Miss Tilbury winked. “Born ready.”
Braedon had never felt less ready in his life but was not about to let this golden opportunity to flirt with Miss Tilbury slip through his fingers. Ensuring his feet were firmly in the stirrups, he took a deep breath.
“Ready, set, go!”
Braedon kicked his spurs into Thunder, but the stallion was ready; he knew what the signal meant, and Braedon was searing through the air faster than he could remember. His blood was boiling, top hat lost as it flew off his head, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see––Emma.
Emma. Keeping pace with him easily, laughing as she reveled in the speed, her riding habit was flowing back in the wind like a ship in a storm.
It was perfection. It was more alive than he had ever been. He and Emma, galloping as though their lives depended on it, and in a way, Braedon felt as though his life did. If he could only win…
“I win, you give me a guinea. You win, I give you a kiss.”
And then suddenly, Emma had disappeared from sight. Braedon could not understand where she had gone, and it was only when he reached the cluster of oak trees that he had the presence of mind to pull back on Thunder’s reins and slow the stallion down.
Breathing heavily, the horse dropped into a canter, then a trot, then stood, flanks shivering after the exertion.
Braedon looked around. Emma was approaching at a canter. Had her horse stumbled?
“You…you slowed down,” he said as she reached him.
Why did he feel so out of sorts? He had won a kiss, hadn’t he? But had he won, if Emma had allowed him to pull ahead?
“I love these oaks,” Miss Tilbury said, completely ignoring him. “I like the way they shield one from view.”
“Miss Tilbury, you…you slowed down on purpose,” said Braedon. He tried to remove the accusatory tone from his voice, but one look at her told him he had not quite managed it.
“Perhaps,” she said lightly, nudging her mare toward him. Their horses were nose to tail now, seating her opposite him, only a few inches between them. “Perhaps I wanted to lose.”
Braedon’s eyes widened. The thought had never occurred to him, and now she was this close…
“Ready to claim your forfeit?”
She had spoken lightly, a wry smile dancing on her lips, and did not move away, not even when Braedon gave into the great temptation and leaned forward.
Their lips touched. He had intended it as a chaste kiss, but the moment they touched, something changed. Passion poured from him, unrestrained, finally claiming the woman he had wanted for so long. His hands moved, gripping her shoulders, and instead of pulling away as he had expected, Miss Tilbury leaned toward him, deepening the kiss.
When they eventually parted, Braedon was unsure whether he could see, unsure what to think or feel.
“What…what is this?”
Miss Tilbury was smiling wistfully.
“Why, Viscount Braedon,” she said quietly. “Whatever you want it to be.”
She had turned her mare around before Braedon could say another word, and as he watched her disappear across Hyde Park, he knew that was it. He was caught, utterly, by the charms of the former mistress of his friend.
Chapter Five
Emma breathed deeply. It was difficult not to be bitter as she considered what she would have been doing this time of year, had she the purse of another to spend.
Coffee shops, teahouses, some of the best salons in London! Choosing the most delightful bonnets and ribbons in the haberdasheries where proprietors hurried away from other customers to attend on her. The finest gowns, the most elegant shoes, rings, earbobs…
Emma’s eye was caught by a rather pretty turban worn by a lady she did not recognize. Fashion was something to admire now, rather than partake in.
All she had was nature.
Thank goodness she loved the outdoors. It was strange how little one valued things which had no cost when one had money to burn––at least, someone else’s money to burn.
It was painful, having the evidence of her poverty paraded past her by every well-dressed woman. Every remembrance of plenty was accompanied by the memory of him. Philip. The man she had given her heart to. The man who had returned it, bruised and broken, years later.
“My goodness, ’tis Miss Tilbury!”
Emma grimaced before smiling. Those words in the mouth of another might have been cheerful, welcoming, almost pleased to see her.
But Emma knew that voice. It was Mrs. Marnion. How she had ever managed to get an invitation to her card party a few weeks ago, she had no idea, but it had been evident as soon as Emma had stepped into her drawing room that it had been a mistake.
