stare at Morgan.

  Their stares caused Mr. Cardiff’s gaze to burn more darkly. His lips set into a thin line and his jaw hardened, and he gripped his sister’s elbow as though to guide her out of the room.

  But Morgan apparently had other plans. “I’d be delighted,” she said with a true smile. Heedless of the heated whispers sounding around her, Morgan headed toward them. Her brother tightened his grip on her elbow, but she shook him free and kept coming.

  When she paused nearby and held out her arm for Morgan to take, Emma felt the weight of Mr. Cardiff’s stare settling on her. It never left her as she helped Morgan to sit between her and Miss Weston. It never diminished as they struck up a conversation.

  The rest of the guests resumed their own discussions and began, yet again, to ignore the three ladies. At the same moment, Mr. Cardiff took up a seat near the massive window in perfect position to keep an eye on everyone and everything taking place in the drawing room, yet it seemed most of his focus lay on Emma and her friends. Despite Morgan’s growing animation, the palpable tension of Mr. Cardiff’s full attention upon them fell over Emma as though to swallow her whole. It seemed to be more on her than it was on them.

  A flash of heat raced to her face, and she fought to ignore it. Why was he always staring at her? What was it that always drew his attention? Were he another gentleman, she might welcome it. But since it was Mr. Cardiff, she’d prefer he turn it elsewhere.

  She had no business feeling warm and tingly from any gentleman’s attentions, let alone those of a man such as he. Warm and tingly feelings would be perfectly acceptable once she was well and truly married, and not a moment before.

  The two ladies she sat with talked, seemingly oblivious to Mr. Cardiff’s perusal from across the crowded room, yet Emma could focus on nothing else. She tried to pay attention to her friends’ chatter, particularly since they’d begun discussing a new gothic novel Miss Weston had been reading, but every time she looked up, Mr. Cardiff’s eyes bored more fully through her. Within minutes, she was a trembling, agitated mess.

  Morgan took Emma’s hand into her own, drawing her back into their conversation. “Perhaps tomorrow you could take Serena and me to Lord Burington’s new library.”

  Emma blinked at first, trying to sort out who Serena was. Then she remembered that was Miss Weston’s name. The other two must have already decided that they’d all be the best of friends while she’d been otherwise occupied with worrying over Mr. Cardiff’s interest.

  “I’m sure we could do that,” she spluttered, hoping dearly they wouldn’t think her a simpleton for her odd behavior. “I’ll make certain it is all right with Lord Burington, and then we can form our plans.”

  But at the moment, the only sort of plan wishing to take root in her mind was a means to avoid Mr. Cardiff at every turn.

  Seated as she was with Sir Henry Irvine on her right, Lord Jacob Deering on her left, Lord Jacob’s cousin Mr. Deering occupying the seat across from her, and Mr. Cardiff so far down the table that she couldn’t see him at all, Emma couldn’t help but say a silent prayer of thanks to Vanessa. In the last day, she’d had as much of Mr. Cardiff’s rancor as she could handle.

  Emma needed to start making herself amenable to the eligible gentlemen at the party at once, which was a daunting task, but at least she now had three of them surrounding her. Granted, Lord Jacob was equally as sullen and brooding as Mr. Cardiff, or perhaps even more so, but at least he didn’t glare at her as though she had concocted the plague all by her lonesome. He was rather handsome, with his dark hair and eyes. He would not be a difficult man to look upon day after day, should a lady be granted that honor.

  And his cousin, Mr. Deering, was an affable fellow. Not only that, but he was probably someone she would do better to focus her attentions upon…a gentleman on a far less lofty strata of society. He had a kind smile and a gentle air to go along with Lord Jacob’s dark appearance.

  Sir Henry, likewise, was the sort of gentleman Emma ought to be setting her sights upon. He was a baronet, so still above her station—but not nearly so far above her as Lord Jacob. Still, he seemed quite at his ease among his betters here. She would do very well if she made him as her match.

  Vanessa knew very well what she was doing when she’d arranged the seating for supper.

