Lady in disguise

by Amanda McCabe

  “Oh, Aunt Lydia!” Emma threw her arms around her aunt’s neck in an exuberant burst of hope. “I will meet with Lord St. Albans this morning, and then I will know what I should do.”

  Lydia stroked her hair gently and kissed her cheek. “My dear, it seems only yesterday that you were a tiny little girl, getting your frocks all dirty playing in the puddles. Now you are thinking of marriage.”

  Marriage. The very word was thrilling and strange, and—and frightening. Made even more frightening by the odd note of sadness in her aunt’s voice. She clung to her more tightly, but Lydia just kissed her again and said, “Come now, dear. What would you like to wear this morning? The lavender muslin?”

  ———

  Jack sat at his own breakfast table, the rolls brought in from a nearby bakery untouched, the coffee barely sipped and becoming cold. He was too busy making his way through the morning post to eat.

  Usually he received only perhaps two or three letters, but today there was a veritable deluge. News, particularly news with the hint of possible scandal about it, traveled fast in the haut ton. There were notes from old friends he had not seen since coming back to England, relatives he had forgotten he possessed, all expressing congratulations. And this was just from the ones who were in London—surely the country-based relatives would write soon enough.

  There was a message from his colonel and one from Mr. Thompson asking, nay, demanding, an appointment. Count Suvarov wrote with his permission for Jack to call on his niece and yet another demand for an appointment. His father asked that he bring his betrothed to their town house for supper.

  Jack shuffled all the missives into an untidy pile. Mr. Thompson would have to be answered with alacrity, as would Count Suvarov and his father. The relatives who were clearly dangling for a wedding invitation would just have to be disappointed. The ceremony would be a very small affair.

  The ceremony! The wedding. His wedding.

  Jack groaned aloud and ran his hand through his already disordered hair. Everything had been moving at such a hell-for-leather pace that all practical matters had simply slipped his mind. Things such as special licenses, wedding trips, settlements and a place he could bring a bride to live. Here, in his rooms?

  He gazed about at the plain, comfortable sitting room that had served him so well. He saw Emma as she had appeared there during their day out, sitting in his armchair, her dainty feet up on his footstool. She had seemed quite comfortable there, quite at home. But surely her aunt and uncle would insist she have a proper town house. His parents would probably want them to come and live at Howard House with them, but that was out of the question. Ah, well, they could decide all that after the wedding trip, if there was time for a trip. He would know more after he spoke with Mr. Thompson.

  Jack laughed at himself. How quickly he had gone from thinking he would never wed to planning things such as licenses and homes. All because of a dark-eyed fairy princess.

  A knock sounded at the door, forcing Jack to abandon his ruminations for the time being. “Come in!” he called.

  Bertie stepped into the sitting room, perfectly turned out in his green coat and gray trousers, hat and walking stick tucked beneath his arm. “Well, good morning, Lord St. Albans,” he greeted, with an ironic formality. “I understand congratulations are in order.”

  “Well, well. News does indeed travel quickly. I have not even met with her uncle yet to finalize the arrangements.”

  “I was at Lady Hertford’s, too, remember.” Bertie helped himself to a cup of coffee and sprawled out in the same chair where Emma had sat. “I saw the entire, er, romantic scene, albeit from a distance. The lady did not appear too happy to discover your true identity.”

  “She will understand, once we have had a chance to speak alone.” Surely she would.

  “She will, eh? Well, I wish you both happy.” Bertie swallowed the last of his coffee and put the empty cup on the table next to Jack’s books. “Mr. Thompson wants to see us this afternoon. Did you get his message?”

  “Hm. No doubt he wants to know how the work is progressing. And to offer his own congratulations, I am sure.”

  “And to ask if you will be able to continue, once you are in possession of your blushing bride.”

  Jack gave his friend a hard glance. “Of course I will continue. Why would I not? The situation is far from secure. And Emma will know nothing about it.”

