The Marriage Bargain

by Blaise Kilgallen

  “I’ll be forty soon, Jordan. Four decades. Can you believe it?” Gavin inhaled, taking a long breath to fill his lungs. “I scarcely believe it myself. Where the hell did the time go? Silver hairs sprouting from my temples.” Gavin sighed. “Tonight I feel as if I’m six decades old instead of four.”

  His valet chuckled again. “Aye, m’lord, at times I know how that feels.” Leaning over, he began to scrape the earl’s jaw. “Lean back farther, m’lord.”

  The earl did what he was asked and changed the topic. “Do you miss making love to a woman, Jordan?”

  The valet’s brows jerked upward, the razor in his hand halting its move. He held it aloft before deciding whether or not to reply. “Aye,” he finally answered candidly. “Aye, m’lord, when I was a bit younger.”

  “Sorry, old chap,” Gavin said. “I didn’t mean to poke at you. None of my goddamn business.”

  “’Tis only because my Nellie left me too soon. She suffered with the lung sickness.” Jordan stifled a cough.

  “Sorry, man, I didn’t know you were married.”

  “I still yearn for her stroking my body parts.”

  The next few minutes passed in taut silence while Jordan scraped the razor expertly over Gavin’s chin, cheeks, and neck.

  It would appear a man of a certain station thinks differently as concerns marriage. Jordan had been happily wed to someone he loved for too short a time, and he still grieves her. The earl, however, had been betrayed early on, cuckolded by his new bride during a brief and rather unhappy union.

  Gavin’s valet had just finished shaving the earl when two footmen lugged a large copper hip bath into the room. Several servants dumped steaming water into the large tub. Jordan reached down and dipped a rag in the water, wrapping the hot cloth over the earl’s smoothly shaved cheeks.

  When he could again speak, the earl surprised his valet. “Believe it or not, sometimes I think, Jordan, that I was foolish not to marry again instead of staying a bachelor. Even now…”

  Gavin left the unfinished statement hanging in mid-air.

  “Well, m’lord, it won’t do for me to marry at my age, but there’s time aplenty for you. You’re in your prime…and, well…” He coughed. “It wouldn’t take much if you were to want an heir.”

  Gavin couldn’t see his valet’s face because he stood behind the chair, but he knew Jordan was grinning.

  “You think so, do you?” Gavin reached up, and yanked off the hot towel. Then he laughed. “Well, don’t hold your breath, old chap. I haven’t yet found a reason good enough to snap on another leg shackle. Not for almost two decades. What makes you believe I might do so now?”

  The valet smiled. “Things can change when you least expect them, m’lord. Now…can I help you get dressed?”

  “I s’pose you had better,” Gavin said, wearily.

  After Gavin finished bathing, Jordan helped the earl slide his arms and shoulders into a snug, dark blue evening coat. The earl brushed his hair, gleaming with silver strands at his temples while his valet fussed with his cravat, setting a diamond stickpin among its intricate folds. About to leave, the earl said, “Ask the kitchen to bring me something to eat while I’m gone, Jordan. I didn’t stop to eat since breakfast, and I’m famished.”

  “Aye, m’lord, I’ll have a cold collation waiting when you return.”

  “I’ll show my face below for a half hour or so before I make my excuses. You needn’t wait up, Jordan. I can take care of myself. With a full stomach and a good night’s rest, by tomorrow I should be in better spirits.”

  Now, it was nearly midnight and time to face the music.

  Chapter 4

  WILMA’S lady’s maid bustled in to help Emily dress.

  “Miss Dancy, Lady Wilma suggests I use some cosmetics tonight if you will agree. ’Tis all the rage in London, and quite proper for ladies to apply a little paint and powder to catch a man’s eye. ’Twill only enhance your natural good looks, and I’ll apply it very lightly.”

  Never having used cosmetics, Emily gazed intensely into the looking glass, and saw how washed out she looked. Pale. Colorless. Uninteresting. Blah.

  She fretted—I look awful. I’m a mess, a fiasco!

  Emily swallowed the lump wedged in her throat. “I’m a nobody, Betsy. There’s no need to pretty me up, because I simply fade into the woodwork.”

  “Ah, naw, Miss,” the girl responded gaily. “You ain’t one bit plain—not like me. Jest the opposite.”

