by Allison Lane
After a lifetime of enduring penury and her stepfather’s derision, she was ready to embrace the life she deserved. Her mother had been a baron’s daughter, and her father had connections to half a dozen great houses, making her worthy of the highest in the land. She’d managed her first goal – reaching London, the world’s largest and most opulent city. The next step should be easy.
A score of officers had demanded her hand, but she’d refused. Never again would she live on an inadequate military income. She needed wealth – unlimited wealth – and the standing that would let her sneer at those self-righteous wives who had cut her so often.
In short, she needed Jacob. And she meant to have him.
The immediate problem was Miss Hughes. Jacob was watching her like a hawk. He wasn’t courting her, but she knew men well enough to spot his interest. So she must keep the two apart, and that meant leaving Hughes House. As long as she remained there, Jacob would see Miss Hughes daily. But once he understood how miserable she was, he must move her to Hawthorne House.
So she put off Mr. Phillips and tracked down Jacob, catching him outside the card room.
“Lady Hughes refused to let Mr. Raintree drive me in the park,” she complained, producing her most winsome smile. When she spotted Emily’s eyes on them, she crowded closer, delighted when he grasped her shoulders to push her away. It would look quite intimate from afar. “You must drive me yourself so she understands that I can appear in all the usual venues. She is determined to keep me locked away so I don’t overshadow her daughter.”
“We’ve discussed this before, Miss Nichols.” He glared as alarmingly as Wentworth – not that anyone else could see his face. “If she postponed a park drive, it can only be that you lack suitable clothing. In a few more days, all will be well.”
“But—”
“Patience, child. If you rush your fences, you will fall. The rules exist for a reason. Until you understand them, be careful. In the meantime, I will see that Raintree knows you did not reject him.”
He left her fuming. Drat the man! She might have confirmed Emily’s belief that Jacob was taken, but he was treating her like an infant. It was time to show him that his dear friends were not the paragons he thought them.
* * * *
Jacob unclenched his fists as he escaped into the card room. The more he learned about Harriet, the worse she seemed. In less than a week she’d slipped from unwanted burden to impatient hoyden to vulgar harridan. Complaining about one’s hostess was not done.
He had to find Sir Bertram before she irredeemably ruined her reputation.
The sound of the man’s name pricked him to attention.
“No doubt about it,” Pierce was drawling. “Got it from Lady Beatrice. Sir Bertram will wed the Chalmers chit in August. He left for her father’s estate this morning. Doesn’t care a fig for the chit, but she’s a diamond, a perfect foil for him.”
No! Jacob nearly screamed aloud. Now he had to find a new candidate for Harriet. Immediately.
He slipped out the far door, seeking the privacy of Lord Cunningham’s library before someone spotted his fury and asked questions. But he hadn’t gone two steps before running down Emily.
“Sorry, Tadpole,” he said, gripping her arms until she regained her balance. Again the old name slipped out, but perhaps recalling that summer would lead to gaining her forgiveness. She seemed more relaxed than earlier.
“My fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” She shrugged.
“If you insist. What are you doing back here, anyway?”
“Retiring room. I caught my skirt on Major Harrison’s sleeve – I cannot believe how many buttons his uniform has.” She pointed to a rent in the lace.
“Old habit. Extra silver buttons are useful on campaign,” he admitted, stifling irritation that Harrison had stood close enough to snag her gown. The Cunningham Ball was always a crush. “A man can trade them to the locals for food when the supply lines break down. Are you enjoying your Season?”
“Of course.” But the words were a shade too vehement, and her eyes again flashed wariness.
It was time to mend some fences. “I never thanked you for your advice and support that last year.”
“I did nothing, Jacob.”
“Hardly. You kept me from making a fool of myself. You directed me to men who could answer my questions. You built my confidence. Without you, I could never have wrested control of the Park from Stewart and the others.”
“You would have managed, but I accept your thanks,” she said modestly, then turned the subject. “Thank you for warning me about phaetons, Jacob. Richard forgot.”