  He would make very certain of that. Emma would be protected, no matter what he had to do or what lies she had to be told. Once she was his, he would be certain that she was always safe, that his work could never touch her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Lord St. Albans is here for you, my lady,” Madame Ana announced. “He is waiting for you downstairs in the small salon.”

  Emma’s throat suddenly went dry at the message. He was here, waiting for her. She could not turn away from the mirror, though, where she watched Natasha putting the final touches to her coiffure, nor did her expression change. She was too well trained for that, now that the initial shock of learning Jack’s identity had passed. “Thank you, Madame Ana. I will be there in a moment.”

  Madame Ana nodded and rustled out of the room again, busily going on her way to another errand. For that moment, Emma envied her. She knew where she was supposed to be, what she was meant to be doing in the next five minutes, the next hour, the next month. Emma had no idea where her own life was going. It was careening out of control like a runaway carriage, bearing her to who knew where.

  She had always hated the lists. Now she almost wished she had one, one that told her how to behave, how to think, when faced with a would-be fiance who had turned from a secretary to a viscount in the blink of an eye.

  Natasha handed her her bonnet, and Emma put it on her head and tied the lavender and white ribbons in a jaunty bow beneath her left ear. That she did know how to do.

  She left the mirror and picked up her gloves and reticule. She draped a lacy white shawl over her shoulders. Then, thinking of nothing else she could contrive to do, she moved slowly to the door. Part of her wanted to run down the stairs to him; part of her felt like she was walking to the gallows.

  “I will be back before luncheon,” she told Natasha.

  Natasha giggled, her face suffused with delight, as if she was witnessing a romantic play or opera. Emma was glad someone took unalloyed pleasure in these odd proceedings. “Yes, my lady,” Natasha said.

  Emma nodded and left the chamber, moving along the corridor and down the staircase toward the small salon. She had the same strange dreamlike feelings that had enveloped her ever since she met Jack at the ball. Things had a slow, misty quality about them. She wondered if it was ever going to end, or if this was her life from now on—one big walking dream.

  She pushed open the door to the salon, not exactly sure what to expect, Jack or the viscount. It appeared to be the viscount, fashionably clad and bearing a bouquet of more yellow roses. But the smile he gave her was entirely Jack, a wide, white, crooked slash of a grin.

  It soothed her, reassured her, yet at the same time made her stomach jump in nervous anticipation. Such a paradox.

  Only as she moved toward him, seeking that smile, craving it, did she see that he was not alone. Her aunt and uncle stood behind him. They were perfectly expressionless, Aunt Lydia seated in a high-backed chair with her hands folded in her lap, Uncle Nicholas standing beside her.

  “Good morning, Lord St. Albans,” Emma greeted, the title still sounding strange and foreign in her ears.

  Jack, still smiling, came to her and lifted her hand to his lips. She had not yet put on her lace gloves, and he did not just politely bow over her hand. His kiss landed on her bare skin, warm and soft. “Good morning, Lady Emma. You are looking very lovely today.” He held out the bouquet to her.

  “Thank you,” she managed to murmur. She took the flowers, and inhaled their sweet fragrance to give her a moment to compose herself after his kiss. She had to remember who she was, what the
situation was, and not make a schoolgirl fool of herself.

  “We have told Lord St. Albans he may take you for a short walk,” Uncle Nicholas said. “But do not forget we have a luncheon engagement.”

  “No, of course not, Uncle,” answered Emma.

  “You can see some of the celebrations, as you have said you wanted to do,” added Aunt Lydia.

  “Shall we, then?” Jack offered her his arm.

  Emma stared at his dark blue superfine sleeve for a second before carefully sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow. Beneath the expensive cloth, he felt just like Jack the secretary—strong, hard-muscled, warm. The sort of arm that could always support her, always keep her safe.

