by Aileen Fish
“Oh, Emily.” Margaret raised her hand and tucked a wayward red curl behind Emily’s ear. “I’d rather they think I was driven away in shame than to think you an opium addict.”
Emily started to rise but Margaret stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
“You misunderstand me, child. I am not ashamed of you. But I would not want anyone to judge you by that one fact. You are so much more than that. You are so much more than I could have imagined. There is strength in you, Emily. And determination. I’ve never seen such fierce determination in a woman.”
“Thank you, Aunt,” Emily replied with a soft smile. “That means a lot coming from the most determined woman I know.”
“We’re sure to butt heads in the next two weeks,” Margaret said as she released Emily and watched her rise.
“We might even come to blows,” Emily agreed.
“I will cease trying to see you married off,” Margaret offered.
“In exchange for?” Emily asked.
“Your promise that you will try to behave as the proper lady I know you are under all your vulgar American ways.”
“Oh, Maggie, do I have to?” Emily replied and then dove out of the way of the pillow her aunt tossed at her.
“Have your bath, dinner is in an hour.” Margaret rose on creaky knees and embraced her niece before pushing her away. “Good Lord, child, you smell like sweaty horse!”
“I’m a stable hand,” Emily reminded her aunt.
“Do not say that in front of my guests.”
“How many of them saw me in my breeches?” Emily asked as she walked her aunt to the door.
“Too many. But I don’t think anyone recognized you. These months in the country have done you good, put some meat on your bones and a healthy glow to your skin. You look nothing like the gaunt girl you were in London.” Margaret opened the door and walked out into the hall before turning back. “It’s my hope that if you dress carefully no one will recognize you as the hoyden who walked into the stable yard in breeches.”
Chapter Eight
It was apparent to Emily that Aunt Margaret’s hopes were in vain the moment she stepped into the parlor to be greeted by whispers and titters behind open fans.
Tilly had done her best to arrange Emily’s hair into a neat chignon at the nape of her neck but already a few wayward curls had escaped her coiffure to trail over her shoulders and down her back. She’d chosen a demure gown of warm cream silk with a high bodice that covered her shoulders and most of her chest, hiding her scar from prying eyes. The gown was cinched tight under her breasts with a bronze ribbon that trailed down to her hem. The same ribbon decorated the prim neckline and the small cap sleeves that left her tanned upper arms bare. Silk gloves dyed the same warm bronze hue encircled her arms to the elbow.
Her father rose from his seat before the fire and hurried across the room to wrap one beefy arm around her waist.
She could feel a dozen pairs of eyes upon her and pasted a smile on her face. Let them judge her, she cared nothing for their convoluted strictures and would soon be gone from their midst.
Nicholas Avery rose from his place on the long settee dominating the room. Emily vaguely recognized the pretty woman with wispy blonde hair and silver eyes who sat beside him. The gentleman who’d been seated on her other side was Nicholas’s brother, Mr. Oliver Avery. She remembered meeting him at that fateful ball. The brothers’ resemblance was startling. They could almost be twins but for the more rugged lines of Nicholas’ face and the two inches he stood over his brother.
The other gentlemen in the room who had been seated immediately rose to their feet. Da walked her around the room introducing her to this group and that, until finally they came to the Avery clan.
“Well, there she is,” Viscount Talbot greeted with a hearty laugh. “The very lady we’ve been discussing.”
“Oh?” Emily smiled at the man who, but for her own idiocy, might have been her father by law.
“We were wondering if you were in attendance,” he bellowed as if she was deaf. Emily wondered what story Margaret had offered for her niece’s hasty disappearance from London. An illness that affected her hearing perhaps?
“Of course she’s in attendance,” her father roared. “Where else would she be?”
Emily smiled at the two boisterous gentlemen who seemed intent on out shouting one another.
She turned her head to find Nicholas staring at her. She gave him a rueful smile. In the stables she’d been a mess of tangled hair and sweaty horse odor. And still he’d kissed her. She felt positively beautiful as his gaze swept from her upswept hair to her dainty bronze slippers, a faint flush rising in his cheeks.
“Good evening, Mr. Avery,” she greeted him. It was all she could do to contain the bubble of merriment that rumbled in her chest. “So nice to see you again.”
Nicholas blinked at her, gathered his wits and bowed over the hand she extended.
“Miss Calvert… I had no idea… That is, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance once more,” he stammered.
His brother shot him a look before turning to make his greeting.
“You remember my wife, Lady Avery,” Mr. Avery said as he placed a hand on the lady’s back.
“Yes, of course,” Emily replied though she couldn’t place where she’d met the woman
Lady Avery smiled at her, her gray eyes warm. “The Clevedon ball, I believe it was.”
Dinner was a lively event. Emily was seated between Lord Carmichael and Mr. Boone so naturally their conversation revolved around the railway sights they had shown her father. Both gentlemen were heavily involved in the fledgling rail operation in England and eager to extol the virtues of travel by rail.
“Carmichael might be induced to travel home with us,” her father boomed from across the table. “Take a look at our plans and make some much-needed suggestions.”
Emily turned to Mr. Carmichael. “Have you been to the United States?”
