All their unacknowledged resistance seemed to melt. Maggie was suddenly saying that they did suit awfully well, and Anne remarked that Sir Nicholas was only seven years older than Mr. Rogers, after all. By the time Anne and Emma took their leave, there was a general agreement that Emma was doing quite the right thing, and they hugged one another in real accord. On the ride to Bruton Street, however, Emma kept the conversation strictly to Anne’s wedding and her role as bridesmaid in it. When she reached her room, Emma lay down on the bed, allowing the tension to drain from her. Everything was going to be all right.
* * * *
Sir Nicholas arrived to escort them to the theater that evening in less than jubilant spirits. His scrutiny of Emma’s new gown was cursory and his compliment on it lacked its usual enthusiasm. She had ordered it a few days after their engagement, and had chosen it specially for his approval. Though she felt a twinge of disappointment at his indifference, she allowed none of it to show. Nick in a dark mood was something alien to her, and she was wise enough to respect this, toning down her own revived spirits to match his more reserved demeanor.
They sat together on the seat opposite Amelia in the carriage and Emma allowed her aunt to carry the conversation. Eventually Nick took her hand and squeezed it. “You’re a clever girl, my dear,” he murmured into her hair, but his disposition did not vastly improve.
From her seat in Lady Bradwell ‘s box Emma could see that the house was filling rapidly. The candlelight was bright enough for her to distinguish familiar faces even in boxes across the way. She almost wished it weren’t, for she saw Dunn take a seat with Lady Rowland and her daughter Caroline, saw him bending to catch the girl’s words when she spoke. Emma forced her attention back to her aunt and Nick.
“Did you decide on a wedding dress today?” he asked when informed by Amelia that they had shopped.
“No, I’m torn between two very different designs,” Emma replied.
A trace of impatience tinged his voice. “You haven’t much time, Emma. The dressmaker will need several fittings, which could take weeks. I want you to make a decision tomorrow.”
Emma stared at him for a moment before lowering her eyes. “Very well, first thing in the morning, Nick.”
Amelia watched the interchange with trepidation , knowing that Emma was not one to take an order lightly. She could not put a finger on the undercurrents and was not even sure from which of the two they issued. Most likely it was just two strong-willed people sparring for advantage, seeking limits or asking for reassurance. Her philosophy, however; was not to interfere, and she turned aside from them to concentrate on her program.
“It seems to me,” Nick was saying, “that you aren’t taking our wedding very seriously, Emma. It’s not another rout party, you know. We’ve decided to have a very private ceremony but that does not relieve you of a few duties. Have you sent the invitations?”
“Several days ago.” Emma tried hard to keep her tone level while her fingers picked unconsciously at her beaded purse. “I’ve set myself a schedule for making arrangements, for shopping and such. The only thing I’m behindhand on is the gown. I wanted it to be something you would especially appreciate.”
“I’m not likely to disapprove of your choice.”
“No,” she said frankly. “but I can’t decide whether you would prefer me to look virginal or seductive.”
His brow became thunderous and he glanced to see if Amelia had overheard. Well, he knew she had, but she gave no indication, continuing to concentrate on the uninformative program. In a low voice he growled at Emma, “You don’t say things like that in a box at the theater, my girl.”
“Yes, I do,” she retorted. “For God’s sake, Nick, what’s put your nose out of joint? Since when have you become so concerned with propriety?”
“Since I decided to take on the responsibility of a wife.”
Emma leaned toward him; a demure look settled over an impish grin, and she whispered in his ear, “If you’re going to behave that way when we’re married, I’d as soon forget the whole thing. I’d rather be your mistress.”
Hard as he tried, Nick was unable to suppress the grin that twitched at his lips. Emma thought for a moment he had so forgotten himself that he was going to kiss her on the lips, right there in public, but instead he kissed her hand. She had already pulled three beads off the purse and they fell from her hand when he lifted it. Nick cocked his head sympathetically and took the mistreated reticule from her nervous fingers. For the entire first act of the play Emma’s reticule rested on his elegantly clad knee in plain view of anyone who cared to look.