  S.2he handed her flowers to a housemaid who waited just outside the door and walked with Jack to the front door of the hotel. No servants’ entrance for them today. They were silent as they walked, their steps perfectly matched, their movements coordinated as Emma shifted to pull on her gloves. It was almost as if they were one of those long married couples who had nothing left to talk about but who knew the rhythms of each other’s walks perfectly. Who could communicate with a glance, a gesture.

  Of course, though, the truth was they knew almost nothing about each other. Emma knew how his lips felt on hers, the scent of his skin, the silk of his hair. She did not know about his family, his friends, his past, his hopes for the future.

  That would have to change, and soon. They did not have very much time before they wed.

  As they passed through the hotel’s grand vestibule, a figure suddenly appeared before them, as if materializing from the very air. It was Sir Jeremy Ashbey. His expression was everything that was polite, but his hair was, for once, not perfectly dressed, his cravat tied ever so slightly askew. And his eyes—Emma took an involuntary little step backward when his gaze met hers. She had never seen a look so very cold before.

  Jack covered her hand with his, holding her at his side. “Sir Jeremy. Good morning.” Jack’s voice was also all that was polite, but there was a strength, a warning, in its brandied depths.

  “Good morning,” Sir Jeremy answered. His stare never left Emma. “I understand I must wish you both happy.”

  Emma moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and flicked a glance at Jack. He was smiling amiably, yet the tense feel of his arm told her he was prepared for any eventuality. She was deeply glad of his solid presence beside her. “Th-thank you very much, Sir Jeremy,” she said.

  “Indeed, Sir Jeremy,” Jack added. “That is very kind of you.”

  “Any man would be fortunate to win Lady Emma. I hope you realize the true depth of your fortune, Lord St. Albans. Such gifts are rare and fragile,” Sir Jeremy said, in an odd high-pitched tone. “Very fragile.”

  “Oh, I do realize it. At every moment.” With another nod, Jack tugged lightly on Emma’s arm and led her out of the hotel into the sunshine and fresh air of the summer’s morning. Emma filled her lungs with it, with the life that surged around them. Just as it had the last time they were alone in the city. Emma could feel her heart stir tentatively within her, in a faint echo of her feelings on that other day.

  There must be hope for her yet.

  Sir Jeremy, her aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Os-born, they were almost forgotten in that sweet stir. Almost.

  Jack shot a quick glance behind them before steering her into the ebb and flow of the pedestrians. “Odd chap, that Ashbey.”

  “Hm? Oh, yes, Sir Jeremy. He is. A very odd chap.”

  “I understand he had some—hopes of you.”

  Emma looked at Jack in surprise. Surely Sir Jeremy’s courtship, only in its infancy, had not been as noticeable as all that. “Perhaps he did, though they were unfounded. How did you hear of that?”

  Jack shrugged. “It is very hard to keep a secret here. Before you and your aunt even arrived in London, it was seen that Sir Jeremy and your uncle had struck up an acquaintance, and it was remembered that you had an estate that marches beside his family’s. Then he paid marked attention to you when you got here. He seems disappointed now, though of course who could blame him?”

  They turned into the park and strolled along the same pathway they had once trod as Tonya and Jack. Today, no one jostled them. Everyone moved to the side to give them a clear walkway, eyes respectfully averted. If Emma had noticed the separation, she would have hated it, but she did not notice. Not really. She was too busy puzzling over Sir Jeremy. “If he did have hopes, I certainly did not encourage them. We have scarcely spoken, though he says we knew each other as children. He can have no great affection for me.”

  “Well, you are, shall we say, a very unusual female, Lady Emma. One cannot blame him for feeling disappointed, especially if he has been dreaming of you since childhood,” Jack said, in a deceptively light tone.

  Emma blinked up at him, and he smiled at her as if his words were just a form of polite flirting. The smile did not reach his eyes, though, and she did not feel like smiling back. She was too nervous, too uncertain.

  Their steps slowed, and they paused beneath the shade of a large tree somewhat out of the way of the bustling traffic of passersby. Nearby, a Punch and Judy show was going on, and Judy hit Punch over the head with a board, much to the shrieking delight of the children in the audience. The raucous cacophony seemed the perfect background music to the turmoil in Emma’s own head and heart.