“Some men use flashy carriages to display their possessions,” he said, leading her toward the library lest someone overhear his exaggerations and undermine his authority – phaetons were definitely unsafe, but there was nothing socially wrong with them. “You do not wish to be thought Larkin’s possession.”
“No.”
“They are also dangerous, even in skilled hands. Larkin’s aren’t.”
“It did seem rather unstable. Much like that up-and-down device you and Richard built that year,” she added with a grin.
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me. You nearly broke an arm when it snapped.”
“Ah, well. That must be fifteen years ago now.” She paused, letting her smile fade. “Could you explain something that is puzzling me?”
“What?”
“Lord Ashington. Every time Charles sees him, he nearly attacks. Sophie claims they hate each other, but she doesn’t know why.”
“Not again,” he muttered, gesturing her into a chair while he paced to the fireplace and back.
“It isn’t a minor spat,” she continued. “It’s lasted three years. When I restrained Charles at Lady Horseley’s rout, he called Ashington the greatest rogue in England, a dishonorable cad, and a few other names. So why is Ashington here tonight? Granted, he’s a duke’s heir, but the Cunninghams don’t court rogues.”
“Anyone can slip in if he doesn’t care what society thinks – I saw Featherstone not long ago. He is a genuine rogue. But you’re right. Ashington isn’t.”
“Then why does Charles hate him?”
Jacob ran his hands through his hair, wondering how to explain a feud rooted in a squabble over a widow’s favors that had resulted in a farcical meeting at Chalk Farm. Neither man had wanted a duel, but each was too stubborn to back down from the drunken challenge. Both had fired wide, which should have ended the affair with pride intact. Unfortunately, one shot had ricocheted, striking Ashington’s second. They’d all left town until the victim recovered, but the argument over blame had never been resolved.
There had been other clashes over the years – most recently over Gina LaRue, the French nightingale, who gave even better performances in bed than on the stage. But it had begun with the Widow Darnley. Personally, he thought the lady rated no more than a glance, but Charles had spent an entire month dancing attendance on her until Ashington swept her away. No one in history had been a less worthy subject for a duel.
“Well?” demanded Emily.
“Ashington is a decent enough fellow, though a bit wild at times,” he said carefully. “But he and Charles butt heads often.”
“Why?”
“Too many incidents to tell.”
“Did Ashington steal his mistress?”
He jumped. How had she known that? “Perhaps,” he conceded.
“Did they fight over it?”
Damn her for raising subjects no one discussed! “There are always rumors when two men are so obviously at odds. But I’ve not heard one word from anyone in a position to know the truth” —including himself, who never mentioned the incident aloud— “so I will not speculate. The confrontations I do know about include Ashington buying an estate Charles wanted and a suggestion that Ash caused trouble for Charles at the Foreign Office. Then there was the night Charles spilled wine down Ash’s new coat, Charles buying a horse Ash wanted—�
�
Voices approached the library, reminding him that Emily was in a compromising position. To protect her, he opened the French window and led her into the garden. “What is your interest in the fellow?”
“None. But I was curious about Charles’s reaction – more violent than one would expect of a gentleman, especially at a ball.”
“Charles is generally insouciant,” he agreed, turning away from the house. “But not when it comes to Ashington. Ignore the fellow. He is not seeking a wife, so you needn’t consider him.”
Emily paused as if searching for words, but finally abandoned the subject. “What are we doing out here?”
“I meant to ask your advice, but don’t need an audience.” Or some high-stickler screaming compromise. He’d been alone with Emily a hundred times before. This was no different than their strolls through the orchard.
“What is it?”
The graveled path pierced the shrubbery surrounding a small fountain, taking them out of sight of the terrace. “Miss Nichols, of course. She is far more rustic than I feared. And increasingly defiant. Her arrogance rivals the most stiff-rumped duchess, making it a serious problem. Is she causing trouble for you?” He’d asked before, but hadn’t believed her answer.
