Lady in disguise

by Amanda McCabe

  “Oh, no, we cannot do that!” she said, with another little laugh. “The dance especially sounds quite jolly, and Lady Watley was a friend of my mother’s. We really should meet some more of the neighbors. I do not think two or three evenings out will disturb our pastoral idyll.”

  “Are we having an idyll?” Jack asked, idly folding up the newspaper he had been reading.

  Were they? “Aren’t wedding trips supposed to be idyllic? And we are having ours in the country. A pastoral idyll.” To cover her silliness, Emma gathered her empty plate and went to deposit it on the sideboard. As she came back, Jack caught her arm and pulled her down onto his lap.

  “ ‘Come live with me and be my love, / And we will all the pleasures prove,’ ” he quoted, and kissed the side of her neck.

  Emma giggled and put her arms around his shoulders. “ ‘That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, / Woods or steepy mountain yields!’ “

  “What is a steepy mountain?” he said, his voice muffled against her skin.

  It tickled, making her giggle even more. “I do not know! You are the one who started spouting poetry.”

  “Just because I know the words, that doesn’t necessarily mean I know what they mean. Besides, it is not my poem—it is Christopher Marlowe’s.”

  “Oh, so you are an educated man, are you?”

  “Yes, and here you thought me just a poor buffoon who could not even row a boat across a pond. Now I am dazzling you with my knowledge of great literature.” His arms tightened around her and he leaned back in his chair, pulling her even closer. “ ‘And we will sit upon the rocks, / Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, / By shallow rivers to whose falls…’ “

  Emma finished with him in rising chorus, “ ‘Melodious birds sing madrigals!’ “

  They dissolved into laughter, and the force of their hilarity sent them tumbling from the chair into a heap on the floor. Emma’s hair, loosely tied up with a ribbon, fell over her face and shoulders, enclosing them in a shining black curtain.

  She pushed it back and sat up, looking down at Jack, who still lay sprawled on the carpet. “Oh, indeed, sirrah, that is most impressive!” she said. “But I fear you must use poetry on all the ladies, ‘Firebrand Viscount.’ “

  Oh, now, why had she said that! She had never wanted to think of that silly piece of gossip again, and here she was, spouting it out, using it to tease her husband.

  But Jack just laughed and reached up to finger the ends of her hair, wrapping the silk of it around her hand. “So, you read that scurrilous rag, did you?”

  “I did. But it was terribly unthorough. It made no mention that you can quote Marlowe.”

  “Shakespeare, too. But they did not mention it because I was saving it for a very special lady indeed.” His expression turned more serious, and his hand tightened on her hair to draw her closer to him. “You should not believe everything they print in such rags, Emma.”

  “I do not.” She placed her hand flat on his chest, felt the rise and fall of his breath. “So, you were not truly a, er, firebrand?”

  He laughed reluctantly. “Perhaps I was, every once in a while. But not to the extent some people say, and not for the reasons they thought.”

  “No?”

  “No. I was just looking, searching.”

  “Searching for what?” Emma whispered.

  “For this, of course.” He drew her across the last few inches that separated them and took her lips with his.

  Emma leaned both hands against his chest and moved deeper into the kiss, sighing at the very deliciousness of it. This was what married life had been missing for the last few days. This heat and sweetness.

  Jack groaned deep in his chest and dragged her atop him. She went most willingly, sliding her hands up into his hair, holding him still for her.

  Unfortunately, she went with a little too much alacrity and not enough grace. Her foot, clad in a sturdy half boot for after-breakfast walking rather than a dainty slipper, caught on the edge of the table and pulled off the cloth. The linen, along with the dishes and silverware, came tumbling off in a great heap, showering them with cold coffee and toast crumbs.

  “Blast!” Emma cursed, rolling off Jack in shock.

  Her husband muttered something far more rude and reached up to peel a bit of melon from his cheek.