  She was standing here just inches away from Jack, so close she could simply reach out and touch him. But she could not. They were as effectively separated as if there was an ocean between them. She wanted the connection, the closeness they had felt before, but she did not know how to find it. It had been so easy to relate to him when she was someone else. It was nearly impossible as Lady Emma.

  Her tentative hopes for their betrothal withered inside her.

  The Judy puppet shrieked and fell down to writhe on the ground of the tiny stage. Emma wished she could do the same. But that would be unseemly, of course. Most improper.

  “I behaved like such a widgeon at the ball,” she said, finding words to say at last. They were inadequate words, nothing to what was in her heart, but at least they were not silence. “Screaming and falling over the plant like that! What an idiot you must have thought me.”

  Jack shook his head, a ghost of his old smile still hovering at the corners of his mouth. “Not at all. It was my fault entirely for giving you such a shock. I should have found a better time, a better place, to reintroduce myself. I am sorry for that—and for the entire deception.”

  Emma placed her hand flat on the tree trunk beside her. It was rough and hard under the dainty lace of her glove, and she was glad of its solidity holding her upright. “You knew all along who I was, didn’t you?”

  He glanced away from her to the group of laughing children watching the denouement of the Punch and Judy show. “Yes. I saw you at the Bransley reception, though I was almost sure you would not remember me. You seemed to be—thinking of something else that evening. Something far away.”

  She felt her cheeks grow warm and pink at the knowledge that someone had noticed her daydreaming. “My goodness. Aunt Lydia would be angry at my impoliteness.”

  “You were never in the least impolite. You were always perfectly gracious. I only noticed because, well, because I do notice things. Alertness, being aware, is what kept me alive in the army. I cannot seem to turn that off, even at so harmless a place as a Society reception. And I have a certain tendency to drift away a bit at such functions, myself.”

  He gave her a conspiratorial smile, and Emma couldn’t help but laugh. He looked so like a roguish little boy, caught out in some mischief.

  “So, yes,” he continued, the stiff set of his shoulders and back relaxing a bit at the sound of her laughter. “I did recognize you. I meant at first to tell you who I was, to escort you back to the Pulteney. But then I got caught up in your game. It was delightful; I could not help but play along.”

  “Did you have to, er, play along the
entire day?”

  “No, of course not. Yet I found myself wondering at every minute what would happen next. It was a wondrous day, Lady Emma. I think I have never had one to equal it.”

  Emma stared at him, astonished. She searched his face carefully for signs of deception, but all she saw was openness, a certain surprise, a trace of—was it hope? No mockery there at all. “It was a marvelous day,” she said. “And I was fortunate that you were there to share it with me. Yet, any impropriety of that day was entirely instigated by me. You should not be punished because I chose to run away from my duties.”

  A tiny ripple of a frown appeared between his eyes. “What do you mean? Are you still angry with me, then?”

  “No!” Emma shook her head. “I was angry with you at first, it is true. But the truth is, I also lied to you. My lie was the first. That is why it would be wrong of me to be angry at you. And it would also be wrong for you to spend your whole life paying for my deception.”

  “You are saying you do not want to marry me, then.”

  Oh, but sweet heaven above, I do want to marry you! Emma thought. She wanted it more than anything, wanted it in the same elemental way she had wanted her freedom on the day she ran away. It would be horrible beyond words, though, if he began to blame her for the unforeseen direction his life had taken, if they proved to be unhappy together. “I am saying that in a few days I will be going back to Russia. People here will forget all about this. It was very noble of you to offer for me…”

  “Noble!” he interrupted, his voice a blast of indignation. He caught up her hand, pressing it between his, holding it over his heart. Even through the layers of his clothes, she could feel the beat, the urgency of it. “Damn it, Emma, I did not propose to be noble.”