“Cut?” The modiste persisted.
“Tasteful.”
“Style?” Mrs. Shabner lifted a hand to indicate the attention-grabbing hat atop a mannequin.
“Elegant,” he corrected. “She needs no decoration, as you can plainly see.”
“Mm,” agreed the modiste, considering Emma’s fair and perfect skin. She reached out and touched a lock of Emma’s hair, escaped from her hat. And then to Zach, “Very well. I’ll need her for an hour at least.”
He nodded. To Emma, he said, “I shall take up some business nearby and return for you.”
“Oh...all right. Thank you, my lord.” Of course, her eyes said that it was not all right, that she would rather he stayed with her. But she needed to learn how to go about on her own.
With a curt nod, he pivoted and walked to the door, hearing the modiste say to Emma, in a tone that was not quite a whisper, “You’ve got him sewn up quite nicely, Miss Ainsley.”
To which Emma replied, clearly having no inkling of the woman’s inference, “We’re cousins. Of a sort.”
“I’ll bet you are,” the modiste tittered just as Zach closed the door behind him.
Emma was happy that evening to remain within the earl’s Mayfair townhome, not quite sure she was ready to face the masses, so to speak, at a public outing. She was immediately enamored of the residence though it bore little resemblance to Benedict House, with its stark and cool feel. The floors were tiled, the doors were painted black, and there was not a stitch of wallpaper in the entire home. She’d been shown to a neat but plain room of blue, which was still prettier than her apartments in the King’s Arms Inn.
The earl had not been far off the mark when he’d mentioned that his city housekeeper, Mrs. Downing, was certainly not warm and fuzzy. The woman was tall and lanky, her face long, her mouth drawn down at the corners, not even lifting at Emma’s pretty greeting. Emma was glad then that she’d not brought along Bethany, as she couldn’t imagine being at ease leaving her daughter in this woman’s care.
“Dinner is prompt, at seven o’clock,” the woman said, or rather called over her shoulder as she led Emma up the stairs while the earl remained in the foyer, looking immediately at messages and letters that had piled up since last he visited. Upon the second floor, still walking stiffly ahead of Emma, the woman asked, “Where is your maid, Miss Ainsley?”
“I haven’t one.”
This, now, turned the starched woman around, so suddenly that Emma nearly crashed into her.
“No ladies maid?” All of the abhorrence of a hundred faces seemed crammed into only this woman’s.
Emma’s initial thought was to reply that she’d never had her own maid, that in fact she was a maid. But recalling what they were about here in the city, and her role, she shrugged as casually as she supposed the woman’s frigid glare would tolerate and brushed it off. “By necessity, the poor dear was forced to remain...at home,” was all she could think to say.
She was rewarded for her lie with a harrumph which suggested she was not believed at all, or that if she was believed, she was thought a ninny. Emma wondered if she would know, by the woman’s expression—so far she’d been witnessed to only two, her frown and her heavier frown—what she thought of the earl’s houseguest. Deciding she didn’t care, she thanked her for showing her to her room and received only a curt reminder of the dinner time. Emma closed the door after the woman and made a face, which properly revealed her own opinion of so cold a fish.
It was just past four now, so she imagined she might have a lie-down before supper and so removed her shoes and jacket.
She imagined a footman might deliver her small, borrowed valise with her pitiful few belongings that she might hang the only gown likely to pass muster with Mrs. Downing’s critical eye for dinner.
When Emma had stepped from the carriage in front of the townhome, she’d thought to gather the valise then, but had recalled from the hundreds of carriages that had stopped at the King’s Arms Inn that a lady never carried her own luggage. Emma was sure that however she might get through the next few days in the city, she would rely heavily upon what she had witnessed of the upper class that had graced the rooms of the inn over the years. The ladies held their chins high and behaved with an air about them that all their needs should be met before they had been voiced. Mostly, Emma and all the employees of the inn were invisible to the nobles, man or woman. This had suited Emma perfectly and it was usually a sad day when she was not unseen, as this had indicated that the person had homed in on her as their own personal fetcher and getter, as she and Gretchen used to say. People were rarely outright nasty, but they never let it be forgotten on which side of the coin she was on.