  Right that moment, Emma made up her mind that she would do everything she could over the course of supper to get to know both Sir Henry and Mr. Deering. She shouldn’t set her cap upon a gentleman who would never deign to notice her. It was best to aim for a target she had at least some small hope of hitting.

  A footman held a bowl of split pea soup beside her while she placed some in her bowl, and the scent of it wafted up to warm her nostrils. It was all she could do to refrain from letting out a sigh of contentment. Once everyone had been served, she picked up her spoon and filled it, then gingerly moved it toward her mouth so as not to spill a drop.

  Up and down the length of the oak table, the sounds of silver meeting china and polite conversation swelled.

  After they’d been eating for a bit, Sir Henry turned to Emma and smiled. “I couldn’t help but notice you were reading The Bride of Lammermoor earlier, Miss Hathaway. Tell me, have you read any of the author’s other novels?”

  Bother if she hadn’t already garnered attention for her reading. She’d prefer to draw notice for her lovely coiffure or commendable deportment. Emma forced her agitation with herself aside and turned more fully to Sir Henry. “I’ve read Waverley more times than I ought to have done, but this is only the second of the author’s novels I’ve had the opportunity to read.”

  Mr. Deering leaned across the table slightly, as though joining a secret discussion. “You’ve not read Rob Roy yet?” His incredulous tone left her near giddy. When she answered in the negative, he continued with, “Promise me you’ll read it next so we can discuss it”

  He wanted to discuss novels with her?

  Perhaps she wouldn’t have to leave behind all parts of herself in order to gain a gentleman’s notice. If he were the right gentleman.

  “I’ll have to see if Lord Burington has it in his library,” she said with more confidence than she felt.

  “Surely he does,” Lord Jacob drawled. He took another spoonful of his soup, and then passed a glare over to his more enthusiastic cousin. “Burington must have five copies of every book ever published in that room. It’s hideous.”

  Hideous was about the last term Emma would use for such a grand library, but she kept her opinion on the matter to herself. This fortnight was to be about ingratiating herself to as many gentlemen as she could in order to relieve her parents’ worry, not about alienating either those very gentlemen or herself.

  Instead, she smiled across at Mr. Deering. “If he has a copy, I would love to discuss it tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” He sat up straighter, his brows lifting inquisitively. “Surely you couldn’t read an entire novel so fast as that.”

  “On the contrary,” Serena put in from next to him. Emma couldn’t be certain, but she thought Serena gave her a little wink before she continued. “I have it on the highest authority that Miss Hathaway reads two books a day. Three, I’d wager, if she’s not too engrossed with other goings-on.”

  Emma couldn’t decide if she should be pleased with Serena’s interjection or if she ought to be mortified to have her reading habits set out so plainly before the party. She blushed slightly, and it then intensified when Sir Henry gave her an appraising look, his friendly, brown eyes sparkling.

  “A lady after my own heart. I’ve not had the time to devote to my own desire to read of late, but when I took my Grand Tour, I spent more time reading than I did anything else…much to
the chagrin of my companions.”

  “And to those who must listen to you discuss it now,” grumbled Lord Jacob beside her beneath his breath.

  Emma glanced around, but no one else seemed to have heard his comment. She decided to ignore it, to pretend she hadn’t heard a thing. It seemed the wisest course of action at this juncture. To keep from doing or saying anything inappropriate, she placed another spoonful of soup into her mouth.

  Mr. Deering let out a hum of assent. “Much of my time is now spent reading legal tomes, when I’d rather read for enjoyment.”

  “Legal tomes?” Serena queried. “Are you a barrister then, Mr. Deering?”

  “In my second year.” He brushed the corners of his mouth with his napkin while a footman lifted away his bowl of soup. When the servant backed away, he went on. “I do have a bit more time for pleasure reading now than I did during my schooling, but only just.”

