A Season in London (Timeless Regency Collection Book 6)

by Elizabeth Johns

  Adele nodded and gave her mother another smile. Her eyes had that faraway look in them, almost dreamy. In fact, the more that Emily thought about it, Adele had been acting like this for several days now. Could her cousin be so smitten with Edward in such a short amount of time? But then Emily realized that Adele had only become reacquainted with Edward last night, and her distracted behavior had been going on previous to the dinner party.

  When the carriage stopped, Lady Gerrard was handed down first. As Emily waited for her turn to climb out of the carriage, she determined to watch Adele’s reactions to Edward very closely.

  The day’s weather proved to be ideal for a picnic. Soft white clouds meandered across the sky, pushed by a gentle breeze that stirred up the sweet fragrance of the meadow flowers. There were just over a dozen guests, as well as two servants who’d come along to carry the picnic baskets.

  After all of the greetings were exchanged, Emily walked with Mrs. Blackwood, who seemed determined to cheer her up. Emily quickly noticed that Adele and Edward had paired off, although they were still part of the main group.

  “Are you looking forward to the Season in London?” Mrs. Blackwood asked Emily.

  She had always intimidated Emily as her stern personality gave little margin for error. But Emily preferred this to any conversation with her aunt. “I am sure it will be enjoyable, although I’ll miss helping the steward about the estate, and I’ll miss my freedom to paint.”

  “Yes,” she said, peering over at Emily. Her quizzing glasses were nowhere in sight, so Emily assumed she’d left them behind for the picnic. “You have been very useful, your mother tells me. I’m sure you’ll be relieved when your brother finishes up school.”

  “I love helping on the estate,” she said, not sure why she was being so forthcoming. Perhaps it was because of Edward’s questions about her painting the night before. “If I had been born a male heir to an estate, I would be forever content.”

  Mrs. Blackwood barked out a laugh. Emily wasn’t sure if she’d ever heard the woman laugh in such a way. It made Emily smile back. “Don’t we all wish for that at some time in our lives.”

  “What do you wish for, Mother?” a male voice said behind them.

  Somehow, Edward must have disentangled himself from Adele and the other women. Emily felt her pulse speed up.

  Edward looked fine this morning. He wasn’t wearing the formal black of the night before, but his jacket was a pale gray that emphasized the blueness of his eyes. His cravat was tied simply, and the breeze had tousled his hair. Emily secretly wondered how his shoulders had grown so broad and his thighs so muscular and sturdy if he spent his days lecturing and researching.

  “Good day, Miss Foster,” Edward said when their eyes connected.

  “Good day,” she said, and then she noticed something she hadn’t the night before. Perhaps it was because of the natural light, or the way a cloud had covered half the sun just then, but Edward’s nose was slightly crooked. And Emily knew, could testify to it, that his nose hadn’t been crooked before.

  Edward arched a brow at her, and Emily realized she’d been openly staring at him. Her face heated immediately, and she looked forward again, feeling embarrassed, yet not able to stop the racing of her thoughts. Had Edward broken his nose? And if so, how? She thought through the different possibilities and was forced to suppress a smile.

  “We were just discussing the newest colors in ribbons,” Mrs. Blackwood was telling Edward, “and how we wished to add them to our purchase list.”

  “Mother, you really expect me to believe that?” Edward said.

  This bantering between mother and son surprised Emily. It was a side of Mrs. Blackwood Emily hadn’t seen before.

  “If I know anything about you and Miss Foster here,” Edward continued, “it is that you are the last two ladies to enter into a serious discussion about colored ribbons. You’re far more likely to discuss something infinitely more significant.”

  Mrs. Blackwood looked at Emily with arched brows over twinkling eyes. “Do you agree with my son?”

  “I think we’ve been found out,” Emily said.

  Edward laughed. “How about I show you our formidable ruins, Miss Foster?”