As it was, Emma would make good use of her many years in service to the inn, as she was fairly certain she might be able to successfully emulate a fine lady. Or at least a poor cousin of a fine lady.
A rap at the door bade her call for entry, expecting a footman. She was surprised when the earl pushed open the door. He was followed by a footman, however, who quietly bobbed his head at Emma and set her lone valise onto the bed.
“My lord,” she said to the earl, without a hint of cleverness.
He frowned. He was always frowning. She hadn’t any idea what this moment’s cause might be. Ignoring him, she opened her valise and began to withdraw her few possessions.
“I was going to take you for a ride through the park,” he said, his gaze passing over the bed where lay her jacket and then the floor where sat her slippers.
“Oh, well, I hadn’t known—but you still can,” she amended quickly when the brow did not unfurrow. Having no inkling then that she was making a grievous misstep, she sat on the little stool which later would be used to climb into the bed and put her small heeled slippers back on. She swept the skirts of her gown out of the way, up to her knee, and tied the ribbons tightly as the shoes were, truthfully, one size too large. Placing her hands on her knees, she pushed herself to her feet and caught sight of the earl’s expression. Still glowering.
Thumping her hands onto her hips, and with no small amount of impatience, she wondered, “What now? Why are you frowning?”
He opened his mouth twice, but no words came forth. On the third try, he managed in a tight voice, “Miss Ainsley, do not ever dress yourself—any part of yourself—in front of a gentleman. In front of any man!”
She rolled her eyes and reached for her pretty long-sleeved spencer of blue cotton.
“I wouldn’t have done so in front of any gentleman,” she defended, donning the jacket, and closing the three buttons at her chest.
“Am I not any gentleman?” he wondered, less affronted than still annoyed with her lack of decorum, she decided.
“You are different,” she said vaguely and faced him again. “You’ve seen me in my shift, And on several occasions, my lord. I’m sure the sight of my stocking-ed shins needn’t send you into a dither.”
His expression changed. First his mouth lost its scowl and soon enough the darkness left his gaze, and his brows relaxed. She liked him so much better when he wore almost anything but that scowl of his.
“You’ll need a hat or bonnet...or something,” he suggested.
“Must I?”
“Absolutely. It would be akin to appearing at dinner without a dress to go driving in the park without a hat.”
“Oh, bother.” She grabbed up the closest one, atop the pile of clothes she’d unpacked, and quickly plopped in upon her head and tied the strings beneath her chin. Seemingly satisfied, the earl offered his arm, through which Emma threaded her hand.
They left her chambers and Emma wondered, “My lord, is it appropriate for you to be inside my bedchamber?” And before he might have answered, she went on, “Seems a larger crime than me baring my ankles to you.”
“Touché, Miss Ainsley.”
The earl’s fancy carriage stood at the ready just off the curb from his front door. A different coachman, this one aged and portly, sat patiently ato
p the driver’s seat. Emma allowed the earl to hand her up into the barouche, whose hood remained lowered, and took note of the high-quality horse team attached to the rig.
The earl sat next to her and they were off.
“Why did we not simply use the carriage and horses we arrived in less than half an hour ago?” Emma wondered.
“The point of driving is Hyde Park is to be seen, and be seen well,” the earl enlightened her.
Ah. “Hence the fancy vehicle and expensive horses?”
“Precisely.”
“Do you visit Hyde Park often? Like this?”
“Not at all,” he admitted, glancing sideways at her. “I thought you might enjoy all the pandering and posing of the beau monde during the fashionable hour.”
Emma was struck immediately with two thoughts about this. First, it was very kind of him—which was not specifically in keeping with what she believed of him—to consider that she might enjoy this outing. And then, as hinted by his rather sardonic tone and word choice, she imagined he thought it all very silly, which made her even more grateful that he’d indulged her so.