  “Pity,” Lord Jacob said amiably, which took Emma by surprise. He’d not seemed one to pity anyone for any reason, up to that point. Or to be amiable, for that matter. But then he looked down at the plate being placed before him, with roast squab and parsnips, and the previous glower returned to his features. “Pity you ever decided to return,” he added so low, Emma was certain that no one could have heard him besides her.

  She’d think he was deliberately trying to shock her or be provoking if she didn’t believe she rated as low on his scale of notice as a slug.

  Sir Henry then struck up a conversation with Mr. Deering about their tours of the Continent, granting Emma a moment to regain her bearings. Having a few things in common with these two gentlemen would only serve to aid her cause. Perhaps she could glean more of their interests throughout the course of their meal. Even if she couldn’t, there was at least some connection between them now, so she wouldn’t feel quite so lost in a conversation—if she ever got up the nerve to start one.

  Sir Henry and Mr. Deering both looked expectantly at her then, and she chastised herself for not paying attention. She opened her mouth to apologize for her lack of attention, but a voice at the far end of the table carried to her over the din.

  “I can’t imagine why they have brought her into society again. Her skin is ghastly with all those scars! She’ll surely ruin the appetite of anyone in her general vicinity, simply from her presence.” The biting words came from Lady Portia Hemmings, a dark-haired, sharp-tongued debutante who had made Emma’s skin crawl upon their first meeting. “Clearly it has already affected Lord Jacob’s appetite.”

  This diatribe only justified Emma’s premonition about the woman. She glanced down to the other end of the table, where Mr. Cardiff sat, but he clearly hadn’t heard it. Nor had Lord Trenowyth, who was in mid-conversation with a debutante whose name Emma couldn’t remember.

  She bit down on her lip, halting her apology to the gentlemen she’d been ignoring. Serena gave her a brief shake of her head, questioning her with her eyes, and then spoke, drawing the two gentlemen’s attention onto herself. She mustn’t have heard what Emma had heard. There would be no need to question if she had.

  Surreptitiously, Emma turned her gaze to where Morgan was happily chatting away with Lord Muldaire, oblivious to the fact that another lady was boorishly denigrating her character.

  Whether Morgan had heard it or not didn’t matter. Emma had. It left her mouth dry and her chest tight and caused hot, stinging tears to form behind her eyes.

  It was all so unfair. No one deserved such treatment. Certainly not Morgan. And for that matter, Emma didn’t deserve the treatment Mr. Cardiff so readily handed to her.

  Lord Jacob brushed the back of his hand against Emma’s knuckles with a touch so soft she almost thought she’d imagined it, but it was enough to make her realize she had clenched both hands into fists. She forcefully loosened them, and then met Lord Jacob’s gaze.

  He was staring at her almost kindly, however ridiculous that notion might be. Lord Jacob Deering was a great many things, but her initial impression of him did not lend itself easily to kind. He dropped his voice again to where no one but Emma could hear him. “Don’t grant them the satisfaction of seeing what they do to you. Lady Morgan does not.”

  Before she had wrapped her mind around what he’d said, Lord Jacob cut off a bite of quail and filled his mouth with it, turning to his other side to take up a conversation with the lady seated there.

  He was right, of course. She’d not do herself any favors by delivering the gossips at the other end a set-down with a full dining room looking on. Emma was here to become a perfectly biddable, perfectly agreeable miss—one whom a gentleman might wish to pursue. Not a single gentleman of her acquaintance wished to pursue shrewish harridans who acted inappropriately in social situations. Mother had done her best to instill in both Emma and Vanessa a sense of proper decorum, and Papa had shown them time and again that keeping silent while amongst one’s betters was often the proper course of action. She needed to simply keep her thoughts to herself until such time as she could reveal them to someone she trusted, or she’d let both Vanessa and David down.

  Yet when she tried to return her focus to her meal, another voice floated down the table, a masculine timbre this time, assaulting her ears with more vitriolic comments about her friend.

  “Pity she was unsuccessful in her attempts. One would think, after three tries, she could have gotten one of them right.”