“Not trouble, per se,” said Emily slowly. “Her taste is not as refined as you would like, but we have prevented her from buying gowns that would shame you. And her manners are slowly improving.”
“I know that perfectly well.” Her hesitancy annoyed him, for it sounded as though she feared his response if she failed to provide the right answer. The hell of it was that she ought to fear him. The moment they’d left the light, lust urged him to sweep her into his arms, kiss her senseless, then claim her for his own.
He couldn’t allow it. Moving several careful inches away, so her gown didn’t caress his thigh with every step, he continued. “Lady Debenham claims to see a sly look in Harriet’s eyes. I’ve not seen it myself, but the lady is very astute, so you should keep a close eye on her. If she slips off alone, I will have to confine her. And tell me everything that seems odd, no matter how trivial.”
Emily nodded. She would have done so anyway. The least she could do for him was keep his wife safe.
As they headed inside, she turned her thoughts to Sophie and Lord Ashington. Sophie would have her work cut out for her if she was set on Ashington. Jacob’s verbal sidestepping hadn’t fooled her, for she’d heard him utter similar half-truths before. Thus there had been a duel. Since everyone had left town, someone had been shot. Probably Charles. It wasn’t an event he would forgive, let alone forget, and he made a formidable foe.
On the other hand, as long as he disguised his chaperon duties by playing the infatuated suitor, she could use his flirtation to soften his hatred for Ashington. If she could keep him occupied long enough for Sophie to establish a serious courtship, maybe he would accept Sophie’s choice.
Watching Harriet. Helping Sophie. Overturning her long infatuation for Jacob. The Season was moving ahead at breakneck speed, yet Emily had no time to address the most pressing matter of all – finding a husband.
Chapter Eight
“I don’t know if I can survive another day with that girl,” Emily confided to Sophie a fortnight later.
Harriet had decided that her knowledge of the world exceeded Emily’s, so she ceased any pretense of listening. She was supremely confident of her power over men, using her exotic mannerisms and seductive accent to draw them near. She refused to understand that many of those she lured were dangerous.
Emily shuddered at the memory of Harriet laughing with Devereaux, the most dissipated rakehell in town, who took what he wanted, regardless of convention. Yet she dared not criticize. Harriet ignored her – or deliberately flouted her. Emily need only mention that something was improper to send Harriet hurtling off to try it. She was in full revolt, apparently believing that wedding an earl would overcome any censure – not that she cared what society thought; in that respect she was much like Devereaux.
Another insight Emily had gained too late was that Harriet despised all women, regarding them as unwanted competitors for men’s attention. And she was selfish to the core. Jacob would have his hands full trying to control her. He could not pack her off to the country unless he stayed there, too. The minute his back was turned, Harriet would return to town.
But it was Harriet’s private war on Emily that hurt the most. She resented any effort to curb her, reacting with criticisms that eroded Emily’s confidence and made her doubt her fundamental worth. The attacks were all the more devastating because her misinterpretation of Jacob’s kiss and ten years of blind infatuation were already calling her judgment into question. Too many of Harriet’s jabs were true.
Sophie had been a godsend, listening to Emily’s frustration, bolstering her confidence, and blanketing her in kindness.
“What did she do this time?” murmured Sophie now.
A quick glance around Lady Marchgate’s drawing room assured Emily that they couldn’t be overheard. Mrs. Trimble was breathlessly recounting the latest rumors about Lord Sedgewick’s expected marriage to a nobody five days earlier. Since Mrs. Trimble was a close friend of Lord Sedgewick’s mother, Lady Glendale, her words held everyone spellbound. Lord Sedgewick hadn’t been seen in days. Lady Glendale swore he was seeking an annulment.
Emily sighed. “You saw the Duchess of Woburn’s gown last night.”
Sophie stifled a giggle. “I don’t know what the woman is thinking. Fifty if she’s a day and built like a frigate, yet she decks herself in three flounces and enough ribbon to wrap a mummy.”