  The question couldn’t have startled her more. First of all, she’d been to the ruins dozens of times as a girl. It had been one of her favorite places to play hide and seek with Peter and her brother. In the second place, she was surprised that Edward had sought her out in this way.

  A quick glance behind her showed the others in their party spreading out across the ruins while the servants set up the picnic.

  “I’ll have to leave you to it, Edward,” his mother said. “I’ve got to discuss a few things with Mrs. Christensen.”

  Edward bowed his head at his mother’s departure, and just like that, Emily was left with Edward.

  Chapter Five

  Edward couldn’t help himself. When he’d seen his mother and Miss Foster walking arm in arm, apparently in cahoots, his curiosity got the better of him. Adele’s conversation about all of the balls she was looking forward to in London had grown tiring very quickly, and Edward needed a break. He didn’t have anything against Adele—plenty of young women thought one-sided conversations were somehow enjoyable for the other party—but Edward had spent half the night thinking about Emily and her painting. He determined that if he talked to her at the picnic, some of his curiosity would be sated, and he could sleep in peace tonight.

  “Shall we?” Edward asked Miss Foster, extending his arm as an invitation. After all, the ground about the ruins was uneven at times. He didn’t want her to twist an ankle.

  He needn’t have worried. Although, Miss Foster did take his arm, her touch was feather-light, and she was more than steady on her feet.

  They walked for a moment in silence, and Edward felt surprisingly tongue-tied. He’d never had trouble speaking his mind to anyone else. He was more than curious about Miss Foster—in a way he couldn’t ever remember being before. “How is your brother doing?”

  “He is well, thank you,” Miss Foster said, peering up at him with those large brown eyes.

  Edward almost missed a step. “Will he return for the holidays?”

  “I’m not rightly sure,” she said. “I’ll still be in London, and I’m sure that Stephen will take every advantage of holding on to his freedom for as long as possible. He’s rather young to take on the responsibility of an entire estate.”

  Edward understood more than he probably ought, although he was nearly thirty years of age. “I’ve much to learn myself,” he said in a solemn tone.

  “Yes,” Miss Foster said. “I suppose, as the second son, you were always free to follow other aspirations.”

  “That’s one way to look at it,” he said. “I don’t necessarily view it as freedom. I didn’t have a choice, really.”

  Miss Foster nodded. “I’m really sorry about Peter,” she said softly. “You’ve probably tired of condolences by now.”

  “And I’m very sorry about your father,” Edward said. “I know you were close to him.” He realized that they’d stopped walking and were merely standing and looking at each other.

  “Thank you,” Miss Foster said, glancing down. “I’m actually quite angry at him.”

  “Oh?” Edward said, finding this amusing, although he didn’t think she meant it that way.

  Her gaze met his. “Now I have to go to London and prance around at all the balls in order to secure a husband while my father’s steward gets to do the more enjoyable tasks at home.”

  Edward stared at her. “Your father’s steward?”

  “Yes, Mr. Billings,” she continued. “He’s the overseer, you know, and I used to help him and my father with the maintenance schedules and visiting the tenants to write down their needs.” She looked away from him, and Edward noticed how thick her eyelashes were. “How can one trade the beauty of the country for the dampness and smog of London?”

  “A woman’s lot can be tryin
g,” Edward said.

  “Are you teasing me?” she said, arching one of her dark brows.

  Edward smiled. “I’m not sure. It was just an observation.”

  “I’m certainly fortunate in many things,” she said. “But the limitations placed upon my sex can be vexing.”

  “Is that what you were speaking to my mother about?” He started walking again, guiding her toward a crumbled wall.

  “You are very observant,” Miss Foster pronounced. “But you’ll find that I’m quite observant, too.”

  “Oh?” Edward asked. This conversation was infinitely more appealing than what he’d had with Miss Adele earlier.

  “What happened to your nose?” she said, casting a sideways glance at him. “I knew you looked different when I first saw you last night, but it wasn’t until I saw you again today that I realized you’d broken your nose.”