At the first intermission they were visited in their box by several acquaintances; at the second they wandered out into the corridor, speaking briefly with friends. When they were just opposite the box in which Dunn was sitting, the door opened and he came out with Caroline Rowland on his arm. Emma assured herself that it was her imagination that he stiffened, though Miss Rowland looked up at him questioningly.
“Miss Berryman, Nick. I’m sure you know Miss Rowland.”
“Yes, of course.” Emma smiled at the young lady. “Are you enjoying the play?”
Miss Rowland wrinkled her aristocratic nose. “It’s not really to my taste. I prefer something a little more elevating to the mind.” At Dunn’s startled look, she waved an airy hand. “But that is neither here nor there. I don’t believe I’ve had the occasion to congratulate you on your engagement, Miss Berryman. My felicitations to you and Sir Nicholas.”
“Thank you.”
“I understand that you are to be wed fairly soon.”
“In about two weeks,” Emma said, “shortly after my friend Anne. I had no wish to be off on a wedding trip and miss her celebration.”
“Then she will miss yours,” Miss Rowland pointed out, as though the knowledge would come as a surprise to Emma.
“Yes, but we are having a private ceremony with only a few friends.”
There had been some debate in Emma’s mind as to whether she should include Dunn amongst that number for the wedding. Certainly she didn’t want him there, but possibly he should have been included. When she made the brief list, she had left off his name, and Nick had perused it, nodding. Dunn had not received an invitation.
“Are you being married at St. George’s?” he asked now.
“No, St. James’s. Aunt Amelia was married there.” Emma met his polite gaze steadily.
Miss Rowland nodded her approval. “I think it is always appropriate to promote such a tradition. Not for the sake of sentimentality, mind you, but for the substance that custom gives. Is your aunt with you this evening?”
“She stayed in the box to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Whitechapel. I suppose we should be getting back.”
“There’s plenty of time.” Nick turned to Dunn. “Have you heard whether Ashby has decided to sell his grays?”
“He mentioned it again at the club today. If you’re interested, you’d best see him before he puts them with Tattersall’s. That will only raise the figure higher. I didn’t know you were looking for another pair.”
“I might be.” Sir Nicholas was strangely noncommittal, casting a hasty glance at Emma to see if she was listening, but she was responding to a question from Miss Rowland. “Last time I saw the grays they looked spirited but not mettlesome. Ashby likes a controllable pair. That’s what I had in mind.”
Dunn, too, looked at Emma. So Nick intended to give her a carriage and pair as a surprise wedding present, did he? It was precisely what Dunn had planned to do if she had agreed to marry him. The thought was oppressive and he addressed the ladies with a slight edge to his voice. “If we are to stop in your aunt’s box, Miss Rowland, we had best excuse ourselves.”
The remainder of the play and the farce that followed it made little impression on Emma’s mind. It was better, she knew, to keep running into Dunn. Only with regular casual contact would she learn to control the sad ache she rarely acknowledged in herself. In time a pattern of a sort of
friendship would be established. Emma could not help but experience a prick of alarm, however, at his being with Miss Rowland.
Not because of her aunt; Amelia would realize as well as she did that Miss Rowland was entirely too haughty and humorless to be a threat to Amelia’s position in his life. But Emma disliked his being with her because she was such a total contrast to Emma herself as though he were flaunting the difference between them, to Emma’s disadvantage.
In the hall, back in Bruton Street, Amelia surveyed her companions with a knowledgeable eye. “You have some matters to discuss about the wedding, I daresay. Why don’t you offer Sir Nicholas a glass of brandy, Emma? If you don’t mind, I won’t stay up with you. It’s been a long day.”
His mood had lightened during the evening, and when he sat holding his glass of brandy, he smiled at her. “Did I tell you how charming you look this evening?”
“No. You mumbled something about never having seen the gown before.”
“I haven’t, have I?”
“No, it’s new.”