Still, the older woman had smoothed down her irritation relatively well, and Emma had vowed not to accept her invitation again.
But by the look of that disdainful frown, Mrs. Marnion had still not forgiven Emma for accepting the invitation.
Emma sighed and wondered whether she could pretend she had not seen the old baggage. It had been plain from the loud conversation her hostess had with the Duchess of Devonshire that she blamed the fact that Marnmouth had not proposed marriage to Miss Marnion on Emma.
It did not seem to matter that Miss Marnion was––though very good-natured, Emma thought hurriedly, attempting to be polite––utterly dull. Marnmouth was never going to accept a woman who couldn’t string a sentence together!
She had proven that. Almost seven years as his mistress had given Emma an intimate understanding of what Marnmouth needed to be entertained, and Miss Marnion was not it.
Really, that slip of a thing? Emma forced down a laugh. Bad for the soul, bad for the skin.
Even if Emma had never existed, the earl would not have considered Miss Marnion.
Emma averted her eyes, but saw in her periphery vision that Mrs. Marnion had ruffled like a disgruntled chicken and was now striding down the path toward her.
She had done nothing wrong save walk in Hyde Park, and now she was going to be accosted by the most irritating, self-righteous, pigheaded mother in all of––
“Ah, Mrs. Marnion,” said Emma pleasantly. “How lovely to see you this fine autumnal day.”
The weather. It was always safest to start a conversation with the weather. With luck, the conversation would die there.
“I hope you are proud of yourself,” snapped Mrs. Marnion, her bonnet slightly askew due to her haste.
Emma swallowed down her rude retort and instead said, “I am afraid I do not understand you, Mrs. Marnion.”
Emma could see a few ladies who had been passing had now paused by a bench and were watching the two of them curiously.
She had to fight the instinct to run. Emma knew simply absconding in the face of Mrs. Marnion was unlikely to endear her. What could she possibly have done now?
“See, you cannot even defend yourself!” Mrs. Marnion was saying.
Damn! Had she missed something Mrs. Marnion had said? This was what happened, Emma scolded herself, when you did not pay attention!
“My dear Mrs. Marnion, I am not entirely sure what I am supposed to be defending myself from,” she said calmly. “If you would be so good as to inform me of my offense, it will be much easier for me to calm you.”
She had been doing so well––until those last few words. Mrs. Marnion swelled with indignation and snorted in disgust.
“Well!” she said, not bothering to lower her voice. Emma saw to her consternation that another lady had stopped to watch the altercation. “You think you are so clever, so witty, but let me tell you, Miss Tilbury, you are nothing but––but lust on legs!”
Emma’s mouth fell open. Well, really!
Mrs. Marnion stared with triumph as though she had won a great argument. “Yes, you––you! Offering yourself to all the gentlemen––I saw what you were doing with the Duke of Axwick!”
Emma closed her mouth. Axwick? That was not a name she had expected. To be honest, she had barely thought of Axwick th
ese last ten days. No, her thoughts had been preoccupied with another more pleasing face, a more charming man. And that kiss.
Braedon. Abraham Fitzclarence, Viscount Braedon, the man she could not stop thinking about, the man who had kissed her like no man ever had.
“Miss Tilbury!”
Emma jumped. By thinking of Braedon, she had not managed to make Mrs. Marnion disappear, which was most irritating.
Only then did she laugh with relief. “Oh, you mean my conversation with old Axwick at your card party?” She was so grateful she had worked out what Mrs. Marnion was attempting to accuse herself of, it was difficult not to feel giddy. “Oh, Mrs. Marnion, you would not begrudge me a conversation with an old friend, surely?” Emma tried to inject a little levity into her comment.
Mrs. Marnion did not look so impressed. “He is not your friend, Miss Tilbury, and I am astonished you had the nerve to speak to a gentleman so well-born!”