  Edward laughed. And when a nearby couple turned to look at them, he steered Miss Foster around the wall.

  “I’ll give you that, Miss Foster,” Edward said. “You are observant.”

  She smiled at him, then released his arm and put her hand on her hip. “Well? What happened?”

  “If I tell you, I must swear you to secrecy,” he said.

  “Was it something horribly embarrassing, then?”

  “Not in the way you might think,” he said, scanning the mischievousness on her face. “I wasn’t reading while walking and happened to trip.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he rushed on. “I know what Peter and you were always saying about me.”

  “Well . . . you did read quite a bit,” she said.

  Edward chuckled at that. “Here’s the thing,” he said, leaning closer and noticing Miss Foster’s rather pleasant rose scent. Then he noticed something else—bits of white in her hair just near the nape of her neck. “What’s in your hair?”

  “Oh.” She drew away as her hand fluttered to her hair. “I suspect I didn’t get all of the paint out.”

  Edward watched her with amusement as she fussed with her hair. “It’s hardly noticeable.” He stepped forward. “Wait.” He reached up and picked out a fleck of paint, then tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear.

  Miss Foster froze, and Edward did, too. Then he quickly lowered his hand and stepped back, but not before he again caught her sweet scent of roses.

  “I apologize,” he began, but she raised her hand to halt his speech.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “My aunt doesn’t like reminders about my hobby. So the less paint specks visible on my person, the better.”

  Edward wanted to laugh out loud, but he’d already noticed Lady Gerrard look in their direction more than once.

  “Let’s keep moving,” Edward said, holding out his arm again. “I’m supposed to be regaling you with the historical details of the ruins.”

  “I probably know more than you, Mr. Blackwood.”

  “You probably do,” he said. “If I remember right, you spent more time at the ruins playing games than I ever did.”

  “And you’re avoiding my question about what happened to your nose,” she pressed.

  Edward looked around to make sure that they were out of hearing distance from the other picnic guests. “Will you swear never to tell another soul, as long as you live, especially my mother?”

  “I am intrigued.” Miss Foster’s eyes rounded with interest. “And I swear upon my life.”

  “Have you ever been abroad?” Edward asked.

  “No, and that cannot be the answer to my question.” She folded her arms with a slight pout.

  “It’s the beginning of the answer,” he said. “I’m finding you quite the impatient young lady.”

  Miss Foster pursed her lips together and tapped her foot.

  All right, then. “Other countries are not quite so steeped in social customs as our dear England is,” Edward said. “And I’ve found that I’ve enjoyed activities outside the academic ones.”

  “Such activities where you might find yourself with a broken nose?”

  “Precisely.”

  Miss Foster lifted a single brow, waiting.

  “I’ve been known to fight in a few fisticuffs matches,” Edward said. “And I’ll have you know I’m a fair fighter and have won more than half of my matches.”

  As expected, Miss Foster gaped at him. “You . . . Edward Blackwood . . . a pugilist?”

  “I wouldn’t define my life pursuits as a pugilist competitor,” Edward clarified. “I’ve enjoyed it as a pastime, though. Although when I brought it up to my mother as a lad, she promptly forbade me to participate in any sort of fisticuffs—was worried I’d break my nose.”

  Miss Foster looked like she wanted to laugh, but instead her expression gave way to a deep blush.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her. Was she about to cry? He didn’t understand what had upset her so much. He was well aware that it might come as a shock, especially to his mother.

  “I . . . I am fine,” she said, exhaling. “I had wondered something about your physique, and you just answered my question.”

  It was Edward’s turn to redden. He couldn’t quite believe what she’d admitted. Yet, it pleased him nonetheless. “You are right, Miss Foster. You are quite observant.” He tapped his nose. “I believe you’re the first person, family or otherwise, to notice the slight change.”

  “I am a portrait artist, you know,” she said, her complexion returning to its original pale creaminess.

  “I would like to see your work sometime,” he said.

