by Ella Edon
He thinks I’m moping with love. What if I am?
The thought hit him like a blow. He had been acting strangely, he had to admit it. Come to think of it, he’d been displaying the same blend of recalcitrant quiet and odd smiles as his friend.
No. It isn’t possible.
Lady Emilia had kidnapped him, incarcerated him, tormented him! She was half-insane, of that he was quite certain! An image of her flashed into his mind, crying in the evening sunlight, the rays touching her tears, turning them to molten metal. Another image, of her radiant smile, the tears still clinging to her lashes, followed it. He suppressed the image of those lovely, damp eyes ruthlessly.
“I should be glad to get away from there.”
“Eh?” Canmure blinked, looking like he’d just woken up. “What was that, old friend?”
“Nothing,” Luke said quietly. “Just thinking aloud.”
“Capital, old boy!” Canmure chuckled. “You sound more like yourself already. See?” He beamed. “I told you getting out and about would be good for you. Now, come on. I thought perhaps we’d go for a coffee at Hughton’s, and then take a turn about the park. One cannot get enough sunshine and fresh air. Eh, what?”
“Probably not,” Luke agreed lightly.
At two o’ clock, they alighted at the coffee-shop. By three, Luke was glad to be getting out and into the fresh air.
“You were right, Canmure,” he said grimly, flanked by Lady Raymonde, Lord Osburne, Canmure, and his new interest, Lady Ettie. “One cannot get too much fresh air.”
Canmure stared at him blankly. “No, probably not,” he shrugged.
“No,” Luke said with feeling. “I mean it. I’m glad to be out in it again.”
It was a relief. He had been barely able to wait to be out of the awkward confines of the coffee shop. He had sat with Raymonde, Ettie, Lord Osburne, Canmure and their other friends, exchanging strained pleasantries and drinking coffee. It had tasted as bitter as vinegar to his jaded palate.
“Lord Westmore doesn’t appear to like coffee,” Lady Raymonde drawled in his ear.
“I’ve been ill,” he said, fixing her with a stare that challenged her to argue.
Her finely-curved brows shot up fractionally, brown eyes blinking in surprise. She said nothing more on the subject, just turned to her brother, Lord Osburne.
“Osburne, you were saying something about a day at Ascott…?”
Luke was relieved when the conversation turned to other things. He drained his coffee with a grimace, hoping they would leave soon.
He would have, he thought, been glad to be offered a walk in Purgatory, if only to get out of the fumes of burned coffee and restrained politeness – he’d forgotten, during those days of incarceration, what it was like in places like these.
Strange that I ever thought I knew what freedom was. Here, in these halls of restrained politeness, there was no freedom.
“Have you been to St. James’s Park of late?” Lord Osburne asked.
“I was there two weeks ago,” Luke confirmed. “Before the time when I was indisposed,” he added grimly, covering his recent absence from society. He had already started to hate the way this group stared at him when he confessed that he’d missed some important society event or another. They made him feel as if he must be some sort of outlandish creature, having done so. “What of St. James’ Park?”
“Do you think it right, that the common people are using it more and more?” Osburne asked. “Myself, I think it disgraceful! I was sitting on a bench the other day, listening to the children of a tinker and a bookbinder playing hide-and-seek between the hedges. A crying shame!” He coughed.
“Public parks were made for everyone to use, Brother,” Raymonde pointed out.
Her brother fixed her with a stare. “Don’t be vulgar, Raymonde.”
“I think,” Luke said, gritting his teeth. “That it is a great vulgarity to keep for ourselves a tiny part of freedom and access to beauty. We have so much of both in the upper classes.”
Raymonde’s face went stiff – even though she shrugged indifferently.
Lord Osburne looked at Luke, his tea-brown eyes bulging at the edges, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. He inhaled sharply, like he’d been personally insulted. Luke, feeling a sudden surge of impatience, turned away before he could hear whatever retort was to follow.
“I can’t take much more of this,” he muttered under his breath.
Lengthening his stride, he marched across the grass, towards the central copse of trees.
“The arrogant, insolent, foolish ponce!” he growled as soon as he was out of earshot. “I’d like to see what Lady Emilia’d think of him. She’d make short work of him.”
It had been much simpler, he realized, interacting with Emilia. Mad as she might be, and unusual, she certainly was – when he spoke to her, there had been no dissembling. He had spoken with honesty, and she had always given him an honest reply.
“I miss that, when I’m stuck with all of this.”
He walked briskly over the grass towards the trees. Soaring conifers swayed in the breeze, the needles shining brightly in the sunshine. As he neared the place, he saw a woman.
Her back was straight, and she appeared to be contemplating the scene below the rise of the coppice. She had a fine figure with a neat waist, long legs and a full bust, but it was not her body that held his gaze, arresting though it might be. She had a gentle, self-possessed air that reminded him, achingly, of somebody he knew.
