A Stockingful of Joy (15 page)

As they stepped into their handsome sitting room, he said lightly, "Welcome to our temporary home, Emma Vaughn Stone Vaughn." He smiled. "Lady Verlaine."

Smiling, she removed her bonnet. "That's rather too many Vaughns, isn't it?"

"Exactly the right number." He pulled a set of papers from inside his coat. "Here, Emma, a wedding present of sorts. The paid-off mortgages on Canfield."

After a brief glance, she handed the documents back. "I'm glad."

He set the papers aside. "With the mortgages cleared, the property will soon be producing a comfortable income. I'm letting go the rooms on Bruton Street, but within a year or two, we should be able to afford a house here in town if you'd like that."

"That would be nice, but for now I'm looking forward to living at Canfield."

He nodded. "It will be good to be back. I thought we could go early next week."

Her dark brows drew together. "Wouldn't it be easier to go directly from London to Harley Castle? Canfield is the opposite direction."

Startled, he said, "Harley? We aren't going there."

"We aren't?" She stared at him in dismay. "Whyever not? It's been ten years since I've been able to attend one of the Christmas gatherings. I… I've been looking forward to returning."

His face tightened. "I haven't been for nine years myself, and I have no intention of going now."

She slowly sank onto the sofa. "All this time I've imagined you at the castle with the rest of the family every Christmas. Why did you stop attending?"

"I doubted that I'd be welcome," he said brusquely.

She gazed at him with her large, changeable eyes, which were a smoky gray at the moment. "How could that be?"

Could she really not know? Remembering that her parents had died suddenly and she had disappeared from the family circle, he supposed it was possible. "You never heard that Cousin Cecilia married Brand?"

"Brand!" Emma exclaimed. "But I always thought that you and she would make a match of it. I… I did wonder what had happened when I learned you were unwed, but I had no idea that she'd married Lord Brandon instead."

Edward Alexander Vaughn, Marquess of Brandon, their mutual cousin. Heir to the Duke of Warrington, and once, long ago, Anthony's closest friend. "Why shouldn't she marry Brand?" he said with acid humor. "He will have far more wealth and a much better title, and he always doted on her."

Emma gazed at him, her eyes darkening. "I see."

She probably
did
see; the damned woman seemed able to read his mind. It gave her an unfair advantage.

Her gaze dropped, and she slowly peeled off her gloves. "I shall write the dowager duchess again and say that we cannot come after all."

The dowager duchess was Brand's grandmother, and the benevolent silver-haired despot of Harley and the whole sprawling Vaughn family. Anthony felt a pang as he thought of her elegant presence and dry humor. Since she no longer came to London, he hadn't seen her in nine years. He missed her. "You'd already written an acceptance?"

"Yesterday. I told her of our planned marriage and said we would arrive next week." Emma sighed. "I'm sorry. It never occurred to me that we would not be going."

Despite her calm words, Emma's disappointment was palpable. He prowled around the drawing room, feeling like a complete villain. Though he no longer went to Harley, he hadn't suffered during the intervening years. He'd finished his education at Oxford, gone on the Grand Tour after Waterloo made the Continent safe for Englishmen again, and generally enjoyed the life of a privileged young gentleman right up until financial disaster had struck.

During those same years, Emma had been living a miserable existence as a teacher and governess, probably sleeping in icy garret rooms and stoically enduring employers who weren't worthy to tie her shoes. It was all too easy to imagine her secretly dreaming of happier days at Harley. And they
had
been happy days—the best of Anthony's life. He felt another pang. God, why had everything gone so wrong?

Even as the question formed in his mind, he reminded himself that the fault was his. Nor did he have the right to deny his wife what she so much desired merely because he'd acted like an idiot many years earlier.

For a cowardly moment he considered telling Emma to go alone, but that would be contemptible and unfair to her. He stopped pacing and turned to her. "If you are set on the visit, I suppose we must go. I am too much in your debt to refuse."

Instead of looking grateful, she said, "Don't say that. Indebtedness is a poor foundation for a marriage. You will soon hate feeling obligated, and then you will hate me." Her lips curved in a wry smile. "I don't want that."