  Emma stared at him in absolute mortification. Why, oh why, was she so terribly clumsy? Why did such perils always fall on them? The fall into the pond, her tumble over a topiary and now this. Was she destined never to know the full force of passion?

  The breakfast room door flew open and Madame Ana appeared there, for once not entirely prepared. Her lace collar was unbuttoned, her spectacles pushed atop her head. “My lady, what happened? There was such a crash…”

  She broke off and stared agog at the scene before her. Behind her appeared Natasha, Mrs. Hemmings and two of the footmen, who also looked about with expressions of almost comical astonishment.

  At least, it would have been comical if she was not the one with toast in her hair, Emma thought.

  Jack quickly regained his aplomb. He stood up and drew Emma to her feet, half-pulling her since it seemed her legs had suddenly turned to water. “I am sorry we disturbed you,” he said. “As you can see, there was a slight mishap. Madame Ana, would you be so good as to see Lady St. Albans to her chamber and send for some hot water for her?”

  Madame Ana stared. “Of—of course, my lord.”

  “Thank you.” Then, quite as if he was not stained with coffee, he nodded to the servants, bowed to Emma and strolled elegantly out of the room.

  Emma had a slightly more difficult time, due to the fact that she felt like an utter fool, but with Madame Ana on one side and Natasha on the other she managed to go up the stairs and into her bedchamber.

  Oh, dear heaven above, but she was doomed! Doomed by her clumsiness to a life of chastity.

  ———

  Jack waited until his bedchamber door was closed solidly behind him before he collapsed into whoops of laughter.

  He laughed until his sides ached, until his cheeks hurt and his voice grew hoarse, and still he could not cease. When the laughter would begin to taper off, he would recall how Emma looked with toast crusts in her hair, her face the very picture of chagrin, and he would be off again.

  Finally, he collapsed in the nearest chair, leaned his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes. He found that the complete hilarity of the scene did not quite erase the profound frustration he felt at having their kiss interrupted.

  For once in his life, Jack had dug himself into a hole he could not find his way out of. He had made the offer to wait to consummate their marriage in a fit of romance and sentimentality after their sweet wedding night supper, and now he was not exactly sure where to go next. Did he wait for his bride to say something? Did he ask her straight out if she was ready? That did not seem right. For all her boldness and mischief, Emma was a lady. She might not even have the words to talk about their situation.

  Jack was not accustomed to being unsure of what to do with a female. He did not like the feeling one bit, and it just added to his sense of turning into a buffoonish fool in front of his wife.

  His wife that was not yet entirely his wife. Not even the long rides and walks he went out on during the day, wending his way through the greenness and mud of the English summer countryside, helped very much.

  Something would have to change—and soon. And, of course, it was up to him to make that change.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Emma appeared to be brushing her hair calmly, preparing for an evening out—a supper party at Watley Hall—like any normal young wife. But inside, she was taking deep breaths and gathering her courage.

  She put the brush down and turned to face Madame Ana, who was writing in a new little notebook while Natasha arranged Emma’s gown for the evening. “Madame Ana,” she said. “My aunt told me that you are a widow.”

  Madame Ana looked up, blinking behind
her spectacles. That was her only outward show of surprise. Through everything—arrival at a new household, food on the breakfast room floor—she had always been cool and composed. She had never betrayed any feelings at all about leaving Russia to live in a country manor with her employer’s young, silly niece.

  She did not even say anything now. She just lowered the notebook to her silk-covered lap and said, “Yes, Lady St. Albans. My husband was killed in battle, before I came to work for Countess Suvarova.”

  Emma stared at Madame Ana, bewildered. She had had no idea that the cool Madame Ana had suffered such a tragedy. What a selfish, selfish creature she was! What else did she not know? Was Natasha a princess from the Caucasus in disguise? Was Mrs. Hemmings a French spy?

  She felt so terrible, she almost could not ask her question. But Madame Ana watched her with eyebrows raised inquiringly. “My aunt said I could ask for your, er, assistance, if ever I needed it.”

