The Loving Seasons

by Laura Matthews

  “Ask Emma Berryman to stand up with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think you haven’t given her a chance. You are being very censorious and yet you admit to some youthful folly of your own.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Lady Anne. I am not at all sure I would not prefer hearing of my…ah…misdeeds.” His thoughtful gaze traveled to where Emma sat raptly listening to Sir Nicholas while Lord William impatiently attempted to get a word in edgewise. “Very likely she wouldn’t accept.”

  “Which simply indicates how hard you’ve been on her," Anne pointed out.

  “Perhaps I have. Not that I have bested her in any confrontation, you understand. As I recall, she has always had the last word, since she doesn’t care a fig for my opinion."

  “Ah, there is the crux of the matter, isn’t it? She really should have the good sense to care for your opinion.” Anne was quizzing him, but they both knew she had put her finger on the source of his annoyance.

  “If you’re not careful, my dear young lady, you’re going to be even more awesome than your mother,” he grumbled.

  “You’ll ask Emma?”

  “I will, but you cannot hold me to blame if she refuses.”

  “I shan’t.”

  * * * *

  Truth to tell, it was rather unusual for Lord Dunn to approach any lady for a dance expecting to be refused, and it was not an experience he would have cared to undergo regularly. After supper he stood up with Lady Anne and Lady Greenwood, and was promised a dance with Mrs. Morton later in the evening, but he did not find himself in Miss Berryman’s vicinity and chose next to honor a Miss Rufforth and then a Miss Wilmington as partners. If he had not caught Anne’s questioning look across the room, Dunn would then have adjourned for a brief spell to the card room. Instead he surveyed the thinning company and had no trouble locating Miss Berryman returning to her aunt with Sir Nicholas. With a mental shrug Dunn approached her.

  His request so surprised Emma, who had, if not repented, at least regretted her pert words at the table (which had caused her aunt to frown most grievously), that she looked rather helplessly at him, stammering, "I—I think I have promised this set to Mr. Chamblesforth. Or was it Mr. Thresham. Yes, Mr. Thresham. But I—I don’t see him.”

  Sir Nicholas intervened smoothly. “Norwood sent word that Thresham was indisposed, and forced to leave the festivities rather earlier than he had planned.”

  “Oh. Then I would be most happy to accept your kind offer, Lord Dunn.”

  As they took their places in the set, she said stiffly, “My aunt thought I was rude to you at supper.”

  “Very rude.”

  “You were not particularly polite to stare at me that way through your quizzing glass.”

  “No, I wasn’t. I ask your pardon.”

  Emma blinked at him in surprise. “You do? That’s very handsome of you. And I am sorry I spoke so…”

  As she was at a loss for the proper word, he supplied it. Impertinently.”

  “I hadn’t in mind such a strong term, but I suppose it will do.” She laughed as the Scotch reel separated them.

  Dunn watched her glide through the dance, smiling, speaking with each of the gentlemen she met, enjoying herself. And the gentlemen were enjoying her. Not only for her vivacity, he thought, but for the way her gown clung so provocatively. Yet there were any number of gowns of a similar cut and fit that excited not the least interest. It was the girl’s own awareness of her sensuality that made the difference, that added the spice to the package. An almost smug realization of her magnetism, he decided, disturbed.

  Noting the direction of his gaze, Emma rewarded him with her most alluring smile. “It is fortunate, is it not, Lord Dunn, that the wine was white and not red?”

  “Yes,” he said shortly. But he had a good mind to shake the child. How dare she try to play off her wiles on him? On anyone, for that matter, at her age and in her position? Did she think herself invincible? London society, he trusted, would soon teach her otherwise. For if it did not…

  Emma was disappointed by his reaction. Used to the admiring gazes of the infatuated Lord William, and the almost alarmingly knowledgeable half smile of Sir Nicholas, Lord Dunn’s impassive countenance was an insult. Caught up in the first flush of her power over men, she determined to bring him to heel.

  “I understand you are a notable whip,” she remarked when next they faced each other. “I suppose you disapprove of ladies learning how to handle the ribbons.”