He felt as if he'd just been struck a solid blow to the midriff. Who would have thought that this woman, whom a week earlier he would have passed on the street without a second glance, would be able to get into his mind so effortlessly? After drawing a deep breath, he said, "You are very wise, and very generous."

"Not really. The bargain we struck is a fair one. My money paid the debts incurred by your father, and in return I have secured a fine home and a distinguished rank in society." A hint of irony sounded in her husky voice. "Not to mention a husband that all women will envy me."

"I shall do my best to forget my sense of obligation," he said, thinking she overrated his desirability. When he was trying to raise money to save Canfield, parents had kept their eligible daughters far away. "I'll be a properly arrogant husband in no time."

Her face lit up as she laughed. He realized that he hadn't seen her laugh before. Amusement transformed her from sober governess to a vividly alive woman.

That realization was followed by another; he
wanted
to take her to Harley. Not because he was in her debt, but because he wanted to please her, since she asked so little for herself. "Since you've already written to the dowager duchess, we really ought to go to Harley. I promise I won't be a martyr over it."

She caught her breath, hope in her eyes. "Are you sure? I really don't want to go if a visit would be painful for you."

Ruefully he recognized that his accommodating wife was making it easy for him to be a coward. He must take care that she didn't undermine what character he possessed. "I expect that the visit will be awkward, at least at the beginning. But actually, having just married makes this the perfect time to return. If I don't now, I may be condemning myself to a lifetime of exile. I've just realized that I don't want that. Harley and the family gatherings were too important a part of my life to throw away without at least attempting to mend those burned bridges." His tone turned dry. "Of course, Brand may throw me out, but at least I will have tried."

Surprised, Emma said, "Surely he would not behave so rudely. I remember him as being very even-tempered."

Anthony hesitated, reluctant to lose his bride's good opinion, but knowing it would be unfair to take her to Harley without telling her the whole story. "Even a steady man reacts badly to being told his adored fiancée is marrying him for his money and title. That every night he and Cecilia lay together, she'd be thinking of me."

Emma winced. "Anthony, you didn't."

He sighed. "I'm afraid I did, along with some other equally insulting comments. We got into a ferocious fight. I'm bigger, but Brand was murderously angry. If our fathers hadn't intervened, it might have ended in pistols at dawn."

"Thank heaven it didn't come to that," she said vehemently.

"I wouldn't want Brand's blood on my head," he agreed.

Amused, she said, "You're that sure you would have won?"

"I'm a far better shot." He had a brief, horrifying image of him and Brand facing each other with guns in their hands. Thank God that hadn't happened.

"But if there had been a duel, wouldn't the choice of weapons have been Brand's? As I recall, he was a superb swordsman."

She was right, he realized. "I never thought of that, probably because the quarrel didn't go so far. I left Harley the same day, and have never been back. Once or twice Brand and I have met in public. He always gives me the cut direct."

"So much has happened that I never knew about," she said pensively.

He resumed his prowling as he thought about the return to Harley. Brand's parents and grandmother would not allow any scenes, but the situation would still be strained. Sadly he thought of all the boyhood escapades he and his cousin had shared. They'd gone to school together at Winchester. Countless nights had been spent commiserating about the horrors of school, or sneaking out to buy the extra food necessary to growing boys.

That closeness was no longer possible, not with the shadows of Cecilia and Anthony's own insulting behavior between them. But if he apologized profusely, perhaps they could at least be civil to each other in the future.

Lord, what would it be like to see Cecilia again? He wasn't sure if he loved her or despised her. Both, perhaps. She was the only girl he'd ever loved, and she'd made a fool of him. Her betrayal had left permanent scars. If financial necessity hadn't driven him to marry Emma, it was quite possible that he would have spent his life as a bachelor.

He ceased his prowling and studied his wife, who still sat peaceably on the sofa, giving no hint of her thoughts. He felt a curious duality. He liked her, and his respect for her intelligence and honesty was growing hourly.

