Where the guests had previously been distracted or whispering about the young woman’s singing, now the room sat in rapt silence, hanging on every melodious lyric that spilled forth from Heath’s lips.
Hail the Heav’n-born Prince of Peace
Hail the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and Life around he brings,
Ris’n with Healing in his Wings.
Of its own volition, her head came up, and Emilia shifted to the edge of her seat.
Heath was nothing short of magnificent. There was a smoothness to his voice that drew a person into his song and muted all the background noise of the rest of the world. With his confidence and ease at her side, even the painfully shy Miss Cornworthy settled into her song.
“One would expect such from Mulgrave.”
Her brother’s droll tones cut across Emilia’s musings. She turned a frown on her brother. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Barry shrugged. “That the staid Lord Mulgrave would enjoy singing.”
Her scowl deepened. Wasn’t that the way of the world? Preferring the scoundrels who could toss back a glass of spirits without a wince and mocking a gentleman who had a mastery of the pianoforte and song.
The world, however, expects a gentleman to be one, and not the other, and invariably, they always prefer the charming rogue to a proper gentleman.
“And you think there is something wrong with a gentleman who sings?”
Her brother, whose attention had drifted back to the performance, glanced back in confusion. “What?”
She pursed her mouth. He’d just thrown those censorious words about Heath away and forgotten them.
Their mother leaned over to fix an all-too-familiar glare on them. “Shh.” She didn’t bother to wait to see that her children complied. And why should she? That glower was dark enough to scare Satan out of sinning. Any other time, that was.
“What would be acceptable behavior of Lord Heath? Would you find the gentleman more acceptable if he drank and played cards?”
“Drank and played cards?” her rogue of a brother mouthed, then said, “You do know I’m speaking about Heath Whitworth, the Marquess of Mulgrave.”
“I do?” she snapped. “And what of it?”
Several guests glanced over to where Emilia and Barry quarreled.
Their mother leaned over and pinched her only son, and cherished heir, on the leg. “Will you two hush right now?”
“Gladly,” Barry mumbled, folding his arms at his chest and training all his attentions on the impromptu duet.
Come, Desire of Nations, come,
Fix in us thy heav’nly Home;
Rise the Woman’s conqu’ring Seed,
Bruise in us the Serpent’s Head.
Emilia pinched her younger brother on his opposite leg.
“Bloody hell. What was that for?”
“Because I asked you a question, and you didn’t answer it.”
Barry discreetly waved his hand toward the subject of their discussion. “It’s Mulgrave,” he said impatiently from the corner of his mouth. “The last to join in anything remotely fun. You said so yourself.”
“But that was—” Before. Before she’d truly known him or skated with him.
Her brother looked at her peculiarly.
“That was before, when I was just a girl,” she finished.
Barry’s eyebrows came together. “And you know him so well now, do you?” he asked, eyeing her like a brother eyed a sister whose honor he sought to defend.
Oh, bloody hell. Her brother should choose this moment of all moments to be astute and overprotective. She sent a prayer skyward for the dim lighting of Lady Sutton’s chandeliers that hid her red cheeks.
Adam’s Likeness now efface,
Stamp thy Image in its Place;
“What I do know, Barry,” she began in impressively even tones, “is that at this precise moment, when you and the rest of the gentlemen present were content to keep to your seats while dear Miss Cornworthy suffered through the crowd’s unkindness, it was Lord Heath who came to her rescue. So mayhap I’ve had incorrect opinions of both of you.”
Second Adam from above,
Work it in us by thy Love.
Heath and Miss Cornworthy finished, saving Emilia from answering any further questions from her brother about Heath. Her gaze forward, she joined the rest of the guests in clapping for that duet.
Heath stepped back, briefly motioned to the bespectacled woman with rose-colored cheeks, and added to the applause.
He’d saved the young woman from more embarrassment. He’d lent his voice and support when everyone else had simply sat there in either abject pity or callous amusement.
A piece of her heart fell into Heath’s hands.
Emilia abruptly ceased her clapping and gripped the curved back of the gilded chair in front of her.
Nay, it was impossible.
She didn’t have a heart capable of loving any man. Emilia was far too clever and jaded by betrayal to ever allow herself to feel anything for any man. This warmth, however, was all too real and reserved solely for Heath Whitworth.
Over the tops of the heads of the duchess’ guests, Heath’s gaze wandered out and settled squarely on Emilia.
“Oh, God.”
She started at having accidentally spoken aloud. Mayhap no one would no—
“I feel the same way,” Barry mumbled, shifting in his chair. “I feared they’d never finish.”
Emilia frowned as she concentrated on far safer thoughts than her feelings for Heath. His performance had been enthralling, magical, and her brother would find fault.
The duchess glided to the front of the music hall. “Who else shall grace us with a holiday song?” she invited, and Miss Cornworthy took that as her cue to flee back to her spot in the very last row, nearest the exit.
Clever lady.
“Mayhap Mulgrave will give us another song,” Barry drawled.
Oh, she’d really had quite enough.