  “Very few excel at such a demanding pursuit.”

  “I would.” Her eyes flashed a challenge. “Sir Nicholas is giving me pointers on riding and Lord William is instructing me about sailing vessels—he keeps one on the Thames. I want to learn about everything, do everything! You can’t imagine how restricted it was at school! I should like to shoot a flintlock gun and visit the races at Newmarket. There are dozens of things I’ve never done, any number of places I’ve never been, books to read that Mrs. Childswick would not allow within the premises of Windrush House.”

  She was gone again and Dunn watched her with perplexed eyes. But attention was recalled by Miss Rowland, her patrician face unsmiling, looking far too high in the instep to be stomping through a Scotch reel. He swung her around, realizing as he did so what an impossible task it would be to engender the least enthusiasm in her for anything. When his arm was linked once more with Miss Berryman’s he said warily, “I don’t disapprove of ladies learning to drive a pair, so long as they don’t endanger themselves or passersby, or the horses. You must realize, however, that it takes a deal of concentration to master the finer elements.”

  “So that what one needs is a notable whip for an instructor?” Emma asked, all mocking innocence.

  “Precisely, Miss Berryman.”

  As the music wound to a halt, she smiled. "Would you teach me?”

  Of course it was the question she had been angling toward through most of the dance and Dunn knew it. He had, in fact, prepared a very civil rejection, one that would show his amusement at her impertinence, and yet his innate courtesy, his surprise at the immaturity of the request, and yet his unblemished good humor. Unfortunately, in addition to the mocking gleam, there was also a light of eager anticipation in her eyes and he realized, almost with a start, that she really did wish to learn.

  “Very well, Miss Berryman.” Because he was annoyed with himself for giving in to her, there was no trace of enthusiasm in his voice as he led her toward her aunt.

  “Thank you. Tomorrow, perhaps?” Emma suggested

  “That won’t be possible,” he replied dampingly. “I will send a message round in a few days to set a time.”

  Emma said nothing.

  Chapter Twelve

  Even Lady Bradwell was surprised by the stir her niece was causing, and Emma herself was radiant. Never before had Emma had so much admiration, attention, and the sheer opportunity to indulge herself thoroughly in every pleasurable pursuit. Success is heady stuff and Emma had not the self-discipline to deny herself any pleasure that offered. Nor had she the experience to realize that novelty was at least part of her good fortune. Gentlemen were captivated by her ready interest in their sporting ventures: what other lady was willing to listen (with true eagerness) to descriptions of sailing vessels and bouts of fisticuffs? Emma prided herself on giving each person who addressed her the undivided attention to which he (or she) was entitled.

  In the bustle of her social activities she did not neglect her friends. Her efforts on behalf of the Greenwood ball were unstinting, her thought for her aunt’s comfort becoming, her singing at musical evenings delightful. But in spite of her goodness to those about her, Emma was developing a rather high-flown opinion of herself. Inevitable, perhaps, in one so courted and petted by society, but nonetheless an alarming circumstance.

  When Lord Dunn did not fulfill his word to write her within the next few days, Emma smiled and thought to herself, he is only trying to prove he isn’t captivated. Lady B
radwell was wise enough not to mention the matter at all, nor that he had called one afternoon when Emma was out riding with Sir Nicholas. Despite her frequent references to her niece, he had merely nodded and progressed to other topics as though her comments had been of some disorderly housemaid and called for no remark.

  A note did arrive, precisely two weeks after the ball, indicating that he could be free either of the next two afternoons if Emma should like to be instructed in driving. Emma chose to delay her answer until the morning of the first day, suggesting that he come around that afternoon. He failed to show, but there was a note later in the evening, when she returned from a very late party, politely explaining that he had not received her message until the dinner hour. He did not offer to come the next afternoon.

  “I have just heard from Lord High and Mighty,” she exclaimed, tossing the note on the floor after crumpling it satisfactorily, “and he makes no mention of another appointment to teach me to drive!”