“Horrible. But Harriet took one look and decided her single flounce was too plain. She insisted that Mama take her to the dressmaker’s again. That is her tenth buying trip in two weeks. Mama is exhausted, and Jacob must be fuming.”
“He can afford it.” Sophie dismissed the cost. “If he has a complaint, it would be that she will never find a husband if she dresses like a mushroom.”
Emily nearly revealed Jacob’s betrothal, but bit back the words. It was not her place to reveal his secrets.
Sophie continued without pause. “But wearing your mother out is unconscionable, Emily. Talk to him about it.”
“How?”
Sophie considered the problem. “You’re right. You can hardly carry tales, no matter how awful Harriet is. Nor can I. But Richard can. Talk to him. He should be as concerned as you.”
Emily nodded, though she had already discounted using Richard as a messenger. Talking to him might pique his curiosity. Since her infatuation made her sound stilted whenever she mentioned Jacob’s name, Richard would know her manner was far too quiet. Questions would soon uncover her naïveté. And if he told Jacob—
Heat rose in her face.
Fortunately, Sophie didn’t notice. “Mr. Thompson returned yesterday,” she said as Lady Debenham cut off Mrs. Trimble to announce that Miss Sharpton had accepted Sir Harvey Creevey.
Miss Everly slipped into an unbecoming pout, confirming that she’d had her eye on Sir Harvey for herself.
“Who is Mr. Thompson?” asked Emily.
“The Duke of Shumwell’s grandson, through a daughter. He’s of an age to need a wife, so I wondered if Harriet might like him.”
“Duke’s grandson. It’s possible. Do you think he will be at the Jersey ball tonight?” Not that it mattered. A minor ducal grandson would never tempt Harriet away from a wealthy earl.
She ought to be glad that Jacob was clearly enamored with his ward. Most nights he whisked her away the moment he arrived, often without greeting her companions. Harriet regaled Emily with tales of kisses in gardens and anterooms and even behind a statue of Aphrodite in Lady Debenham’s entrance hall. Emily had seen his hands on her more than once. So his marriage might offer him some enjoyment.
She wished she could believe he could be happy.
Emily reminded herself again that he was not the man of her fantasies. Whatever flirtation he’d
dabbled in that summer was long over. If he had loved her, he would have claimed her when she turned eighteen. And if he’d cared about his inheritance, he would have visited Hawthorne Park. She had naïvely ignored everything that might have exploded her dreams.
She let Sophie’s chatter flow past while she reviewed the tale that proved Jacob was unworthy of her love.
He had coveted a piece of land that would become valuable once a nearby factory expanded. But Lord Raymond Perigord had already offered for it. Rather than make a higher offer, Jacob had accused Lord Raymond of fraud, forcing him to flee the country. By the time he’d returned with evidence of his innocence, Jacob had owned the land.
Emily clung to the image, repeating it over and over in an effort to throw off her lingering attachment. It would be easier if she had a viable alternative, but Harriet was right that she couldn’t draw admiring eyes. Richard kept pushing his friends to consider her, but none remained at her side for long. Mr. Larkin had not spoken to her since their drive in the park. Others had skulked away after a single set. Only the Beaux paid her any heed, but they didn’t count. Nor did the cubs who occasionally danced with her.
Damn the Beaux for hovering! she thought suddenly, clutching her teacup so firmly it nearly broke. Jacob’s insistence on two sets at every ball was driving her to distraction. It didn’t mean anything, for he continued treating her like Richard’s baby sister. He talked of impartial things like Parliament, or his latest dispute with his tailor, or Harriet.
Always Harriet.
At first, she’d thought he was resuming their old friendship – why else would he treat her as a confidante? But as she watched the matchmakers stalk him, she realized that he saw his friend’s harmless sister as a refuge. Or worse.
“He feels sorry for you,” Harriet had said after the Wharburton masquerade a week earlier. Jacob had spent three sets with Emily that night, though they’d only danced two. “He knows your Season is a failure, but he must hide that until after we’re wed so you don’t tarnish my reputation.”