Emilia shot a hand up, and all eyes went to her. “My brother was so moved by the previous performance that he spoke throughout about being compelled to song himself,” she called to the duchess.
“How can anyone in the room argue with that?” Emilia’s mother clapped her hands, urging her son forward.
When Barry remained rooted to his spot, Emilia nudged him with her knee. “Get on with it. Your audience awaits.”
If looks could burn, Emilia would have been a charred pile of ash at her younger brother’s feet.
All the while, their mother beamed. “Oh, splendid, Barry! You always were a masterful singer. Not necessarily as skilled as Lord Heath, but skilled enough.”
Emilia’s lips twitched at the backhanded compliment.
“I am going to kill you,” he gritted out.
“Oh, come now. No, you won’t. You will, however, sing.” With that, she gave his arm a little shove and urged him onward.
With Lady Sutton’s guests politely clapping their encouragement, Barry made his way down the aisle with all the reluctance of a man being marched to the gallows, passing Heath on the way.
Her brother paused to glower at Heath before taking up a position in the spot vacated by Miss Cornworthy.
Emilia grinned. Good, it served the lummox right for having been so dismissive and judgmental of Heath. You were no different…
Her smile froze in place. Why… why… she hadn’t been. She followed his approach down the aisle, considering him and all the time she’d known him. She’d taken Heath as a person content to be the ducal heir on the periphery, taking in life around him, but never taking part. Only to have discovered in talking with Heath that he—like her—longed for more.
Emilia’s heart fluttered as he stopped at the end of her row.
“May I have this seat?”
“Yes,” she blurted, and she climbed to her feet, allowing him to steal Barry’s vacant chair.
Of all the guests present, Heath had chosen to sit next to h
er, even abandoning his earlier seat at the center of the music room.
Unaccompanied, Barry broke out into a rousing, speedy rendition of what was otherwise a solemn carol.
Joy to the World; The Lord is come;
Let Earth receive her King.
Emilia’s shoulders shook with amusement.
“What is he doing?” her mother whispered furiously to her husband, who’d previously been slumbering in his seat.
“Wh—I don’t know,” the duke sputtered.
Let every Heart prepare him Room,
And Heaven and Nature sing.
“He is making a mockery of the song. It may as well be a tavern performance.”
With her mother rambling on in annoyance, Emilia directed her gaze forward and tried to think of anything other than the man who occupied the seat beside her. Or the feel of his knee pressed against hers in an unintentional touching of their bodies. For she didn’t want to ever again want another man.
It is too late…
Emilia pressed her eyes shut.
Oh, God.
“Is there a reason your brother is glaring daggers at me?” Heath’s breath fanned the sensitive shell of her ear, sending delicious little shivers radiating down her neck.
She forced her eyes open.
“It might have something to do with his finding amusement in your joining Miss Cornworthy,” she said in a hushed voice. Emilia forced herself to look up at him.
A smile dimpled Heath’s cheek in that endearing boylike charm that continued to do maddening things to her heart. “You defended me.”
“I… may have,” she said grudgingly.
Joy to the Earth, The Saviour reigns;
Let Men their Songs employ.
“He has already sung that lyric, Lord Gayle,” Emilia’s mother was whispering to her dozing husband. “Why is he singing the same words over and over?”
Heath shifted his body closer. “Why?” he murmured.
The rest of the room was forgotten to Emilia as she held his gaze.
“Because you did what no other man did this night. You…” A buzzing filled her ears, the hum muffled by her brother’s slightly discordant singing, as the truth dawned.
He’d rescued Francesca Cornworthy. Because that was the manner of gentleman he was. Whether he wished it or not, he allowed himself to be the honorable figure who’d swoop in and save the lady in need of saving.
Like me…
Her stomach churned.
For Emilia was no different than Francesca Cornworthy. Whatever feelings had sprung within her for Heath were for a man who didn’t truly wish to be with her. This was different. It left an empty hole in her chest… because she wanted to be more to him. She didn’t want to be an obligation. I want him to want to be with me as much as I want to be with him.
A question lit his gaze. “What is it?” Heath asked with a tenderness that nearly brought tears to her eyes.
Damn Heath Whitworth and his insufferable niceness. Jerking her gaze from his blasted beloved face, she blinked those drops back.
What was more, Emilia did not cry. And certainly not over a man.
She embraced the outrage that took root, safe and welcome. “I wanted to know if you would accompany me.”
“When?”
That was it. Not where? Not perhaps. Just, when?
Dutiful lord. Ever dutiful.
“On the terrace. Meet me after the next three sets.” Good, let the dunderhead suffer through another three performances.
As his mouth formed an unasked question, Emilia rose and slipped from the music hall.
Chapter 11
What a dull marriage it would be to wed a man whose only interests are drinking and wagering. I advise each lady to find a gentleman in possession of many talents and no vices.
Mrs. Matcher
A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart
Three carols.
Heath had sat for three additional songs, performed by his mother, father, and younger brother, no less.
Through it, he’d been forced to sit alongside Emilia’s brother, who’d scowled at him all the while.