“Years ago, during the unfortunate troubles in twelve,” he answered with a wry smile.
“Unfortunate for you English,” Emily teased.
“Soundly beaten,” Da added. “Again.”
“So we were,” Lord Carmichael agreed.
Emily looked to her left to find Nicholas watching her from across the table where he sat between two pretty blonde ladies, one of whom was eyeing him as a child would a sugared plum. When she caught Emily’s gaze, she narrowed her eyes and laid a proprietary hand on his arm.
Ah, Emily thought, the next broad mare in line to fill his nursery.
Miss Veronica Ogilvie, she learned later when the ladies had retired to the parlor for cordials while the men remained at table with their port and cigars.
Emily sipped the syrupy drink, wrinkled her nose at the bitter memory, and placed it on the table before her.
“You don’t care for ratafia, Miss Calvert?” Veronica Ogilvie asked as she sat beside her on the settee. She moved in a languid fashion, slow and perfectly orchestrated to ensure that all eyes were upon her. She couldn’t be more than a year or two beyond twenty, yet there was something worldly in her sharp blue-gray eyes, something cunning in the way she pretended innocence.
“I’d prefer a whiskey,” Emily replied just to see what reaction she would get.
“Really?” Veronica replied silkily, not the least shocked. “Do all American ladies drink strong spirits?”
“We’re raised on it,” Emily answered. “Our mammies give it to us when we cut our first teeth and it’s all downhill from there.”
“And do American ladies all wear breeches?” she asked as the other blonde who had flanked Nicholas at dinner joined them, taking the seat across the low table.
“We call them britches, and if they run a horse farm they do.”
“Do you run a horse farm, Miss Calvert?” Lucinda Davis asked, leaning forward.
“I’d watch how far you lean over, Miss Davis,” Emily said with a smile. “Unless you’d like to give the
room an eyeful.”
“Oh, pardon me,” the girl cried as she straightened in her chair.
Lucinda was pretty in a typically English way, pale skin, blonde ringlets, guileless blue eyes and two small dimples in her chubby pink cheeks.
“Honestly, Lucy,” Veronica said disdainfully. “You won’t catch him flaunting your bosom about.”
“I’m not trying to catch anyone,” the other girl murmured.
“Good for you. I’d hate to see you disappointed.” Veronica’s voice had taken on a soft, husky quality that was at odds with her demure appearance.
“What makes you think she’d be disappointed?” Emily asked.
“Why, because I shall win, of course,” was Veronica’s immediate response.
“Is that so?”
“You had your chance, Miss Calvert,” Veronica said. “Lady Morris had him all but sewn up for you.”
“Oh,” Emily exclaimed, allowing her eyes to widen. “Are we talking about Mr. Avery? Goodness, I had no idea you had set your sights on him.”
“Now you know,” she purred, her eyes darkening to the color of angry storm clouds.
“I don’t think Mr. Avery is the right man for you, Miss Davis,” Emily said, turning to the other lady.
“I don’t either,” she agreed.
“I think you want a debonair gentleman, one’s who’s traveled, who’s well read.” Emily eyed the shy girl. “Someone kind and gentle.”
“Oh, yes,” Lucinda said.
“And, really, you needn’t marry a fortune hunter,” Emily continued, warming to her subject. “You are a lovely lady, from a good family. You can surely look higher than the impoverished second son of a viscount.”
“It’s just that I am so terribly shy,” Lucinda whispered as if she were letting Emily in on a secret. “I never do know what to say to a gentleman.”
“What do you know of trains?” Emily asked.
Nicholas entered the parlor with his father and brother and immediately found Miss Calvert across the room in conversation with Misses Ogilvie and Davis.
He was struck by her vibrant presence between the two fair blondes. She was the sun while they were two pale moons orbiting her.
Just then she looked up and met his eyes. She tilted her head to the side and studied him, her lower lip caught between her pearly white teeth, her gaze intent.
Nick felt a jolt of raw desire, felt the familiar stirring in his loins. He’d been in a hell of a state all through dinner watching her laughing and flirting with Carmichael.
He still found it hard to believe that this exotic creature was the same lady who had fallen asleep at the theater and again in the gardens of Lady Clevedon’s Mayfair mansion. He remembered that flash of memory as he’d looked down into her dazed eyes after he’d kissed her in the stables. There was nothing dazed in her eyes now. No, they followed him as he weaved his way through the chatting groups of people clustered about the room.
“Ladies, may I join you?” he asked when he reached the sun and two moons.
“Please,” Veronica purred, sliding toward Miss Calvert to make room for him.
Miss Calvert rose and took the seat next to Miss Davis, putting her directly across from him. Veronica had no choice but to move farther away on the settee. She couldn’t very well stay plastered to his thigh without another body beside her.
“We were just discussing travel by rail,” Miss Calvert replied cheerfully and there was something in her eyes that made him think she found him amusing, as if she was waiting for him to make a fool of himself. As he had in the stables.
He cringed remembering how he’d asked her if she’d rub him down and sing his praises.
She’d compared him to a stallion in search of a broad mare. And why not? She likely hadn’t heard that Ollie and Joan were in anticipation of a blessed event.