Emma’s smile disappeared, and she said a little more coldly, “I have known the Duke of Axwick, dined with him, gone away on country weekends with him, for nigh on five years. I did not realize you were similarly acquainted.”
Had she gone too far? Mrs. Marnion certainly looked very disgruntled.
“I am close friends with Mrs. Chesworth, the duke’s mother-in-law,” said the older woman, with as much dignity as she could muster. “And I warn you now, if I hear you have attempted to seduce––”
“There is nothing to tell in that quarter,” cut across Emma swiftly. “So if you would like to injure and upset the duchess, who I understand is about to be confined, you take that upon yourself. I have done nothing to merit such slander, I can tell you.”
It was time to draw this conversation to a close. She could not permit this sort of nonsense to continue, could not allow it to––and in public, too! What was Mrs. Marnion thinking?
Stepping away and wondering whether the chilly wind was worth returning home for, Emma was astonished to find that she could take no more than three steps. The reason for this was clear. Someone was holding onto her pelisse.
“Unhand me!” Emma glared at Mrs. Marnion. “This moment!”
“Not until I have had my say!”
Emma wrenched her pelisse away from the woman’s grasp. This was madness! Mrs. Marnion may have reservations about whether or not Miss Tilbury was a lady, but she was hardly demonstrating her own good qualities!
The trouble was, the three ladies who had been staring at their altercation had swelled into a group too numerous to count.
Emma had endured far worse than this, after all, especially when she and Marnmouth had first gone their separate ways. She would not even deign to repeat some of the language that had been thrown at her.
Still, it was most galling when all she had wanted was a quiet walk in the park!
“Mrs. Marnion,” she said firmly, “you are neither mother nor friend to scold me, and as I have neither done what you accuse me of nor have any desire to speak to you further, I beg you to let me leave.”
Emma took a few more steps away, but the woman was not done.
“Neither mother nor friend?” Mrs. Marnion’s laugh was bitter. “I would hazard a guess that your mother is nigh on ashamed of you, Miss Tilbury.”
“My mother is dead.” Emma snapped. “Dead these twenty years and is probably more interested in how I have stayed alive longer than she did, which I would say is an achievement.”
The words hung in the air. The gaggle of people watching their discussion was closer, wasn’t it? Or was that just Emma’s imagination? Their faces seemed larger, their laughter more high pitched.
Mrs. Marnion seemed a little cowed by Emma’s words. “I…I am just thinking of my daughter, she deserves––”
“I am sorry, Mrs. Marnion, but I have no interest in your daughter,” Emma interrupted as coolly as she could manage, “and have done nothing to hinder her happiness. As I have left her alone, I kindly request that you leave me alone.”
It appeared that she had finally forced Mrs. Marnion into silence, and Emma took a deep breath. It was not as though she was unaccustomed to such conversations, of course. Plenty of mothers considered her a stain upon the name of womanhood and had done little to hide that opinion. But still, in broad daylight! What was the woman thinking? Emma pulled her pelisse straight before turning to step away.
Yet she could not. The crowd had penned her in.
Worse, they seemed to have no desire to let her past. One of them pushed her back toward Mrs. Marnion, who had gained a little more courage now that it was clear she was not alone.
“No interest in my daughter? No interest?”
Mrs. Marnion’s voice rose, and Emma tried not to roll her eyes. Really, if she was so concerned about her daughter’s reputation, why was she instigating a brawl in public?
“Not this again,” Emma said wearily. “Mrs. Marnion––”
“How can you have no interest in my daughter, you––you harlot! When you have ruined her chances with a certain gentleman who shall remain nameless between––”
“Marnmouth is not a toy with whom I can play,” Emma said cuttingly. Mrs. Marnion flushed. “I cannot make a gentleman love someone else or reject someone else. That is the man’s decision, and I am sorry you do not like it. If you are concerned with the way the earl has treated your daughter, may I suggest you speak to him yourself?”