As such, the moment Graham had concluded acting out the lyrics of “I Saw Three Ships,” sung by his three lively stepchildren, Heath had slipped away from the festivities, unsure who was more eager for his departure—he or Emilia’s brother, Barry.
Nor did Heath’s desire to quit the music room have anything to do with the performances, but rather, his desire to see her.
After dashing above stairs to gather his cloak and gloves, Heath sprinted through the corridors. He raced toward a pair of young maids, and they went wide-eyed as he approached.
He slowed his stride enough to touch his brow in greeting before continuing on.
He’d never done something as inappropriate as to dash about the ducal halls. And how bloody wonderful this felt, how freeing.
Emilia Aberdeen, the spitfire who’d snagged his hopeless heart as a young lad, had all these years later taught him what it was to live without a care for his responsibilities and to celebrate the pleasures he’d once allowed himself.
What would Renaud say about all that? Any of it? a voice taunted at the back of his mind.
Heath, however, proved more of a selfish bastard than he’d ever believed himself to be, for he continued forward, not stopping until he reached the doors leading to the terrace.
Grinning, he pushed the doors open. “I—” His words abruptly ended. A pair of servants, a plump maid bundled in her cloak and one of the strapping footmen, stared back guiltily. “Oh. Er…” As the couple dropped a respective bow and curtsy, Heath glanced about, searching for the one person he’d sought. The one person you have no business seeking out…
“Lord Heath,” Emilia called from the opposite end of the thirty-foot terrace.
His heart lifted the way it always did when she was near. “Lady Emilia,” he murmured, walking to meet her.
“Are you ready?”
Heath looked around, taking in the details that had first escaped him—the saw resting alongside the balustrade. The neat curl of rope. A shovel.
“What is all this about?” he blurted. For whatever it was the minx intended, it included the pair of servants. He should be grateful that his growing temptation for this woman would be checked firmly by the company of servants. He should be. But he was decidedly not.
“We are going tree hunting.”
As mired as he was in his own regrets, it took a moment for Emilia’s revelation to sink in. His ears must have heard wrong. “What?”
He knew he sounded like a damned lackwit incapable of anything more than the sporadic what?, but really, he’d not a deuced clue what she was up to.
Emilia slipped her arm through his. “We are going tree hunting for your m-mother,” she explained, her teeth chattering in the cold.
He allowed himself to be propelled along for several steps, while the servants behind them gathered up the supplies littered about the patio, before grinding his feet to a halt. “I’m sorry. We are going where?”
Emilia sighed. “We are going to find an evergreen to bring back to your family’s residence for the Christmastide season.”
She spoke as if he should know that. As if she were speaking about some peculiar tradition his family took part in… which they decidedly did not.
“Your sister-in-law, Martha?”
Heath glanced around for the latest edition to their quartet.
“She is not joining us, Heath,” she said with an exaggerated sigh. “It is her family’s tradition.”
“What family? We’re her family.”
Emilia pounced. “Precisely, and as such, each Whitworth should care enough to learn about what is important to her family’s traditions.”
He puzzled his brows. “What in blazes manner of custom is that?”
“It is a medieval Livonian one,” she said in beleaguered tones, as if she expected him to know about ancient Livonian customs. But the
n again, mayhap clever as she was, the self-taught scholar was in possession of even the most obscure details. “It became quite popular with the Lutheran Germans.”
Lutheran? His frame shook with amusement. “Lutheran customs?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Do you have a problem with Lutherans?”
“I have no problems with anyone. My proper father, however, would have never relented to allowing—”
“Your father was quite enthused by the idea of a tree when I broached it with him earlier in the week.”
That immediately quelled his mirth. She’d not only spoken to his father, but she’d secured his approval for an unconventional custom. Whatever piece of him hadn’t already been hopelessly in love with Emilia Aberdeen was lost in this moment. Was there nothing she couldn’t manage, no dragon she couldn’t tame?
Alas, that devotion proved—as always—vastly one-sided.
“Your sister-in-law shared with me how each holiday she and her children would go out hunting for a tree to bring home and decorate, and I believed this would be a lovely way to make her feel more at home here.”
Heath worked his gaze over her beloved face. When most of the other guests had been distant to Martha, treating her as an outsider to this often-cold world of Polite Society, Emilia had engaged her daughters and also taken time to learn about the young woman. His heart shifted as he fell in love with Emilia all over again. There’d be worry enough later about the deepening intensity of that emotion. Now, he wanted to enjoy this moment—and her.
Emilia eyed him suspiciously. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because I’ve never known a person like you in my life,” he said softly.
Her lips parted. “Oh,” she breathed, stirring a little cloud of white with her breath.
His gaze went to her rosebud mouth, and a hungering to take her into his arms filled him.
Nay, it had never left. It had been there, a tangible yearning he’d fought valiantly for years.
“Shall we?” she whispered, her query an invitation to claim the kiss he craved.
In a rustle of velvet, she turned dismissively and trotted over to the servants who’d continued to the stairs. As she left him staring after her retreating figure, it occurred to him that she hadn’t been encouraging an embrace.
A Lady's Guide to a Gentleman's Heart (The Heart of a Scandal Book 2) Page 12