“Hello?” he called out, walking over boldly.
She turned around. Her mouth dropped into a little surprised moue. “Lord Westmore!”
Luke stared.
It was Emilia.
Tugging off his top-hat, he bowed low. He felt his heart dance, as if – after a long rest – it had suddenly woken anew; his senses sang like larks in morning-time.
“Milady,” he said, as she straightened from a curtsey. “What a delight! What brings you here this afternoon?”
“I came here with my cousin,” she said, jerking her head at a straight-backed figure sitting on a bench, forty paces away down the slope. “Lady Hestony. I think you may have met her?”
“Mayhap. You are alone, however?” His cheeks lifted in an involuntary grin, his heart thudding as if he had just won a race. He felt happier than he had in ages. What was wrong with him?
“I felt a little…overcome by too much company,” she explained. “I sometimes do better on my own.”
He laughed aloud. “I know just how that is, milady.” He was beaming. “You see? There is my party, over there. I, too, felt the need to escape.”
Her eyes met his. Wordlessly, they seemed to share a moment of understanding. She giggled. He smiled. Together, they turned away from the group of dark-clad nobles and looked down the other slope, where water glinted in the distance.
“Have you seen the fountains today?” he asked, bending his elbow to allow her to slide her hand through for support. “They look tremendous in the sunshine!”
“I haven’t, no,” she said in a small voice, removing her hand from his arm. “Milord? Is it seemly for us to explore alone?”
He raised a brow. “It’s St. James’ Park, on a sunny afternoon in August,” he pointed out. “We both arrived with friends. There are a dozen witnesses to any indiscretion we might commit. I think it’s fair to say we’re safe, milady.”
She met his gaze. For a moment, she looked worried. Then, to his delight, a wondrous grin spread across her face.
“I am glad you came out today,” she said. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, making him jump. “Shall we go and see the pond? It’s so beautiful this time of year.”
“I think that’s a capital notion.”
They walked, arm in arm, down the slope. Luke was conscious of every step— of the way it felt to walk so close to her, one leg almost scraping against his own. He could feel her arm pressed to his flank. Her fingers were tight on his bicep.<
br />
He drew in a shaky breath.
“When you…”
“If I…”
They looked at each other. He smiled.
“Do please complete your sentence,” he offered. “If you…what?”
“It’s not important.”
“What isn’t?” Luke pressed gently. “I’m sure it is.”
“It isn’t,” Emilia insisted. She paused and looked up at him, her big eyes almost pleading. “It’s not important, my lord, please.”
He frowned. “Very well,” he said. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
They walked on, down the slope towards the fountains. Some children were playing there, running about boisterously, chasing a wooden hoop. Emilia went to the edge of the pond and leaned on the stone wall surrounding it, arms braced, staring at the water.
Luke watched her as she gazed into the depths. The children shrieked and shouted, the fountain splashed and roared, dulling the sounds of speech. The surface of the water, like a mirror, reflected limpid golden light onto her face. He stared at her, thinking he had never seen anything so gracefully lovely.
A child came up to join her, staring down into the pool, splashing it with a chubby, playful hand. Emilia grinned and turned to catch Luke’s eye, an expression of wonder on her face as she watched the tumbling, shining water.
I have never seen anything so beautiful, Luke thought.
“It is mesmerizing, is it not, milady?”
“Beautiful,” she murmured.
“Yes,” he said, very softly. “It is.”
He wasn’t sure she’d heard him, or if she knew that he spoke not of the water, nor the sunlight, nor the day. All his heart and his worried mind were focused on were Emilia, and the beauty of her soft, dreamy face.
And, on wondering just what it was that had disturbed her so.
Chapter Fourteen
Coffee and Conspiring
Emilia sat in the drawing-room, her embroidery hoop in her hands. She focused on the fine stitches of the pattern she was sewing, trying to distract herself from her many worries. Her father’s health, their finances, and her own future all mixed together in a tangled web that made her tapestry seem so simple.
What made matters worse, was that she couldn’t get her mind to focus on what needed to be considered: waywardly, against her command, her mind returned repeatedly to the park the day before.
“You had a good walk, yesterday?” her father asked her.
“Yes, Father. Very sunny,” Emilia replied.
“Good, good. Sunny days are for walking outside, eh?”
“Yes, Father. It would be a waste to spend them indoors.”
She regarded her father over the edge of the embroidery-hoop as she worked. He leaned back in his chair, reaching for his tea. He was looking less pale, she thought happily, and he had been eating regular meals of solid food – something she had fought with Croxley to organize. She had not yet broached the topic of the duke. With Father’s health just starting to mend, she couldn’t risk it.
