A Valentine Wedding (22 page)

“Emma love, I’ve been so worried. Wherever have you been?” Maria, dressed for the evening in lavender silk and a ruched butterfly cap, hurried out of the salon as Emma came into the house. It was already dark and the rain had not abated. Alasdair had hired a chaise in Richmond to bring Emma home, himself riding back, leading Swallow.

“We were caught in the rain,” Emma explained. “We had to take shelter in Richmond.”

“Look at your habit!” Maria flung up her hands in distress. “It’s so creased!”

The attentions of Eliza had been less than skilled, Emma reflected ruefully. Her riding habit was certainly bedraggled. “I was soaked. But Tilda will be able to retrieve it,” she said. “Did you put dinner back? It’ll only take me half an hour to dress.” She moved toward the stairs, for some reason finding it difficult to meet Maria’s eye.

“Perhaps we should stay in this evening,” Maria suggested doubtfully. “After such an ordeal, you mustn’t put yourself in the way of catching cold.”

“Since when does getting caught in a shower qualify as an ordeal?” Emma scoffed, running up the stairs. She called over her shoulder, “But I think I shall take a bath to warm me up. Half an hour and I’ll be down.”

Maria shook her head over this, but Emma could be a whirlwind when the need arose. However, to be on the safe side, she told Harris to set back dinner an hour. It would still give them ample time to arrive at Almack’s well before the witching hour of eleven o’clock, when the doors were firmly barred to all latecomers.

Not even the Prince of Wales would dare to challenge such an inflexible rule. Not that he was likely to appear at Almack’s under any circumstances, Maria reflected, returning to the drawing room. Dancing, not cards, was the entertainment offered at Almack’s, and the refreshments were not of the kind to appeal to a robust and bibulous appetite.

Tilda exclaimed and lamented over the condition of the riding habit as footmen toiled up the stairs with jugs of steaming water for Emma’s bath.

Emma stripped off her clothes with a sigh of relief and stepped into the copper tub. The hot water laved her skin and eased the slight soreness engendered by a long afternoon’s play.

She smiled rather dreamily as she rubbed verbena-scented soap between her hands. How she had missed this wonderful feeling of languid fulfillment, the sense that every part of her body had been touched with passion. She felt soft and open and
aglow. And she would not yet spoil the feeling by allowing herself to think about where it was going to lead.

“The green crepe gown, Tilda,” she said. “The one with the white half-slip.” She rose dripping from the bath and took the towel Tilda handed her. She could smell the faint fragrance of the soap on her skin, and she could still feel Alasdair’s body against her own. She’d noticed in the past how her skin and muscles seemed to have memories of their own.

“I think the paisley shawl, Lady Emma,” Tilda said positively as she rubbed pomade into her mistress’s side curls until they shone a rich, burnished tawny gold. “The green and gold will complement the gown.”

Emma acceded to this with a nod. She slipped her silk-stockinged feet into green kid slippers and fastened three strings of matchless pearls at her throat. They had been a twenty-first birthday present from Ned. The matching pearl drops that she clipped to her ears had been Alasdair’s present.

There was a knock at the bedchamber door, and Tilda went to answer it. “Oh, such a pretty posy, madam,” she said, taking it from the footman outside. “White roses. They’ll go beautifully with your gown. We should pin them to your glove at the wrist.”

She brought the posy to Emma. Three perfect white roses bound with silver ribbon. Tasteful and delicate. But what else would one expect from Alasdair? Emma thought with a smile, removing the little engraved card.

“Oh,” Emma said, her nose wrinkling unconsciously. The posy was delicate, the message presumptuous. Surely she hadn’t given the man that much encouragement? But honesty obliged her to acknowledge that he could have read enough into her flirtatious manner to justify encouragement. She had, after all, intended to encourage him. And now she’d have to withdraw—depress his pretensions. A most unpleasant business that would make her appear to be a flirtatious tease, unless she could think of a gracious way to handle the situation.