He ran his hand along her uncovered arm. “Your gowns seem to be getting more seductive since we became engaged. I’m not complaining. I like them.”
“And the wedding dress? Which shall it be?”
Running a finger along the low scoop of the neckline, he said, “Virginal. Does that surprise you?”
“Not at all. I rather prefer it myself.” She allowed him to draw her closer. “I’m sorry I’ve waited so long to choose it. Somehow the decision was paralyzing.”
“I wonder why.” If he was really curious, Emma could not tell, he started to kiss her then. After a while he said, “You would probably make an excellent mistress, Emma.”
Her eyes were too close to his to focus properly and she drew back a bit. “Would you prefer that, Nick? To be relieved of all this responsibility you seem to think marriage entails?”
“Well, it is a responsibility, dammit,” he grumbled. “I’ll have to keep track of where you are and you’ll want to know where I am.”
“I can’t see why,” she said, eyes dancing.
“For one thing, so I’ll know when you’ll be in my bed. I’m likely to come home earlier on those evenings.” He slipped her gown off one shoulder and stroked the satin skin he had uncovered. "I'd hate to come home early and find you’d gone off into the country.”
“I promise to let you know at least a day ahead of time. There’s no necessity for you to do the same if you don’t wish.” There were a dozen questions she wanted to ask him: Do you have a mistress now? Will you keep her? Will you be more discreet when we are married? But any one of them she felt sure he would consider an infringement on his personal life, an invasion he would resent. And there were probably things he wanted to tell her: how he expected her to conduct herself, whether he cared if she had liaisons, what he envisioned as her role in his life. But he said nothing, allowing his hands and lips to do the only talking he was willing to do.
His touch, and the sensations it stirred, were their common ground. Perhaps not their only common ground, but the one on which doubts and fears were banished. The rising tide of desire in Emma’s body effectively blotted all thoughts from her mind. She never protested the gradual slipping of her gown to her waist. The need for his hands and his lips on her bare breasts was too great. Always she was surprised that he did not demand more. She was willing to give everything when her body ached with urgency, but he murmured, “Soon, my love, very soon.” And she would lie against him, feeling the gradual diminishing of the tension, which would not entirely disappear even when he rearranged her clothing, kissed her good night, and left. Where did he go then? To his mistress? Emma would not have blamed him, in fact could quite understand such a course of action.
But why didn’t he satisfy himself with her? Surely he must know she was willing. Emma lay in bed after each of these encounters trying to understand, desire still clinging about her like an elusive mist. They were going to be married. What difference would it make? Even if she conceived, who would notice a baby born two weeks early? But he wanted her gown to be virginal, he wanted her to be virginal. As a sop to convention? She wouldn't have expected that of Nick. Much more likely that he wished to see the desire build and build in her so that on their wedding night . . . Yes, Emma decided drowsily just before she fell asleep, that must be the reason.
* * * *
In the days that followed she found support for her theory, though she became more and more confused by Nick’s behavior. He always treated her gently, politely, even lovingly once they were together, but he invariably arrived moody and uncommunicative. It was as though he forgot in between meetings how much he liked her. And it wasn’t only the passionate moments at the end of an evening. Half an hour after they had been together he would grin at her, touch her nose with a playful finger or whisper in her ear some delighted word of self-congratulation at having won her hand.
“If I had known you fifteen years ago, Emma, I would probably this moment be surrounded by a parcel of brats unexceeded by the old king himself.”
“Fifteen years ago I was four,” she laughed, “and I have no intention of being so prolific as the queen. For your sake, you understand. She is all right. It was the poor beleaguered king who was mad.”