To her disappointment, it did not appear that Emma’s words had made any real difference. Perhaps Mrs. Marnion had not even heard them. She was emboldened by the shouts being thrown her Emma’s way.
“You harlot!”
“Slut!”
“You do not look sorry at all!” Mrs. Marnion hissed.
A woman patted her on the arm comfortingly and then glared at Emma. “You shouldn’t be seen out in public!”
There was a murmur of agreement that rippled through the crowd.
Emma blinked and saw not a single friendly face. All were jeering or whispering to a friend. None looked likely to help her escape from the circle of scorn she found herself in.
Emma swallowed and found her throat was dry. What could she say to appease this crowd? “I think,” she started in a quiet voice.
“What’s all the noise here––ah, there you are, Miss Tilbury! I was looking for you on the other side of the park.”
Emma blinked. The voice had come from nowhere––it was a gentleman’s voice.
The crowd parted, and just to her left stood a beaming and slightly confused Viscount Braedon.
Emma had never been more pleased to see a gentleman in her life.
Ladies on the periphery of the crowd had already melted away, and others were glancing uncomfortably at their friends and companions, as though a little surprised to have found themselves part of a mob.
“Wh-What––who are––”
“Viscount Braedon, at your service,” Braedon replied to Mrs. Marnion’s splutterings, who Emma was pleased to see looked a little abashed. “There…there hasn’t been any trouble here, has there?”
“Trouble?” Mrs. Marnion looked around, but it was clear to Emma that she was going to receive no help from that quarter. Most of her mob, if one could call it that, looked thoroughly ashamed of themselves. “No, no trouble, just a conversation between––”
“Wonderful,” said Braedon firmly. “Then you won’t mind me borrowing her. Come on, Miss Tilbury.”
He reached out and took Emma’s hand. It was warm and strong. It was the most comforting thing Emma had ever experienced, and she knew as he took it that he was not going to let go until they were safe. Both of them.
“But-but…” Mrs. Marnion could only fumble for words as Emma found herself pulled away from the crowd, away from her accuser, away from anyone who may have wished her harm.
Braedon did not look back as he shouted, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Marnion!”
They paced down the path of Hyde Park, and Emma had to be careful not to trip over her own feet to keep
up.
Braedon. She had never expected him to be so––well brave and confident. The shy and blushing gentleman she knew, but this man? There had been a little confidence on the horse, yes, but beyond that, she had thought him…
Well. Not this. Emma found her heart now racing for a completely different reason. The way he had commanded that situation, swept her away from it––he had rescued her.
“Miss Tilbury,” he said quietly with great concern as they slowed to a natural walk. “Are you quite well?”
Emma did not think. She merely acted. Kissing him on the cheek impetuously, she had no other way of expressing her relief.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For a moment there, I thought I was about to be dunked in the nearest fishpond as a suspected witch!” She had spoken as lightly as possible, but it was impossible to pretend she had not been afraid as the crowd had grown closer. “You were my knight in shining armor.”
The words poured out of her in relief. Walking alongside Braedon felt like the safest place in the world.
The viscount looked pleased. “I did only what was right.”
“Well, that is your opinion,” said Emma dryly. “There were plenty of other people walking by who did nothing. They left me to my fate. You…you saved me.”
It was unlike her to be so open, but Emma had felt vulnerable in a new way. She had shared her body with Marnmouth and shared many of her secrets. But she had never been so exposed as today.
Braedon looked as though he was fighting hard not to feel too much pleasure at her praise, and Emma found to her surprise that she had meant every word. That was unusual. Her words were usually calculated carefully to flirt, to appease, to please.
But with Braedon…
“I was actually planning on calling on you anyway,” he confessed with that smile, which was becoming all the more endearing each time she saw it. “But then I realized I did not know where your rooms were. I wanted to…that was, if you did not mind…”
As they turned a corner of the path, Braedon’s voice trailed off, and Emma found she was holding her breath.
Always the Mistress (Never the Bride Book 11) Page 5