“No, I won’t wear them, Tilda,” she said as the maid was about to pin the posy to her long silk gloves.

“Oh, but Lady Emma!” Tilda protested.

“They’re pretty enough,” Emma responded. “But I’m going to wear the gold bracelets that belonged to my mother.” She opened her jewel case.

Tilda looked curious, but she set the posy down on the dresser and fetched the paisley shawl. She draped it over Emma’s elbows and stood back to judge the effect. “Very modish, Lady Emma,” she pronounced with satisfaction, adjusting the tasseled cord that confined the gown beneath the bosom.

Emma’s own smile was a trifle distracted. The rich patina of the evening had worn a little thin at the prospect of disillusioning Paul Denis, particularly under Alasdair’s eye. Alasdair had said he would be at Almack’s, and she was going to find it very difficult to be in the company of both men without thinking of the brass nymph.

It was probable that the story of the attack on the émigré was all over town by now. Paul would surely have mentioned the assault to the duke of Devizes, since it had occurred in his house. And then she remembered
that when she’d produced her own fabrication that morning, pretending she hadn’t returned to the conservatory, he had said only that he had waited for her, “for an eternity.” Why hadn’t he told her then of the attack? It would have been natural enough.

Pride perhaps? He couldn’t bear to admit such an ignominious assault. It seemed the only answer, and it seemed a likely one. Paul Denis would not willingly expose himself to the sniggers of society. And he would be the target of malicious jokes … anyone would have been. Society loved to poke fun at any scandal-brewing misfortune.

Thoughtfully she went downstairs. Maria fluttered around her, anxious that she shouldn’t have suffered from her exposure to the elements. “Are you sure, my dear, that you shouldn’t take one of Dr. Bennet’s powders … just to ward off a quinsy? I do so dread a quinsy, my love. A putrid sore throat is the worst thing.”

“Smallpox and typhoid I could do without as well,” Emma teased.

“Oh, yes, to be sure … but you know what I mean.”

“You’re a mother hen,” Emma said with an affectionate smile. “Come, let’s go into dinner. I’m famished.” The picnic in the Greek temple seemed a long time ago, and the brandy punch that Alasdair had made before they left the Green Goose had done little to appease hunger, although it had given her a pleasant glow on the cold drive home.

Maria’s anxieties were somewhat allayed by this. A hearty appetite bespoke good health.

They were about to sit down to table when Emma
heard a voice in the hall. She stood still, her hand resting on her chairback.

“Why, it’s Alasdair,” Maria said in surprise. “Has he come for dinner, I wonder?”

“If he’s invited,” Alasdair said cheerfully from the door. “I’ve just delivered Swallow to her stable. Sam seems to think a bran mash will take care of any possible ill effects of the rain. I thought you’d like to know, Emma.”

He smiled with the complacent air of one who knows he has done noble service, and ran an eye over the table. “If those are Aylesbury ducklings, I am definitely staying for dinner. And after I will escort you both to King Street.”

He was dressed in the regulation attire for Almack’s. Emma had always considered that the black satin knee britches, white waistcoat, striped stockings, and waisted coat with long tails were particularly suited to his slender frame. And she didn’t revise that opinion now. He looked like a particularly elegant, supple panther, she thought. Understated and yet emanating a certain restrained power.

“I’ll lay a cover, sir.” Harris snapped his fingers at a footman, who hurried to set another place at the table.

Alasdair moved behind Emma’s chair, holding it for her. His hands brushed her shoulders as he pushed it in beneath her. He felt the little quiver run over her skin and lightly clasped the back of her neck for a second before moving around the table to take his place.

He raised his eyebrows at the wine bottle on the sideboard. “Claret, Emma? With dinner?”

“Should I bring up the burgundy, sir?” Harris inquired.

“Do you have any of the ’99 left? The consignment
that was given to Lord Edward for his coming-of-age?” Alasdair asked.

“There are six bottles, sir. I will fetch one up from the cellar.” Harris moved to the door.

