It was her turn to frown. She stared up at him, confused. “You did not?”
“No. To own the truth, that entire scene on the terrace was just an excuse I seized upon. I want you to marry me. I want to be your husband.”
“You do?” Gads, her words were beginning to sound as repetitious as those of Punch and Judy, if considerably less violent. She could think of nothing else to say. A tiny white bloom of something like hope opened in her heart. Hope or maybe even something like the beginnings of love. It was all more beautiful, and more strange, than anything she could ever have imagined.
She lifted her other hand to Jack’s shoulder, moving closer to him, seeking to find an answering emotion in his eyes. She saw a seriousness there and the leap of attraction when she pressed against him. It was enough— for now.
“I do want to marry you,” he said. “But only if you want it, too. I think we could do well together, Emma. We like each other. We understand each other. And we could have a marvelous time together.”
“Oh, yes,” Emma breathed. “Yes. We would certainly have a marvelous time.”
“Then you will marry me?”
“I will marry you, Jack.”
A smile of pure delight and dazzlement broke across Jack’s face, banishing the seriousness, the doubt. His arms came around her and drew her flush against him, pulling her up on her tiptoes. His lips met hers, searching, seeking, diving deep in the sudden dizzying joy of a future.
Emma reached up, her fingers moving into his hair, drawing him closer still. She knocked his hat off; it fell unheeded with a soft thud to the grass. This moment was perfect, all she could ask for, all she had ever wanted. Jack was hers, and she was his.
Applause broke out around them, and Emma stepped back from Jack. For a second, she thought the cheers were for them, but then she saw that the Punch and Judy show was ending. A few small children did watch Emma and Jack, and Jack scattered them with a good-natured wave of his hand and a shouted “Boo!”
Emma laughed and touched Jack’s cheek with her palm. “Are we really going to marry?”
He covered her hand with his, holding her against him. “We really are. I will always try to make you happy, Emma; this I swear. And I will always be loyal to you, to our family.”
Loyal? Emma would prefer faithful, but loyal would do for now. “I am happy right now. And in the future— we will just work on that when we come to it. We have so much time now, where before we had only one day!” She rested her head on his shoulder and inhaled deeply of his clean, spicy, soapy scent. “So much time.”
———
Jack held Emma close, his cheek pressed to the top of her head. Her straw bonnet itched—it was not like the satin of her hair—but he did not move away. This moment, this pure, perfect moment, was too fleeting, and he wanted to keep it for as long as possible before it moved into the unreachable past. Soon, she would be pulled into the swirling abyss of hurried wedding preparations, the expectations of her family and his family and Society. She was his for now, though, his alone.
He had not lied when he told her he would be loyal, would always strive to make her happy. He would do everything in his power, for the rest of her life, to give her everything she wanted. There were parts of his life she could not share, could not even know about. Could never know about. He would not let that ugliness, that deception, touch the joy he saw now in her eyes. He would not let it touch their future, a future he had only just begun to hope for.
Surely he could keep them separate. He must.
Emma looked up at him, her eyes wide, dark-bright with the shine of tears. One had escaped and lay shimmering like a star on her cheekbone. Jack touched it with the tip of his finger, and she smiled.
“I will be a good wife to you, Jack,” she said.
“I know. You will be the very best.”
She nodded and rose up to kiss him again. Her lips were soft and tasted of salt, fresh air and the sweetness of hope. There was so much they needed to talk of, to plan. A wedding, perhaps a wedding trip, a place to live. But that was all far away. All they had right now, all they needed, was each other and this kiss.
It was all they ever needed.
———
So caught up were they in their own future, they did not notice that someone watched them, someone besides the giggling children and the now silent Punch and Judy.
Sir Jeremy Ashbey drew up his phaeton on the pathway, much to the ire of the carriage driver behind him. He had no awareness of the shouts and curses. He watched the embracing couple, listened to the faraway ring of their mingled laughter. His held his face still, expressionless, almost pleasantly distant.