  Emily wore her raven hair in a tight bun on her nape when living with her uncle. She tried not to look pretty, so his friends would ignore her. She kept the unflattering hairstyle when the earl hired her. She did pull a few wispy curls forward on her forehead when she met with Anthony Kendall.

  At first Emily shooed Betsy off when she began fussing with her hair. However, seeing what the maid did to change her appearance, Emily knew a new hairdo made a great difference. And she wanted Wilma, and even Harry, to be proud of her as long as she was at the party.

  “Ye can’t deny yer not pretty now, Miss Dancy,” Betsy said, smiling. “Look at them pretty curls dangling against yer cheeks. Ain’t ye glad I fixed yer hair different?”

  Emily exhaled. “Yes. And I thank you, Betsy.”

  Still fussing with her handiwork while teasing a few more curls onto Emily’s forehead and next to her cheeks, the maid chattered on. “Did I tell ye, Miss Dancy, what I heard belowstairs?” Betsy didn’t wait for a response. “I learnt there are over a hundred guests at the duke’s party.” She giggled. “And guess what’s even better?” she said, pushing at another curl. “The duchess invited at least twenty unmarried men just for unattached ladies like ye. I wager ye’ll meet someone special. Maybe a suitor, Miss.”

  Emily frowned. “I’m not looking for a husband.” Her sharp tone leant credence to her words. “I like the way I am. Unmarried and independent.”

  You were considering Anthony Kendall as a possible suitor not long ago. A little voice in her head taunted her.

  Perhaps, but no longer, she denied to herself. I’m through with love and romance…

  Emily smothered her unhappy thoughts as more nervous twinges rolled through her. She’d be late if she didn’t hurry. She needed to meet the duke and duchess and mingle with their illustrious guests.

  “Go see if Wilma needs you, Betsy. I can finish dressing. I’ve done so for years.”

  “Fine, Miss, but let me first dab a little rouge and powder on your cheeks.” The maid stood back and scrutinized Emily’s pale countenance.

  “Oh, for goodness sake,” Emily said, giving up. She sank down on the bench in front of the vanity table again. “I do look like a washed out dishrag. And I don’t wish to embarrass Lady Wilma or Lord Harry. So, yes, do your worst. Use the paint.”

  “Trust me, Miss Dancy, a little touch of color will do wonders. Yer lashes don’t need darkening. They’re long ‘n’ thick, and they make your pretty blue eyes stand out. Make sure you flutter them at those unattached male guests.” Betsy chortled wickedly. She patted Emily’s shoulder reassuringly, and went to work.

  Emily watched as her appearance changed. It was months since she looked so alive. Not since her parents died, and certainly not when her uncle dragged her into London’s horrors. She could scarcely believe what a bit of powder and paint—a fashionable gown—a new hairdo—did to change her appearance. It bolstered her self-confidence too. She didn’t know herself. She looked and felt—quite different.

  “My, my, you look like a fine lady if I do say so myself, Miss Dancy.”

  “I do, don’t I?” Emily replied, a tiny smile stretching her lips.

  Even so, she worried what the duke’s aristocratic guests would think if they knew her background.

  I’ll simply avoid answering any questions about myself.

  Emily took a deep breath and pasted a sunny smile on her lips. Somehow, she would pull it off.

  Just then, Wilma tapped on the door
connecting Emily’s room and the Porters’ suite. There was a large dressing salon between the two bedchambers. Emily’s small room must have been designated for a lady’s maid. Wilma knew Emily was nervous about fitting in and had wanted her nearby. Wilma’s lady’s maid slept elsewhere.

  When she saw Emily, Wilma’s face lit up. “Oh, my dear! You look ravishing! You are definitely going to catch some lucky man’s eye.” Wilma giggled. “I can’t wait.” She glanced over her shoulder at her husband, and waved him forward to see Emily’s new look.

  “Harry, what do you think? Won’t Emily make a splash? And you must promise to introduce her to every one of your male friends and acquaintances. You will, won’t you, dear?”

  Lord Harry stroked a manicured fingertip across his blond moustache, a habit Emily had noticed on their drive here. “Whatever you wish, my love,” the viscount muttered.

  “I know Larry Throckmorton, for one, will want an introduction when he sees Emily,” Wilma trilled.