  “He did offer, my love, and you carelessly delayed answering him. Dunn is not to be toyed with, you know. If you were perhaps to write, apologizing for your tardiness, I feel sure he would suggest another opportunity.”

  “I’d rather not learn than apologize to him!”

  “As you wish, Emma. Knowing how to drive will do you very little good, in any case, as I have no sporting vehicle.” And Lady Bradwell continued on her way up the stairs.

  Such a rational viewpoint did not recommend itself to Emma but she said nothing further. The hour was late and she trod wearily to her bedchamber, where the green-and-white check curtains of the tent bed had been drawn back and her nightclothes laid out. Preoccupied, she allowed her maid to undress her and slip the nightdress over her head, trying to decide whether she really cared if Lord Dunn taught her to drive or not. When she had dismissed the maid, her eye was caught by the cylinder desk near the window, already open because she had been too rushed earlier in the evening to finish the letter she had begun to Maggie with a final list of suggested food items for the ball menu.

  Really, she should send it round first thing in the morning; the date of the Greenwood ball was drawing close.

  In her finest copperplate hand she copied the names of dishes from the list she had researched, noting which she felt essential and which were optional. The candle flame flickered and she glanced up with a puzzled frown. No hint of a breeze stirred the curtains and her door was shut tight, but she could hear the vague whisper of footsteps in the hall. Probably one of the servants still abroad, she speculated. Still, it was more than half an hour since their return and generally the household was motionless by this time. Curious, she picked up the candlestick and moved to the door, opening it soundlessly and protecting the light of the candle with a hand.

  The hall was in darkness save a brief gleam of light from her aunt’s room that penetrated the gloom before the door shut. Emma had been too late to receive more than an impression, but she could have sworn that the figure of a man disappeared into the room. Strangely enough, in her preoccupation with her own social activities and the men who courted her, she had given no thought whatsoever to her aunt’s reputation and, indeed, confession. At first, perhaps, she had wondered who her aunt’s lover was, but she had seen no sign of their meetings, could not discern in the way Lady Bradwell treated her gentlemen friends any particularity that would distinguish one from the many.

  Emma shielded the flame of her candle and trod soundlessly down the hall until she was opposite her aunt’s door, where she paused to listen. Sure enough, there was a faint whisper of voices, blurred by the heavy door, but obviously two people in conversation. And though neither voice was recognizable, decidedly one was feminine and the other deeply masculine. Emma blew out her candle and waited.

  After a while the tenor of the exchange seemed to alter, becoming softer and less frequent until finally there was almost no sound at all. Almost. Emma found herself feeling slightly giddy and she picked up the skirts of the nightdress and hastened back to her room, where she stood for some time leaning against the closed door, the echo of a most unnerving but somehow joyful cry ringing in her ears. With unsteady hands she set the candlestick on the nightstand and climbed into the welcoming bed. She would finish the letter to Maggie in the morning.

  * * * *

  Two days passed before Emma happened to attend the same evening’s entertainment as Lord Dunn. When he joined them there was no hint in his smiling countenance that any disagreement lay between them. His random remarks were directed at both her and her chaperon, he listened with interest to Emma’s amusing comments on the company, and he asked Lady Bradwell to stand up with him. Since Mr. Thresham stood at her elbow only waiting an opportunity to make his own request, there was nothing rude or remarkable in this, but it rankled. Emma decided during the cotillion that when she returned from the dance and he asked her, she would tell him she had no unclaimed dances for the rest of the evening. She need not have bothered planning, he did not ask her.

  Of course there was no lack of partners. Lord William was almost as assiduous as ever, but Emma, as propriety required, agreed to only two dances with any one gentleman. Already, however, she was finding the younger men a trifle immature and consequently rather boring. When one compared them with Sir Nicholas Dyrham…Well, there was no comparison. And yet the baronet was not so remarkably handsome. His height was only average and there was nothing especially notable in his features individually, but as a whole they emanated a rakish air of confident masculinity. Set beside him, Lord William looked an eager puppy, straining at his leash to bounce exuberantly on anyone who took his fancy.