But his gaze burned; his thoughts sizzled and smoked as if bathed in acid. That should have been he, holding her in his arms. She was meant to be his and had been, ever since she was a child and he had vowed to himself that he would wed her.
She was his still. The viscount would pay for touching her.
Chapter Eighteen
“Which one do you think?” Aunt Lydia asked doubtfully, fingering the hem of the gown Natasha held up, while Madame Ana took notes beside her. “Oh, how I do wish there was time to have a new gown made! But with the wedding tomorrow, I fear there is not a mantua-maker in the world who could accomplish it.”
Emma stared out over the chamber from her perch on the edge of the bed. Every item of clothing from her wardrobe was spread as far as the eye could see, or at least so it seemed. Gowns, pelisses, spencers, shawls, slippers, bo0nnets, petticoats, even nightrails were scattered in a rainbow over the furniture and the carpet.
Of course she wished she could have a new gown, especially designed for the occasion. Of course she cared how she would appear at her wedding. Yet nothing, not even the lack of new clothes, could cloud her mood today. She felt she was walking on golden Stardust, moving in a pink bubble of music. Unfortunately, this hum of contentment also meant she had a rather hard time making any decisions or even focusing on anything but airy dreams of the future.
She swung her feet and said, “I do not know. Whichever gown you think, Aunt Lydia.”
Lydia gave her an exasperated glance. “You are no help whatsoever, Emma, and it is your wedding! Even though it is to be a small affair, we should make it as elegant as possible.”
“I think all the gowns are very pretty,” Lady Osborn said shyly, reminding them of her presence there. Ever since her arrival at the hotel, she had sat quietly in a chair by the dressing table, watching the proceedings from blue eyes so like her son’s but without his fire and decisiveness. Spots of bright pink painted excitement on her thin cheeks. “Any of them would be lovely for a wedding.”
“You are quite right, Lady Osborn!” Emma agreed. “That is why it is so difficult to make a choice.”
“I wore blue at my own wedding,” said Lady Osborn. “But that was so long ago. Perhaps it is not the fashion now?”
“I, too, wore blue at my wedding,” Aunt Lydia answered. The militant light of plan-making in her eyes faded for a moment, replaced with the glow of remembrance. “Embroidered with pink roses. It was exquisite.”
“Blue is always fashionable,” said Madame Ana, always the arbiter of style, even though her own attire of black silk never changed. “And quite suitable for weddings.”
Emma nodded. “Then, if you both wore blue, so will I!”
“I know just the gown,” said Natasha. She reached back into the wardrobe, where only a few garments still hung, and brought out a creation of pale blue silk. It had been made to wear at a ball planned for their last night in London and had a classically pleated bodice and short cap sleeves. It was a beautiful gown and would look just right with her mother’s pearls at a late afternoon wedding.
“Oh, yes,” Aunt Lydia said, with an approving nod. “That will do very well. I do not know why we didn’t think of it sooner. But what can you wear on your head? A bonnet with a veil would not do.”
“There is my tiara,” Emma said. But that did not seem terribly
romantic to her. It seemed formal and stiff. If she had her way, she would marry in a meadow somewhere, with flowers tossed in her hair. She supposed the tiara would do quite well for the large drawing room in the Pulteney Hotel where the ceremony would actually take place, though.
“I brought this,” Lady Osborn said, in her soft, hesitant voice. She reached into her large velvet reticule and brought out a folded square of lace. When she unfurled it, it was revealed to be a length of intricately wrought, palest ivory Belgian work with scalloped edges. “I wore it at my wedding, and my mother wore it at hers. I thought maybe you could fasten it to your tiara, or to a wreath of flowers. But perhaps it is not smart enough…”
Emma slid off the bed and went to take the veil in her hands. It was soft with age, lightly scented with the lavender it had been packed away in. It was elegant and perfect. “I adore it,” she said. “I would be honored to wear it, Lady Osborn.”
She bent to kiss Lady Osborn’s cheek. She could scarcely believe that this pale creature had brought forth a being of such vividness as Jack, but Emma loved her already. She loved her for bringing this veil and for gifting Emma with her son.