She was not prepared however, for exactly what he’d meant by pandering and posing, and then neither was she prepared for the number of people doing just that. As they entered a queue of carriages crawling along one road just inside the park, Emma was again made aware of her own gaucheness, feeling terribly underdressed for this occasion.
A greater number of carriages than she had ever seen assembled all at once, were gathered just here, inside the park: two-wheeled and four-wheeled vehicles; led by a pair or a foursome; some with drivers, some without; and a few sporting the family crests identifying the riders. And within these fine carriages, a dazzling display of color and fabric and design were shown to the best advantage by persons who sat regally, their noses tilted skyward, their marked condescension clearly in contrast to their very attendance.
Additionally, people crowded and ambled along the sidewalks, and single mounted riders easily maneuvered in between and around the wheeled conveyances to reach different people.
“Posing, indeed,” Emma muttered, watching one young woman rapping her closed parasol against the side of her own carriage. A man, riding close and gripping the door of her open carriage, yanked his hand away as if he’d actually been wounded, and the young lady erupted into a stomach-turning fit of giggling.
The earl laughed and pointed across Emma, to bring her gaze to a woman walking a dog that stood as tall as her hip. Both lady and pet wore matching spencers of pink plaid.
“Oh, my,” Emma gasped.
“Lindsey!” Came a call from their left, which turned both Emma’s and Zach’s gaze in that direction. “Do my eyes deceive me?”
“Lady Marston,” said the earl, amiably to an older woman, riding solo inside an ancient carriage that moved in the opposite direction, but stopped just now beside them.
“Never thought I’d see the day the much-admired Earl of Lindsey toured the park with the rest of us commoners.”
“Pity the man who believes there is anything common about you, Lady Marston,” returned the earl.
Emma considered his tone quite favorable, understanding that he must admire or enjoy the Lady Marston very much, as she sensed in his voice a genuine affection.
“Allow me to introduce Miss Ainsley,” the earl said. “She has graciously consented to spend a few days in London with me.”
Emma smiled at the matron and offered a, “How do you do?”
The woman, dressed severely in dark gray, and in many layers it appeared, that surely underneath she must be wilted in the fine June sun, passed a critical green-eyed glance over Emma. For her part, Emma had the immediate impression that the woman only appeared malevolent, narrowing her eyes, and pursing her lips as she took her sweet time forming opinions of the earl’s present company. However, when her perusal persisted, becoming almost rude, Emma dared to lift a brow at the woman.
And only then did her lips loosen and crease in a smile. “I do very well, my girl. The question is, how did you do it? Get this man into this park at this time of day?”
Emma shrugged. “He invited me.”
“Oh, did he now?” Asked the woman with a lifted brow aimed at the earl. She held a cane in both hands, just in front of her knees. She thumped this into the floor of her carriage, and her smile grew. “I suppose that does well to answer any other questions I might have had.”
Unperturbed by the lady’s presumptions, the earl informed her, “My cousin had just come up from Hertfordshire and, as she’s never been to London, I thought it a fine way to introduce her to the pageantry of our city.”
“Pageantry? You mean vile spectacle,” harrumphed Lady Marston.
“Oh, but I think it’s splendid,” Emma joined. “I don’t know any of the persons here today but find myself enamored of their...zeal for so simple an occasion as riding in a park.”
The lady’s lips blew out a bemused snort. “Ah, a diplomat. You’re to be commended, Lindsey. Only you could manage to attract so similar a character that her words sound so pretty until you assess all of them to know the slander tangled within. Well done. Now off with you! I dislike those carriages who park too long, making useless small talk when no one listens to what we say anyway.” She spanked the cane onto the back of her driver’s seat and off they went, the woman not even calling out a respectable farewell.