  “And it’s a pity your nursemaid was unsuccessful at teaching you simple manners and basic human decency.” The words were out of Emma’s mouth before she could stop herself. Indeed, she’d overturned her chair in her fury to gain her feet. She must have knocked over a glass of wine as well, as Sir Henry and two footmen desperately tried to mop it up with napkins before it spilled over the table’s edge.

  Every eye in the room had turned to her—in shock, in awe, in admiration. None seemed inclined to look away.

  Heavens, what had she done? Her entire body shook from head to toe, but she couldn’t bear to see the censure she was sure she’d find in Vanessa’s eyes, couldn’t possibly handle witnessing the dismay David’s expression was sure to bear. Worst yet, with one simple action she had certainly destroyed any possibility of making a match at this house party. She might as well pack her trunk and return to Knightsbridge, tucking her tail between her legs as she left.

  But if she’d already destroyed any chance she had at securing a husband, she might as well finish the job at hand.

  Taking a calming breath, Emma turned to Lord Roxburghe, the man who’d so callously wished Morgan had successfully taken her own life, and stared him through. He had the gall to stare back at her, without even the slightest hint of shame coloring his expression. Lady Portia, at least, had the sense to look down at her lap. She appeared contrite. But Roxburghe’s supercilious gaze never wavered.

  This was hardly the time to back down from her stance now that she’d taken one. Emma ignored the trembles that coursed through her body. She straightened her spine and forced herself not to waver, not to cower in fear of what she was in the midst of doing.

  “Lady Morgan is a guest of Lord and Lady Burington, just as we all are.” With more bravado than she actually felt, Emma passed her gaze along the length of the table, pausing for a moment on each eye that dared to meet hers. When she paused upon Mr. Cardiff, she nearly stopped at that very moment and ran from the dining room, so censorious and disapproving was his expression. But finally, she moved her gaze on to the others. “She deserves the same basic courtesies we all do. She does not deserve to have anyone speak ill of her, for any reason whatsoever.”

  The clatter of silver dropping back against the table was the only sound in the room, aside from a few scandalized breaths or gasps of shock.

  Faintly, Emma felt the back of Lord Jacob’s hand grazing against her knuckles in warning again, but she ignored them, despite the impetuousness of her actions. He was trying to warn her against making a fool of herself, but it was far too late for that. Or perhaps he was
warning her against raising Lord Roxburghe’s ire. Roxburghe was a peer, after all. Not the sort of man one ought to go about trying to put in his place—particularly not if one was the mere daughter of a knight.

  But she couldn’t stop herself if she tried. Now that she had a full head of steam built up, she had to let it release. If she didn’t, she might very well stamp her foot and cry, or dump a tureen of soup over Roxburghe’s head, or something else equally horrifying. She didn’t do any of those things, however, because she heard a sniffle coming from the other end of the table.

  That sniffle could only have come from Morgan.

  Vanessa rose and placed a placating smile upon her lips, clearly trying to stop Emma before she’d gone too far. “Ladies, why don’t we all excuse ourselves—?”

  Blast it all, Vanessa ought to have tried sooner. She knew how Emma could be when she lost her temper, far better than anyone else in the world. Vanessa shouldn’t have let her go as far as she did.

  Emma spoke more loudly than she had been, making certain everyone heard her over her sister’s voice. “I will not excuse anyone until Lord Roxburghe has apologized to Lady Morgan for being a vile excuse for a gentleman.”

  With a fierceness in her brown eyes he never imagined she possessed, Miss Hathaway straightened her shoulders, tossed back her head, crossed her arms over her chest, and looked as regal and certain of herself as the queen. “We shall also wait for Lady Portia to apologize to Lady Morgan. I’m prepared to wait as long as is necessary.”

  Aidan could do nothing but gape at her. He had never felt more conflicted in his life.

  On the one hand, he wanted to stand up and applaud Miss Hathaway for daring to take such a stand—particularly one in favor of his sister. Yet she was still the woman he loathed more than anything or anyone else in this world, the one whom he had cursed for nearly three years, the one he’d so often depicted in the throes of his revenge whilst using his pastels.