  Her eyes focused on him, clear surprise in them. “You were in earnest last night?”

  “I was.” The small smile that curved her lips sent a jolt through his heart.

  “I am no great master, mind you.”

  “May I be the judge of that?”

  She gazed at him for a moment longer, and Edward found himself noticing everything about her face—from the slight smile of her rose-colored lips to her dark brown eyes with endless depths.

  “You may,” she said softly. “I hope you will not be disappointed. I don’t purport to be a great talent, but painting is something I find I am quite enamored to.”

  “I understand the feeling,” Edward said, moving back slightly. Standing so close to Miss Foster was making him feel quite warm. Besides, Lady Gerrard was moving in their direction. “Shall I regale you with the history of these ruins?”

  Miss Foster glanced over her shoulder, seeing the approaching woman, and turned back to face him. “I’d love to.” She stepped forward and slid her hand around the crook of his arm.

  Chapter Six

  “We are about to have company,” Edward Blackwood said in a half whisper.

  Emily nodded and continued to walk with him between the crumbled walls of the ruins. “Why am I not surprised?” she said, then closed her mouth firmly. Had she said too much? Surely her aunt wasn’t pleased with Emily dominating Mr. Blackwood’s time. But she had enjoyed their private conversation immensely. He had surprised her at nearly every turn. And now she looked up at him, seeing him with different eyes now that she knew the slight crook in his nose was from a fisticuffs match.

  “I’ve enjoyed conversing with you, Miss Foster,” Mr. Blackwood continued, echoing her own sentiments. “When you are in London . . . would you consider writing to me?”

  Emily was startled at the bold request. “Would you want your mother to read my letters?” she asked.

  “I receive the post first every day,” Edward said, his eyes gleaming.

  It would be a bit of a trick to avoid her whole household wanting to read Edward’s letters. They would think an engagement was on the horizon. But as she held his very blue gaze that matched the sky beyond, she found herself saying yes.

  “Very good,” Edward said. “I have many more questions about your painting, but it looks as if our time here is no longer ours.” He glanced over at the approaching matron.

  “I would love to,” Emily said, hoping she didn’t sound like the
breathlessly stunned woman she was. Mr. Blackwood had asked her to write to him. He’d spoken more to her in the past twenty minutes than in all of their youth. She didn’t know what to make of it. Perhaps he’d asked Adele to write to him, too, and Emily shouldn’t be letting her heart gallop to conclusions.

  “You two have been on your own for quite some time,” her aunt said, her voice raised as if she were calling to them from another hillside.

  Mr. Blackwood turned to face Lady Gerrard, steering Emily with him.

  “We are finished with our exploring, and we were about to rejoin the others,” he said sincerely. “How fortunate you’ve arrived just now. I’ll have the privilege of escorting two lovely women to the picnic.”

  Lady Gerrard’s thin lips curved into a smile, and Emily was startled to see a faint blush tinge her aunt’s cheeks.

  Lady Gerrard tucked her hand into Mr. Blackwood’s arm, and the three of them began walking to where the servants had set up a rather extravagant picnic. Mr. Blackwood commented on the weather, and then Lady Gerrard regaled on about something Adele had said.

  Emily wasn’t entirely following their conversation. She was still thinking about Mr. Blackwood’s request to write to him while she was in London. Several opening salutations ran through her mind. How would she address him? How would she bid him farewell?

  After everyone was settled for the picnic and the conversation buzzed about her, Emily looked over at Adele. She didn’t seem perturbed that Emily had spent so much time with Mr. Blackwood. In fact, Adele’s rosy glow made her look perfectly content speaking with each neighbor in turn.

  And then Emily noticed something unusual. Adele was holding a letter in her hand, partially hidden by her skirts, mostly out of sight. But every so often, Adele would look down at the letter and read a few lines.

  Emily watched with interest throughout the picnic as Adele stole away half moments to read the letter in her hand. Why had she brought it along? Why hadn’t she just read the letter in its entirety and left it at the house?