They moved on, the carriage crawling forward. The earl tipped his tall hat to several persons, both men and women. Emma caught the interest of more than one pretty young lady steadied breathlessly upon his person. Of course, this came as no surprise to her. Zachary Benedict was an enormously handsome man, clearly meriting second glances. And third, it seemed. Emma rolled her lips inward, preventing a knowing grin, while she wondered what some of these fawning ladies might have thought or done if they had come upon Zachary Benedict, shirtless and god-like, as she so marvelously had. Marvelous, it had been until it had become Her Inglorious and Reckless Blunder, that is. Invariably, the besotted gazes left the earl and fixed on Emma, their brows immediately dropping, leaving no doubt that they considered Emma’s person unworthy of the company she kept.
Emma shook herself. She needed to stop fretting about her own inadequacies. It was unlikely she would ever again have an opportunity or the need to visit London. She wanted to enjoy every aspect of the experience, and not have it ruined by her childish and dour insecurities.
They passed over a small bridge which spanned a narrow stretch of water. On either side of the road over the bridge, stood many artists, painters with their easels and canvases set just so, facing the water. Their deft hands twirled and dotted and swiped paint-filled brushes across their works-in-progress. Several ladies posed along the bridge, their parasols open, their gazes tipped toward an artist while he rendered their image into the foreground of his picture. The carriages slowed with the congested traffic. Emma shifted toward her right, leaning her arms upon the side of the vehicle to better view each painting as they crawled past.
One artist, mixing paints upon his palette, caught sight of her as the carriage ambled by. Emma smiled at him. The man in the beige linen smock let his jaw gape while his brush jammed carelessly into his cerulean blue. He pursed his lips into a kiss, which he sent along to Emma followed by an oily but roguish grin.
Emma laughed at this and waved to him as the carriage moved slowly away from the bridge. When the painter had turned back to his subject, Emma pivoted and found the earl watching her, surprising her with a generous grin.
They took almost a full turn around the park, exiting after the earl consulted his time piece and announced today’s session would start within the hour and they should call it a day.
Emma spent the evening alone, missing Bethany already, and loathe to occupy her time with snooping around this house for fear of running up against the formidable Mrs. Downing. With little else to do after taking dinner in her room, she dressed for bed and retired early, thou
gh wrestled for some time with anxieties and unease. And thoughts of Zachary Benedict, the source of most of her disquiet.
Chapter Ten
Glancing around the sumptuous private parlor of Lady Marston’s immense city home, Zach ignored the tea waiting for him upon a near table and waited his godmother’s inimitable presence. Aside from happening upon her in Hyde Park yesterday, he hadn’t seen her since his father’s funeral.
Leticia Durham, nee Brent, and his own mother had been bosom confidantes since before they were married. Leticia was as hard and cynical as Barbara Benedict had been soft and comely, was icy compared to Barbara’s warmth, but they had been inseparable. Zach recalled that his father had never much use for Lady Marston, not while his wife lived, though well he tolerated her friend to keep peace. Ironically, his mother’s passing had seen a shift in the relationship of his father and his godmother. They’d become their own sort of bosom pals, finding each other often at events, and Lady Marston, a widow for many years, sometimes serving as hostess for his father at Benedict House and here in the city. He’d not ever thought there was anything to their relationship other than their need to hold on to each other as a means of hanging on to the memory of his mother.
“He was the best of men,” Lady Marston had shocked him, having uttered these words to him at the grave of his father.
Lady Marston just now stepped into the well-appointed room, reserved strictly for family and close confidantes, her daughters-in-law excluded, Zach recalled with some hint of absurdity.
He stood, just as Lady Marston barked, “It’s a damn good thing you didn’t make me have to hunt you down inside this city, boy.”
His lips quirked. Her private person was so much more amusing than her still hard public persona, though remained more bark than bite, he knew.
“I imagined you would have questions,” he acknowledged, taking her hand, leading her to the blue damask wing chair. “Alas, I need your help as well.”
If I Loved You (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 2) Page 12