  “Of course.” Madame Ana clutched the notebook against her and smiled happily. Emma had obviously spoken the magic word—assistance. “That is what I am here for, Lady St. Albans. To help you in any way I can. Would you like to arrange a soiree?”

  “Perhaps one day soon. Right now, I need your help on a more—personal matter.”

  Madame Ana leaned forward, and Natasha slowed in mending the lace trim on Emma’s gown to listen. “You may rely on my discretion, Lady St. Albans,” Madame Ana said.

  “Then, as a widow,” Emma began, then paused to damp her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “As a widow, perhaps you could advise me on how a woman can go about attracting a man.”

  Madame Ana’s brows flicked just a bit as she stared at Emma, expressionless. Natasha gave a startled giggle and pressed the lace she was arranging to her mouth.

  “There is a man you wish to—attract?” Madame Ana asked slowly.

  Emma had the terrible sense she was making a mess of this conversation, just as she had made a mess of most things of late. She had to press forward, though. She had to know, and Madame Ana was the only one she could think of to ask. “Yes,” she said.

  “And—did you meet him here? Recently?”

  Madame Ana’s tone was delicate—too delicate. Emma suddenly realized that they must think she was already planning to take a lover. And since they had met no one new here in the country, they probably thought it was a gardener or a footman.

  Emma giggled like Natasha and suddenly didn’t feel so very unsure anymore. She still felt silly, but that did not matter so much. “Well, yes, I did meet him recently. He is my husband.”

  “Oh!” Madame Ana laughed aloud in her surprise. It was the first time Emma had seen her laugh, and it made her seem younger, more approachable. “You want to attract Lord St. Albans? But, if you will forgive me saying so, you are already married to him.”

  “Yes, of course. But I want him to, er, look at me in a different way. If you see what I mean.”

  Natasha stared at her, all agog. “Is that why you were crying the morning after your wedding, my lady?”

  Madame Ana’s eyes widened with sympathy. “Oh, Lady St. Albans! Was it so awful? My own wedding night was not as—comfortable as it might have been. But his lordship seems like such a gentleman…”

  “No, it was not awful,” Emma said. She sensed she was making a hash of things again. “It was—well, it was nothing. We have not done anything yet.”

  Natasha gasped.

  “You mean—even after that scene in the breakfast room this morning?” Madame Ana asked.

  Emma shrugged. “He said he wanted to wait until it was right for me.”

  “Ah. So then, he is not, um, incapable?”

  Incapable? Emma had to think about this for a moment, to figure out what Madame Ana meant, but—”No. I do not think that is it at all.”

  “No. I would imagine not.” Madame Ana tapped her chin with one finger thoughtfully, her eyes glowing with the light of a challenge. “Well, the first thing I would suggest is perhaps Natasha could make a few small alterations to that gown you are wearing this evening?”

  Natasha held up the gown, a fashionable but modest creation of raspberry-colored silk and white lace. “Oh, yes! I could do that.”

  “And perhaps you have some interesting underpinnings?” Madame Ana continued. She reopened her notebook and scribbled furiously in it with her gold pencil. “Perhaps you could…”

  She went on with her ideas, and Emma listened with

  great fascination. She had had no idea that Madame Ana had such hidden depths!

  She just hoped she had some of the same depths in herself.

  ———

  They were probably going to be late to supper at Watley Hall, Jack thought carelessly as he looked at the clock on the drawing room mantel. Not that it particularly mattered to him. He had been enjoying the quiet of their time in the country and did not miss the rush of the social calendar. He would prefer an evening at home with Emma, a simple meal, perhaps a card game or a walk in the garden.

  He particularly liked those walks in the garden, with the moon shimmering down on the trees and the flowers, Emma’s hand in his.

  Jack laughed and swallowed the last of his brandy. He was becoming a terrible romantic in his old age, he thought, a besotted country squire who wanted nothing but to stroll in the garden with his wife! How his friends would ridicule him if they could see it; how Mr. Thompson would fear he was “turning soft.” But Jack could not seem to care.