“You seem to know a lot about the railroad,” he replied carefully.
“It’s the railroad that brought me to England,” she replied with a careless wave of her hand. “Figuratively speaking, of course.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Veronica asked.
“Da was planning to make the journey to investigate the operations here when he received Aunt Margaret’s letter,” she answered with a teasing smile. “You know, the one that offered Mr. Avery as a prospective husband.”
Nick jerked in his seat, so great was his surprise that she would speak so openly of their disastrous Almost Betrothal.
Lucinda Davis turned and covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes dancing with suppressed laughter.
Veronica glared across the low table before replying, “I wasn’t aware that any such letter had been sent.”
“How did you think Aunt Margaret instructed me to set sail across the ocean to meet the man she’d chosen for me?” Miss Calvert asked with feigned confusion.
“I knew of no such thing,” Veronica insisted, casting a nervous look through her lashes at Nick.
“Of course you did, Ronnie,” Miss Davis cried and Nick was taken aback by the animation upon the lady’s normally placid face.
“Didn’t you, not five minutes ago, tell me I’d missed my chance?” Miss Calvert asked. “And after Aunt Margaret had him all but sewn up?”
Veronica jumped to her feet with a murmured, “excuse me,” and marched out of the room.
“Oh, dear,” Miss Davis whispered.
“Was it something I said?” Miss Calvert asked.
“I’d better go after her.” Miss Davis rose and followed Veronica out of the room.
“She’s not the right lady for you anyway,” Miss Calvert informed Nick and he saw the merriment in her eyes, watched as a smile transformed her face.
“Which one?” he asked, unable to restrain an answering smile.
“Both,” she answered. “Neither.”
“Is that so?” He couldn’t help but laugh at her cheek.
“Lucinda Davis is too timid by half,” she declared.
“And Miss Ogilvie?” he asked.
“Ugh, she’s only after the connection. Her father’s a merchant,” she explained. “Not that there is anything in the least distasteful in that. Da’s a merchant when you get right down to it. But she is looking to purchase you and the entrance into the upper echelon that comes with you.”
“And that is bad, why?” he asked, fascinated by her nimble mind.
“She’ll never let you forget that it was her fortune that saved your family,” she replied. “I realize you must marry an heiress, but surely there are nicer ones to choose from. What about Miss Sanderson?”
Nick followed her nod across the room to where Adelaide Sanderson stood talking with his father. She was a striking lady with sable hair cropped short to frame a heart shaped face. Her hazel eyes were wide set, giving her the appearance of perpetual surprise.
“You think I should set my cap on Miss Sanderson?” Nick asked, pretending to consider her words. Not a chance. He had a fair idea just whom he would set his cap on. And she was sitting right across from him.
“She seems an intelligent lady. She’s the granddaughter of Captain Billings.”
“Is she?”
“The unsung hero of Waterloo,” she informed him.
“You know your English history,” he complimented. “Not many English ladies know the names of any of the heroes of the Battle of Waterloo, save the Duke of Wellington, and here I find an American lady who knows of Captain Billings’ exploits.”
“Oh, I know all sorts of useless information,” she replied. “It’s the curse of the over-educated lady.”
“I don’t know that I’d call that a curse,” Nick said.
“No, you wouldn’t. You’re a man. You’ve all sorts of opportunities to demonstrate your knowledge. Have you any idea how long I’ve had to wait to toss out that tidbit?”
Nick laughed at the woeful look on her face.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“About?”
“Miss Sanderson.”
“I haven’t met the lady,” he replied.
“No time like the present,” she exclaimed, rising to her feet, forcing Nick to jump up.
“What?” he asked in confusion.
“Come along, Mr. Avery, your future bride awaits.” She tucked her hand around his arm and steered him across the room.
“Miss Sanderson,” she greeted the dark-haired lady. “Mr. Avery and I were just discussing your grandfather and he informed me that he has not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
“Oh,” Miss Sanderson replied with a smile.
“Mr. Avery, may I present Miss Sanderson.” Miss Calvert spoke with perfect formality and no trace whatsoever of the charming accent she’d possessed only moments before.
“A pleasure,” he said as he nodded over the dark-haired lady’s hand.
“So nice to meet you,” Miss Sanderson responded, her eyes shooting between Nick and Miss Calvert.
“I’m positively parched,” Miss Calvert announced. “Viscount Talbot, would you care to escort me to the refreshment table?”
“Pleased to,” his father said. “But I don’t see a refreshment table.”
“Not to worry,” she replied as she led him from the room. “I know where Aunt Margaret keeps the whiskey.”
Chapter Nine
“How did you find Miss Sanderson?” Emily asked the next morning when Nicholas found her walking in the garden with Aunt Margaret.
“You might be right,” he answered with a rakish smile. “She is certainly an intelligent lady.”
“And much nicer than that other one who’s name we shall not mention,” Emily replied with what she hoped was a jaunty smile. So, he’d liked Adelaide Sanderson. Good. That was good.
“Whose name are we not mentioning?” Margaret demanded as her alert gaze jumped from Emily to Nicholas.
“It would be ungentlemanly of me to say,” he replied.