At the same time he saw her as the drab governess whose appearance had been designed to avoid notice. She had been right to say that people would wonder why the fashionable Lord Verlaine had married such an unprepossessing woman.

After a moment spent deciding how to present his case in a way so it would not sound too insulting, he said, "You asked to be treated with courtesy and respect for the sake of your pride. I, too, have pride. I don't want to go to Harley and have the family judge me a fortune hunter who has taken advantage of your honesty and innocence."

Her expression closed. "Does that you mean you've again changed your mind about going there?"

"It means that we'll both benefit by appearing fond rather than barely acquainted. And that we must get you to a modiste and order you a new wardrobe immediately."

Taken aback, she said, "I wouldn't object to some new gowns. But you can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear."

Uncomfortably aware that she had sensed what he wasn't saying, he said, "How fortunate that we don't have to. Come. I'll take you to Madame Chloe. There's no time to waste if we're to have you turned out properly by next week."

"Very well." She got to her feet and retrieved her bonnet, saying darkly, "Just remember what I said about sow's ears."

"Actually your ears are quite well shaped and attractive. After your gowns are ordered, we must stop at the jewelers for some earrings that will do them justice."

As she blushed and pulled on her gloves, he realized that he was looking forward to playing Pygmalion to her Galatea.

Emma's mother had spoken enthusiastically of the joys of visiting a London modiste, but that was one of many experiences that poverty had stolen from Emma. She tried not to gawk when Anthony swept her into Madame Chloe's shop. The luxuriously decorated salon reminded her of the dowager duchess's boudoir. In such a temple of feminine fashion and frivolity, Anthony's powerful, broad-shouldered figure looked almost indecently masculine.

Madame Chloe herself, a handsome woman of mature years, came forward to greet them, her expression brightening at the sight of Anthony. With a trace of French accent, she said, "Milord Verlaine. What a pleasure to see you again."

As Emma tried not to think what other women her husband had brought to the salon, he said breezily, "The pleasure is mutual, madame. Our visit is something of an emergency. My wife's trunks were destroyed in a fire at a coaching inn." He shook his head sadly. "She was forced to borrow clothing from the vicar's wife, a worthy woman, but not fashionable. Everything must be replaced, from the skin out."

Chloe may or may not have believed his lie, but she laughed good-naturedly. "You have come to the right place." Her eyes narrowed critically as she studied Emma. "You have a really lovely complexion, Lady Verlaine. And your figure—
magnifique
."

Emma blinked. It was true that her skin was nice, but her figure was altogether too… too much. Definitely not the figure of a fashionable sylph. Meekly she said, "I put myself in your hands, madame."

Without further ado she was whisked off to a private alcove. Luckily Anthony did not accompany them. Chloe gave whispered instructions to an assistant, who darted off. By the time Emma had been stripped down to her shift and measured, the assistant had returned from a nearby shop with a mound of exquisitely sewn undergarments.

Emma donned a lovely new lawn shift, then allowed herself to be laced into a set of surprisingly comfortable quilted dimity stays. Chloe explained that it would take several days to make proper shifts and other garments, and that she hoped milady was not too offended at having to make do with ready-made items. Emma was hard-pressed not to laugh. The unmentionables that the modiste was apologizing for were the finest she'd worn in many years.

Madame Chloe held up a shimmering green garment. "This gown is being made for another client who is of similar size and figure. Lady Wolverton will not mind if you try it on for just a moment to get the effect."

Emma raised her arms, and whispering green silk dropped over her. After the fastenings were secured, she turned to look at herself in the mirror. Her jaw dropped. The image she saw was not of the familiar dowdy governess, but a striking, fashionable woman. Even her eyes were unfamiliar as the green gown made them glow like jade. Voice hushed, she asked, "Is this really me?"

"Indeed, my lady. It is the real you," Chloe said with satisfaction. "Lord Verlaine will be most pleased."

Then the modiste swept Emma into the main salon so her husband could survey the results. Emma was tempted to cover the large expanse of bare flesh visible above her décolletage, but managed to restrain herself. The problem was not with the gown, but her unfashionable self.