The night before Anne’s wedding he was especially low-spirited. During the whole course of the evening he rarely smiled, though he was sweetly solicitous of her welfare, insisting that she not stay out late because of her bridesmaid’s duties the next day. Emma thought it was merely a ploy to have her alone in the drawing room in Bruton Street, and she was not averse, but when they arrived at Amelia’s house, he merely kissed her forehead and wished her a good night’s sleep. Emma gazed after his retreating figure, stunned and more than a little disappointed.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Maggie watched Anne walk toward Mr. Rogers with a sense of complete happiness. Not only was the occasion joyful, but her own remembrance of that last time she had been in St. George’s, frightened, miserable, was now totally overlaid by her own contentment. At her side sat Greenwood, the same man she had married, and yet not quite the same. For one thing, ever since little Charles had been born, her husband, flirting with jealousy over the child, had insisted that she call him by his Christian name, too. They had agreed to stay in town through Anne’s wedding, and Emma’s, before settling into the country for a long rustication. Adam would have friends to stay and Maggie would have both him and the baby to care for. She couldn’t think of any arrangement more in keeping with her desires.
And Anne was a beautiful bride, blushingly ecstatic in her white lace gown. Maggie had been invited, even coaxed, to be a bridesmaid, but she had gently refused. It would be enough, she had said, just to be there. As Anne spoke her words of commitment Maggie remembered her own silent promise to Adam at that altar. He had given her a chance, and she had kept her vow to make him an acceptable wife. Her eyes misted as Mr. Rogers, his voice resonant with affection, took Anne to be his lawfully wedded wife. Maggie felt Adam’s hand steal into hers and she turned to see his beloved smile beaming down on her. How very lucky she was!
Strangely enough, Anne was experiencing much the same thought. So many things might have prevented this moment. Harold might not have been brought to see the wisdom of their marriage. Her parents might have objected that his position was not equal to her own. Someone else might have won his affections. She might not have become friends with Helena and had the chance to get to know him. Oh, yes, things might have been far otherwise than they were that day.
Instead, here they stood being pronounced man and wife with Emma and Dunn, Helena and Jack attending them, with her parents and Will and Maggie and Adam watching. No one else really mattered. In fact, Anne admitted to herself, a dimple peeping out in her cheek, even her family and friends did not matter all that much, right now as she stood beside Harold. For today that was surely permissible. He caught the buoyant light in her eyes and responded in the only wa
y he could, considering the solemnity of the ceremony: he pressed the fingers next to his. He, too, found the occasion one of joy.
Emma was close enough to observe this silent sharing of their delight, and she tried very hard to let their happiness rule her own emotional temperature. But her eyes glanced beyond them to Dunn, who was staring at her, his face frozen in an aspect of bewilderment. Was he seeing her four days hence, at another altar, exchanging vows with Nick? Or was he comparing her own strange choice with Anne’s? Was he thinking of her at all, or merely absentmindedly looking in her direction? Emma returned her gaze to the newly wedded couple. How could she think of anything else in the face of their marvelous union?
As she followed Anne and Harold out of the church at Dunn’s side, she searched the faces in the congregation for Nick. Surely he had not missed the wedding! He had said he would be there, but her hasty glance over the multitude of faces failed to pick him out. Finally she spotted him, in the last row, as though he could barely bring himself to he there. The hollows of his cheeks looked prominent in his drawn face. When her eyes met his, she suffered an almost electric shock of knowledge. It seemed hardly credible that she could have deluded herself for the last month. Out of sight of him, she stumbled in the vestibule and Dunn automatically reached out a firm hand to steady her.
“Thank you.”
Dunn regarded her with cool gray eyes. "Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention.” But she knew her face had paled perceptibly and she hastened forward to hug Anne.
“Everything was perfect, absolutely perfect. You looked positively radiant and Mr. Rogers the most proud and handsome fellow in the world. Oh, how happy I wish you both!”
Fortunately Anne was too engrossed in her own concerns to notice Emma’s paleness. She was soon surrounded by her family and hustled into the waiting carriage. Emma found herself with Helena, Dunn, and Lord Maplegate in another being driven to the house in Grosvenor Square where a wedding feast was to be held. Helena looked teary eyed and Emma pressed her arm in an encouraging gesture, but the sympathy was more than Helena could bear and she burst into real tears, much to Dunn’s astonishment and Jack’s horror
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