  Harry smiled and winked openly at Emily. “Let me tell you something, Miss Dancy. Throckmorton can be a bit of a bore. He drones on endlessly about his horses and racing stable, but if you are at all interested, he is rather well fixed. He is a second son, so he doesn’t have a title, but he did inherit funds from his mother’s family.”

  Wilma smiled warmly at Emily. “Something to think about, Emmie,” she said.

  “Now, ladies,” the viscount urged. “It is time we made an appearance below.” Harry held out one bent elbow to Wilma, the other one to Emily. He led them into the corridor and down the central staircase into a noisy hubbub emanating from two side-by-side salons.

  The duke and duchess stood in the archway leading into the Rose Room. Two salons were both immense and exquisitely-decorated. Black and gold liveried servants scurried amongst the milling crowd of elegantly-dressed guests. Some carried tulips of chilled champagne. Other guests nibbled at a mélange of hors oeuvres being passed around on silver trays. Both rooms hummed with conversation and gay laughter. Talk was primarily of London’s war news along with the juiciest, newest, scandalous gossip.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Emily whispered to Wilma as the three approached the duke and duchess. “I counted six crystal chandeliers hanging above our heads!”

  Wilma fluttered an open fan in front of her lips and whispered back, “Harry’s parents visited here often, Em. They mentioned the castle’s extraordinary décor.”

  “I never dreamt I’d see the inside, Willy. Goodness, it’s too splendid for words!”

  “I suppose even magnificent doesn’t do it justice. Several weeks ago, Harry and I attended one of the Regent’s suppers at Carlton House. To my mind, the rooms there can’t compare with the elegance here.” Wilma chuckled softly. “Do you remember how nosy and naughty we were when we were young, Emily? We daren’t get too close to the castle, remember? But I’m as enchanted by this place as you are, and I hope we can explore further while we’re here.”

  Harry bowed, a lady on each arm. The women curtsied as the three halted in front of their host and hostess. “Porter, is it not?” the duke said. “I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of meeting these lovely ladies.”

  “Your Grace,” Harry turned first to Wilma, “may I present my lady wife, Lady Wilma.”

  He spoke first to Wilma. “Ah, a Traymore. You resemble your mother,” he said.

  “Yes, Your Grace, so I’ve been told.”

  “How is your family these days?”

  “My parents and sister are currently in Scotland.”

  “Oh my, what a beastly time of the year to visit the Scots, but I do hope they return to us very soon.”

  “I hope so too, Your Grace.” Wilma dipped another graceful curtsy.

  The duke’s sharp eyes next turned to Emily, his bright blue eyes resting on her.

  “Miss Emily Dancy is a childhood friend of my wife’s. Both grew up in Toynton-under-Hill, Your Grace.”

  Not meeting the duke’s eyes, Emily’s glance rose only as high as his enormous ruby cravat pin.

  “I seem to recall something about a disastrous mishap that took the lives of two Dancy villagers not so long ago.” The duke’s gray eyebrows arched. “By any chance are you related to the unfortunate deceased?”

  Emily finally had the courage to meet the duke’s eyes. “Yes, Your Grace. My parents were killed eighteen months ago in a carriage accident while returning home from market day.”

  “Ah, I’m very sorry to hear that, Miss Dancy. My deep condolences.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. And thank you for your kind invitation. I’ve been living elsewhere, but while I am here, I hope to visit my parents’ graves.”

  Emily crossed her mental fingers, glad the duke didn’t probe further about her parents or her uncle. The duke next presented the three of them to the duchess, nodded kindly, and turned his attention to the next guests waiting in the receiving line.

  The three strolled into the Rose drawing room. “Nicely done, Emily,” Wilma applauded her with a smile. “That wasn’t too frightening, now was it? Harry’s parents said the duke and duchess are quite approachable. Even friendly, and not nearly as high-in-the-instep as some others I’ve met in London.” Wilma squeezed Harry’s arm. “Now, my dear, shall we mingle? I see a few faces I recognize.”

  “Wait here, ladies, and allow me first to fetch you each a glass of champagne.”