“Quite so,” the earl said, wincing as he drank the tea. “Vile stuff! Why can’t I have it with milk?” He looked up, his expression twisted with distaste.
“Doctor said milk will give you a stuffy nose,” Emilia explained, her eyes focused on the embroidery.
“Pah!” her father pulled a face, settling the teacup noisily into the saucer. “But I must say, the pair of you have gotten me shipshape, so you have.”
Emilia held back a pallid smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”
She focused on her embroidery-hoop again, drawing white cotton out to finish a bright crimson rose. In truth, she wasn’t altogether sure if she’d call her father in fine shape of any sort. He could walk for longer without tiring; however, she had to agree that this was good progress. And that hectic redness from his cheeks and the fevered look in his eyes had gone away entirely.
“I wonder if you could come to the recital this afternoon?”
“Recital?” her father asked, as if he’d never heard of such a thing.
“At Aunt Melior’s,” Emilia explained quickly. “She’s hosting the latest poet – Mr. Arthur Highfield.”
“Rather you than me, daughter,” her father said, with a dark look. “You know I can’t bear those things. Aunt Melior or having poetry read at me for hours: I cannot take them both at once.”
Emilia giggled. “She’s not so bad.”
“She’s that bad,” he muttered darkly. “Daughter! The other day she told me I should go down to Brighton! Just like that! Did I ask her advice? No, I didn’t. And when I argued, she got all uppity. No…rather you than me.”
Emilia shook her head, trying not to laugh. In many ways, she saw Melior’s point – her father would benefit from time at the seaside. He was very definite in his own views, and had to be convinced, not commanded.
“Well, I suppose one of us has to go,” she commented lightly. “And it’s an opportunity to wear the new gown you had made for me last month.”
“The cream silk? Capital.” He nodded. “It will look splendid. I don’t recall you wearing it.”
“I haven’t, yet.”
That in itself was a cause for concern. It was her only new gown and she had barely attended Almack’s more than twice since coming here this Season. She couldn’t appear more often, or people would start to notice that she only had five good gowns.
I have had to be very selective, this year.
Combined with the expenses of passes to the various events – balls such as that held at Almack’s required a pass – shoes, handbags, the coach, their expenses at the London House, the Season was almost inaccessible to her this year.
And that – for a woman of three and twenty years old – was challenging.
“I doubt I’ll ever find a match, now,” she mused wretchedly.
“Eh, daughter? What’s that about a latch?”
“Nothing, father,” Emilia said sadly. “I was just talking to myself.”
He nodded, grinned, and settled back on the chair. To Emilia’s joy, he looked more comfortable than he had in a week. She allowed herself to believe that it was possible for him to recover. He already looked much better. If she could just fix this business of his debts…she put her embroidery aside.
“Where are you going, daughter?” Her father frowned, watching her warily as she stood. He’d been like that of late – seeming to like her to be close by, as if he didn’t care to be alone.
“I have to get ready,” Emilia explained lightly. “The recital’s in an hour. I don’t want to be late.”
“No.” He grinned. “You don’t.”
“Wish me luck?”
“Good luck, daughter,” he said. His eyes – those bright blue gems – sparkled with merriment.
She shared a special smile with him, then hurried out.
“I will wear the cream dress,” she resolved. “Who knows— there might be eligible fellows there.”
Hestony had hinted as much, saying their poet for the evening was popular “with the fashionable set,” whatever that entailed. She closed the door to her boudoir and rang the bell for June.
Half an hour later, dressed in the slippery cream silk gown, and feeling more than a little shyly pretty, Emilia headed to the Hall, where Aunt Melior met her at the door.
“Niece!” her aunt greeted her, beaming. “A pleasure. You do look quite dazzling. Come on…come and meet Mr. Highfield. Everybody’s here in the salon…come and join us.”
“Thank you, aunt.”
Emilia accepted a cup of tea from a footman in the household colors, then went to join the group gathered around the poet. She swallowed hard. In keeping with society’s need to recreate the academies of antiquity, poetry recitals happened in salons or parlors, the setting kept as artistically informal as possible. That was, however, where any informality strictly ended. Society ladies wore the latest fashions, gentlemen dressed to look important, and everyone was out to show off their el
oquence and knowledge.
“…I do declare! Your work recalls that of Lucretius,” a woman drawled.
“I attempted to copy his style, yes,” a man replied. Standing in the middle of the gorgeously-clad group, dressed in a simple brown jacket and flannel trousers, an auburn-haired man looked up doggedly from his book.
“Cousin,” Hestony said, seeing Emilia on the edge of the group. “It is my pleasure to introduce our guest, Mr. Arthur Highfield. Mr. Highfield, Lady Emilia.”