Lady Osborn smiled and touched Emma’s cheek with her gloved hand, tiny as a child’s. “I always wanted a daughter, my dear,” she whispered. “Now I shall have one. And you must call me Jane.”
Lydia came over to examine the veil. “It is indeed a beautiful piece of work. You will be the most lovely bride, Emma.”
Emma stared down at the veil and blinked her eyes hard, fearing she might start weeping. She was so surrounded by love and approval, like being wrapped up in a soft blanket. She had spent so much time in her life in dreams, in solitude, that for a moment so many good wishes were almost too much. She thought she might fall onto the floor and sob in a frenzy of emotion.
Even Madame Ana peered at her with misty approval from behind her spectacles.
Aunt Lydia squeezed her arm. “Are you quite all right, Emma dear?”
“Yes. Yes, I am fine. It is just—just that the veil is so nice.”
Lady Osborn smiled shyly. “Then it is yours, Lady Emma. Perhaps one day you will want to give it to your own daughter.”
Her own daughter? Emma had an image of a girl flash in her mind, a girl with the veil on her smooth fall of dark hair, with vivid blue eyes and a crooked smile. Her own daughter, a woman who did not yet exist but one day would, because of her. And because of Jack.
Oh, dear, she was getting sentimental! Sentimental and silly. What was it about weddings that brought such things out in people?
Lady Osborn dabbed at her own eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “Oh, now I am crying! And I have made you cry, Lady Emma. I must go now, before we all become watering pots.” She closed her reticule and straightened her bonnet and shawl. “Will you still join us for supper this evening at Howard House?”
“Of course, Lady Osborn—Jane,” said Emma. “I am looking forward to it.”
“Wonderful! I know that my husband is eager to get to know you better.” Lady Osborn leaned closer and whispered, “He is a great deal of bluster, my dear, but really he is quite harmless.”
Emma laughed. Lady Osborn, blushing as if she had said something enormously daring, kissed her cheek in farewell and hurried away.
Madame Ana followed, saying, “I will see you out, Lady Osborn.”
Aunt Lydia sat down on Lady Osborn’s abandoned chair. “Natasha, you may go now. We will ring for you when Lady Emma needs to change for supper.”
“Of course, Countess.” Natasha bobbed a curtsy and left the room, the blue wedding gown draped over her arm to be taken away for pressing.
The door closed behind her, and suddenly the chamber was silent, quiet and still after all the bustle of those feminine fussings. Aunt Lydia seemed as if she was intent on telling Emma something, something perhaps not entirely pleasant.
Emma wished she did not have to hear it, whatever it was. She wanted nothing to spoil this golden afternoon.
“Emma, dear,” Lydia said, and patted the seat of the chair next to hers. “Sit down here for a moment. We need to have a quiet coze, just the two of us, and I do not think we will have another opportunity.”
“Of course, Aunt Lydia.” Emma slowly sat down on the chair next to her aunt’s, smoothing her skirt across her lap.
Lydia nodded but still looked as if she was not sure how to begin what she wanted to say. Emma wondered, with a little pang of misgiving, what it could be. Were they going to forbid her to marry Jack, even after all these preparations? And what would she do if they changed their minds?
Now that she had made up her mind to have Jack for her husband, she thought she might just shrivel up and blow away if he was denied her.
That, apparently, was not what Aunt Lydia was going to say, though. She reached out to gently touch Emma’s hand.
“Dear,” she said. “I know I have been strict with you at times, and our lives have not always been easy. But I have loved you as my own daughter; you have been a blessing to me, and to Nicholas. We have always tried to do our best for you, as I know my sister, your mother, would have wanted.”
“Oh, you have!” Emma cried. “You and Uncle Nicholas have been the best of parents to me, always.”
Lydia smiled at her warmly. “I am glad you have been happy with us. I always knew this day would come, the day we would have to part from you, and I admit I have dreaded it. You seem to have found a fine young man who cares about you, though, and I could have asked for nothing more.”
Emma nodded, wondering where her aunt’s words were heading. What she had to tell her.