  Sir Nicholas had quite a different sort of aura about him, the aura of a passionate, even reckless man well able to control his intense emotions until he chose to let them loose. Sometimes Emma would unexpectedly catch his gaze on her, its blackness holding an almost scorching potency. Involuntarily she would look away, feeling shaken.

  Miffed at Lord Dunn for his offhanded treatment of her, Emma turned to Sir Nicholas for the instant restoration of her self-esteem. His black eyes were faintly amused.

  “It would seem that his lordship is immune to your charm, Miss Berryman. I shall have to revise my opinion as to his good taste.”

  “You have no high opinion of his singing voice, as I recall. Is he supposed to be a connoisseur of women?”

  “I believe he is reckoned to be. You should ask your aunt. Ladies are more interested in gentlemen’s reputations than are other gentlemen.” He dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. “Are you warm, Miss Berryman? You might benefit from a moment in the garden.”

  The offer was laced with a suggestion of challenge that he knew she would not refuse. She should not really be alone with him, but she prided herself on following her own dictates and not those of society. Emma felt perfectly capable of keeping Sir Nicholas in line and she took his arm.

  Their host that evening had a mansion on the fringes of London that had more extensive grounds than those houses in the heart of the city. Other couples strolled on the gravel walks and sat in arbors covered with vines. As Sir Nicholas threaded his way through a bewildering maze of paths and hedges, Emma cheerfully recounted her morning’s adventure in Bond Street when her reticule had almost been stolen. Although Sir Nicholas appeared intent on her story, he abruptly interrupted before she had quite finished.

  “Do you approve of your aunt’s way of life?”

  “Why ... of course.” Emma regarded him with puzzled eyes.

  “Come now, Miss Berryman, consider.” His voice was lazy but with a touch of impatience. “Your aunt is married to a man who never accompanies her to town. While she is here, she is not faithful to him. You must know that. And you approve?”

  She was disconcerted by his curiously intent regard. After moistening her lips, she said, “Well, there are reasons she does not . . . honor her marriage vows. I perfectly understand her situation.”

  “Do you?” A soft laugh drifted off on the
night breeze. “And you understand how in the quiet late hours a man walks through her house, opens her bedroom door, and enters?”

  Her face paled. “You?”

  “No, certainly not,” he said sternly. “I think ... Well, that is no matter. Perhaps only one man over the years, but more likely two, three, four, have made that pilgrimage to her bed. And you approve?”

  Emma could not answer him.

  “They don’t sing duets there, you know, Miss Berryman.” He smiled. “Or, only in a manner of speaking. No, your aunt undoubtedly wears a nightdress which reveals her substantial charms and drives her lover to dispose of his own clothing as quickly as possible. And then he joins her in bed, Miss Berryman, and they…”

  “Don’t! You should not talk so. What they do ... what my aunt does is none of my business…or yours.” Shaken, she turned her back to him.

  “I merely wished to ascertain whether you knew what you were talking about when you said you approved of her way of life. You are rather young to comprehend the entirety.”

  “Well, I do! I am not a child!”

  “Aren’t you?” Sir Nicholas placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. His smile in the dark was definitely mocking. “You’ve never even been kissed, have you?”

  Since the answer was no, Emma gave instead what she considered a provocative look and murmured demurely, “I don’t tell such secrets, sir.”

  As though she had admitted her purity, he replied, “No, I didn’t think you had.”

  Emma was defensive. “Several gentlemen have tried to kiss me.”

  “I’m not surprised. I think,” he said softly as he twined a lock of her blond hair about his finger, “that you were very wise to wait until you had someone—hm, shall we say experienced—to introduce you.”

  “I ... I don’t understand what you mean.” His finger traced her chin, brushing her lips.

  “I think you do, Miss Berryman. And I think it’s high time you let someone taste those enticing lips you are so ready to pretend are available for the taking.” He touched the line of her throat as she swallowed convulsively, and lifted one magnificent black brow. "Surely you are not afraid?”