Emma frowned. This was
her
household, and Harris should have deferred to her. But old memories stuck fast and the butler had obviously slipped back into the old habit of regarding Alasdair as one of the family, on a footing with Ned.

Alasdair glanced across the table and caught her expression. “Oh,” he said with a rueful grin. “Did I just overstep myself?”

“Gentlemen know much more about wine than ladies,” Maria said comfortably. “Emma wouldn’t object in the slightest to your giving order about the wine.”

“Maria, that is such nonsense,” Emma protested. “You have such antiquated notions. I know as much about wine as Alasdair does.”

“So you should,” Alasdair said promptly. “Since everything you know Ned and I taught you. Although you seem to have forgotten one or two of the essentials,” he added, shaking his head in reproof.

Before Emma could protest this injustice, Maria spoke. “Well, to be sure, Emma, you’re rather out of the common way of young ladies,” she conceded. “But in general, I find it best to leave such matters in the capable hands of the gentlemen. Alasdair, do take some of the duckling. And I think you’ll find the broiled mushrooms to your liking.”

Alasdair helped himself. Harris reappeared with two crusted bottles of Ned’s burgundy and solemnly began to pour.

“Oh, just a very little for me, I thank you,” Maria said. “I find burgundy a trifle heavy.”

“Pour Mrs. Witherspoon a glass of claret, Harris,” Emma instructed, shooting Alasdair a pointed look. “Mrs. Witherspoon is liable to get the headache with burgundy.”

“Ah, so that explains such a solecism,” Alasdair said, sounding relieved. “I was afraid, Emma, that you’d lost your palate. Claret is all very well for drinking before dinner, but not with food.” He smiled benignly at her over the rim of his glass.

He was so infuriating. One could never put Alasdair out of countenance, and he had such an air of being at home, of such complete relaxation, that it was impossible to maintain an offended dignity without looking silly. Emma helped herself to the raised mutton pie, reflecting with a sudden stab of loss that all it needed was Ned at the table for time to roll back. She could hear his voice, gently teasing in counterpoint to Alasdair’s rather more caustic wit. She could hear his laugh, its rich timbre against Alasdair’s lighter, more mellow laugh.

She looked up and met Alasdair’s steady gaze. He knew what she was thinking. His eyes were filled with compassion and his own loss … their shared loss. Ned would have been overjoyed at what had happened between them. He would be congratulating himself on a very sound strategy. But would he understand that she was no nearer to marrying Alasdair now than she had been when she’d left him at the altar three years ago?

Maria, seemingly oblivious of the sudden cloud that had fallen over the table, was relating some piece of gossip, her voice serenely rippling forth into her companions’ silence. After a minute, Alasdair made some casual comment and the two chatted, leaving
Emma to her own thoughts until she was able to gather herself together and join in.

She was not sorry to be spending the evening in a large crowd. Her thoughts could follow their own course while she kept up the inane chatter that passed for conversation at such social gatherings. She and Alasdair would stand up for a couple of dances, but more would be frowned upon as breaking one of the club’s unspoken conventions, and if Paul Denis chose to take umbrage at her for not wearing his flowers, he wouldn’t be able to express it.

“Why so preoccupied?” Alasdair asked quietly as he held her cloak for her in the hall after dinner.

She gave him a quick smile and answered as quietly, “Don’t you think I have reason?”

“Then I trust it’s a pleasant preoccupation,” he responded, with a little frown in his eye. He didn’t think Emma’s reflections were of unqualified rapture.

She shrugged slightly and went ahead of him to the street, where the carriage awaited. The rain had stopped and a fitful moon played with the scudding clouds.

Paul Denis had arrived unfashionably early at the assembly rooms. He had been greeted pleasantly by the patronesses and presented to several damsels sitting patiently along the wall, waiting for a partner. But his eyes were on the door, watching for Emma Beaumont’s arrival. In his pocket was a small vial containing enough laudanum to put someone twice the Lady Emma’s height and weight into a very deep sleep. He intended to administer the sleeping draft at the very end of the evening.