  The door opened behind him, and he said, “So, here you are! I was wondering what was keeping you…” He turned and his words trailed away.

  Emma stood there, drawing on her long gloves and wearing the most extraordinary gown. It was of a dark pink silk, with the rich sheen of summer fruit falling ripe from the tree. Thick white lace fell from the hem, and framed the low—very low—square neckline. The tiny puffed sleeves skimmed the very edges of her shoulders, baring the clean line of her collarbone, the swan-like turn of her white neck. Her necklace was a chain of diamonds, with one large, pear-shaped stone seeming to point the way to her exquisite decolletage. More diamonds dangled from her ears. Her hair was simply dressed in a knot low on her neck, with curls falling free against her skin.

  Jack put his brandy glass down on the nearest table, his fingers suddenly nerveless. She gave him a slow, sweet smile and moved toward him, her shimmering skirts swaying.

  “I am sorry I’m late,” she said, in a low voice. When she reached him, she slid her hands over his shoulders and went up on tiptoe to press her lips to his. They moved in a slow, sensuous glide, light and beckoning.

  Jack reached out and pulled her closer, but she slid out of his hands with a mysterious little laugh.

  “Tardiness can be excused, if this is the result,” he said, and wished fervently that his voice was not so ridiculously breathless. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Jack dear. Better than I did this morning, with toast and coffee all over me?” She turned in a slow circle, peering back over her shoulder as if to be sure that no food clung to her backside.

  Her dainty, delectable backside.

  Jack wondered if there was any brandy left or perhaps something even stronger. “You look beautiful no matter what you wear, Emma.”

  “You are full of compliments tonight,” she answered, with a small toss of her head. The diamonds danced in a multicolored sparkle.

  Jack leaned forward and kissed the spot of skin just where her neck touched her shoulder. Her lilac perfume filled his senses until there was room for nothing else.

  Emma tilted her head, giving him room for his kiss, but only for the merest moment before she backed away. “We should be going,” she murmured.

  He grinned at her. “I was hoping perhaps we could stay home for a quiet supper, maybe a walk in the garden.”

  She shook her head, with what he hoped was a regretful air. “No, I accepted the invitation for the supper party. Lady Watley was a friend of my mother. She would be so disa
ppointed if we did not appear.”

  “/ would be disappointed if we did not have our walk in the garden,” Jack protested.

  Emma laid one finger lightly against his cheek, drawing the butter-soft kid of her glove along his skin. “Perhaps we could have that walk—later. For now, the carriage is waiting.” She gave him another of those small, mysterious smiles and sashayed out of the drawing room.

  Jack followed. Really, he could do nothing else. He would be fortunate if he could survive the long, night-dark ride in the close confines of the carriage, since his wife had decided to behave so strangely.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Emma hoped she was just doing this right and didn’t look like a complete simpleton. She was trying to follow the advice of Madame Ana and Natasha, but really their advice had been a bit—inconvenient. More a jumble of guesses and wild suggestions than a sensible plan. Madame Ana may have been married before, but her marriage could not have been a very passionate union, judging from her blushes and vague conjectures, mixed with suprisingly clear advice. And Natasha only knew about romance from novels, much as Emma herself did. But, still, they were all Emma had, and their advice had to be better than nothing.

  Didn’t it?

  So she took a deep breath and slid closer to Jack in the warm darkness of the carriage. She eased her lace shawl back from the altered neckline of her gown, resisting the urge to tug the silk and lace higher, and laid her hand lightly on Jack’s leg.

  He glanced down at her quizzically. She gave him a smile, but it felt more like a simper, so she turned away instead, staring into the night in what she hoped was a mysterious manner.

  Oh, how she wished he would just kiss her and get this all over with! With his lips on hers, his arms holding her close, she never worried or felt awkward at all. It was the trying to get him to kiss her that was so awful. If only she could have skipped over some of the lessons in deportment and music and etiquette and learned about how to be married instead.