Lydia took a deep breath. “And now, in your mother’s place, I want to talk to you about something. Marriage, as you know, entails many duties. You have been well taught to run a household, to take your place in Society. But there is one duty you may not know a great deal about.” Lydia’s stoic face looked as if it were made of marble.
Emma felt her own cheeks burn. Why, her aunt was talking of—of the deed. The act she had read about in books, though she had never been quite sure what it entailed. Oh, she knew the mechanics of it, vaguely but not exactly the how. It was something terribly secret and unimaginable, something that happened between men and women in the marriage bed. Something that surely had to do with the rush of excitement that curled her very toes whenever Jack kissed her.
She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. “Do you mean the deed, Aunt Lydia?”
“The deed?” The marble of Lydia’s face cracked just a bit in a tiny smile. “Well, yes. I suppose you could call it that. You know what I am talking about, then?”
“Yes. I have read about it.” Emma did not add that she had her doubts about the entire procedure.
Lydia nodded. “When our mother told Lizzie and me about the—the deed before our marriages, she said that we would find it unpleasant, but that it was necessary to beget children. She said we should close our eyes and think of fat, beautiful babies, and it would all be over soon. And we should never, under any circumstances, allow our husbands to completely remove our nightdresses.”
Emma was completely appalled. Stoic forbearance had nothing to do with the feelings Jack inspired in her with his kisses, his touch! Thoughts of babies and never removing her nightdress sounded dull in the extreme.
But then Aunt Lydia laughed. “My mother, though a very virtuous woman and wise in many ways, was wrong about this. It can be—most pleasant, once the first, uncomfortable time is past. Just remember that it is not wrong in the least. And if you ever have any questions at all, you need only write to me. Or ask Madame Ana. She is a widow, you know.”
Madame Ana? Emma, jerked from curious thoughts of the deed, looked at her aunt. “Madame Ana? How can I ask her anything?”
“She and Natasha will stay with you, of course. You will need a great deal of help in setting up your new household.”
Emma almost groaned. She had been looking forward to her new free life. Now M
adame Ana was going to be watching her through those spectacles, no doubt insisting they make out lists every day and writing to her aunt of everything Emma did. “Oh, Aunt Lydia, that is so very— generous of you. But do you not need Madame Ana back in St. Petersburg?”
Aunt Lydia gave her a serene smile. “I can spare her for a few months. She is so efficient and will be a huge help to you. You will see.” She stood up and kissed Emma on the cheek with the satisfied air of someone who has dispatched an irksome errand. “Now I will go and send Natasha up to you. You should be getting ready for your supper at Howard House. Remember, if you have any other questions, you need only ask.”
She swept out of the chamber, leaving Emma alone in the clutter of their wedding preparations.
Questions! Truly, she was full of them. But they were nothing she could ask her aunt, and certainly not Madame Ana.
———
Jack stood on the doorstep of Howard House, dressed in his fine supper clothes, peering through the crowds that hurried around the square and looking for the carriage that would deliver Emma to him. He should be waiting politely, properly, in the drawing room with his parents. They would sip port and tea and talk of wedding plans and marriage settlements until the butler ushered Emma in to join them. He could not seem to sit still, though, to listen to his father’s pontifications on how good it was that Jack was “mending his ways,” taking his proper place in Society, marrying a true lady. So he had come outside to wait for Emma. To wait for the only thing that seemed to make sense in this strange new world of “respectability,” after months of convincing people he was less than respectable, less than interested in his duty.
Emma. Soon she would be here, within his reach. He could breathe of her lilac perfume, convince himself that she was indeed real, that she existed, that she was not a dream.
That they would be together, and that their new marriage would prosper despite everything.
It all seemed possible, but only when she was with him.
A carriage stopped at the foot of the stone doorstep, and a footman leaped down to open the door and lower the steps. A pink satin slipper appeared, a white silk hem embroidered with pink rosebuds, a pink velvet cloak; then she was there. Emma smiled up at him and rushed up the steps to hold her hands out to him.
Lady in disguise Page 16