  Emily felt nervous tingles crisscrossing her skin as she stood amongst the crowd of elegant strangers with Wilma anchored beside her. She was never the chatterbox Wilma was, but the pair had found it easy and comfortable to become friends. Wilma loved to talk, and Emily loved to listen.

  Harry led them to a group of the Porters’ acquaintances. Introductions were made. Wilma chatted and Emily smiled and listened. Emily never tasted champagne. She sipped at the glass eagerly, but the fizzing bubbles tickled her nose. She wiggled her nostrils surreptitiously, but the itch persisted. Her eyes began to water. She inhaled, but that only made it worse.

  Oh, good Lord! I’m going to sneeze! How mortifying! And I didn’t bring a kerchief.

  Her nose twitched. There was only one way out of her embarrassment. “Please excuse me,” she murmured and rushed off. She noticed French windows along one wall. Pinching her nostrils shut with gloved fingertips to squelch an embarrassed explosion of sneezing, she all but ran through an open doorway to the balcony outside.

  The Rose and the Blue drawing rooms were adjacent to one another with a large open archway between them so that the space could be opened for dancing in lieu of an immense ballroom situated in another part of the castle. French windows were flung open to the balcony outside both rooms. Many of the guests had sought a breath of fresh air this evening. A cool night breeze brushed across Emily cheeks as she stepped onto the stone balcony. Turning her back, she slipped into shadows beyond the doors. Unable to totally quell her sneezes, tiny spasms exploded from Emily’s nose and throat, one after the other.

  A male voice close behind her suddenly invaded her ears. “May I be of help?”

  Emily gasped for air after smothering another unwanted series of sneezes. Flustered and embarrassed, she shook her head silently, unwilling to face the voice from behind her.

  “Forgive me, but you seemed in some kind of distress.”

  Emily shook her head more fiercely this time. “No, I am n-not at all,” she responded, sniffing noisily. “I’m…I’m much better now. Thank you.”

  A white gloved hand reached over her shoulder, dangling a pristine, cambric square next to her cheek. The kerchief fluttered in the light breeze.

  “Oh,” Emily sniveled. “You’re very kind, sir.” She accepted the cambric and pressed it against her twitching nose. Feeling another urge to sneeze, she pinched her nostrils and breathed through her mouth, praying she’d be able to stop the itch.

  “I shall be fine in a minute or two,” she mumbled, now aware how close the strange
r stood behind her. He must be tall. His breath blew across her nape and bare shoulders. Finally, she managed to smother the urge to sneeze. Instead, his proximity and warm breath on her skin became the problem.

  “I heard odd noises from nearby, but I first thought it was someone weeping. Has something frightened you, madam? Or has someone been nasty or unkind?”

  Emily sucked in a choked breath. “Weeping?” She paused, clearing her throat. “No, of course not. I never cry.”

  “Well then…”

  “I-I’m sorry. Please allow me to apologize.” Emily hesitated. “You see…”

  Her composure had fallen into place when she turned to explain. The first thing her eyes locked upon was the man’s pristine shirtfront and elegantly knotted cravat. A jeweled stickpin winked in the center of his broad chest. When she lifted her gaze higher, candlelight illuminated a very familiar, saturnine countenance reflected on the French windows. Emily gaped what was followed by a sudden, feminine squeak.

  * * * *

  Abruptly, Gavin backed away. He came onto the balcony to smoke a last cheroot. Mingling with other guests during the last half hour, he would now seek his bed as soon as he could politely manage it.

  He held out his handkerchief. A subtle perfume wafted up from the inky tresses nestling against the woman’s bare shoulders. No other female’s scent had affected him so effortlessly during a recent encounter with Lilianne’s governess. This experience left him a little giddy. Had his senses deceived him? No, he must be mistaken. It couldn’t be her.

  “You have me at a distinct disadvantage.” Tilting his head to one side, Gavin asked, “Am I seeing someone’s twin on the duke’s balcony, eh?”

  “Oh, good heavens, Lord Leathem!” Emily grimaced. Her cheeks blushed with chagrin. “No, it’s only me. Do forgive me—”

  Gavin interrupted. “Hold up!” He bent close to peer down at Emily’s face. “Aha! It is you.”

  “Yes. I-I shall return your handkerchief when it is laundered, my lord.” She had blown her runny nose in the earl’s cambric. She had started to return it, then realized she shouldn’t.