Accidentally in Love (3 page)

Would Raithby suit Emeline?

Well, and why not? Did not every young chit want a man exactly like Raithby?

Would Raithby want Emeline?

If he had any sense at all, he would. He’d be a damned fool if he didn’t.

“Whenever,” Kit said. He sounded abrupt to his own ears. He took another swallow of brandy and tried to amend his tone. He should sound pleased, perhaps even grateful.

No, he could not possibly attempt sounding grateful. Pleased was going to be quite enough of a challenge.

“As I am not privy to their social schedule, I’m afraid I can’t be much help at the moment,” Kit said. “Perhaps we’ll be fortunate enough to be in attendance at the same event. Sometime.”

“Perhaps we shall,” Raithby said, standing. Kit stood as well, abandoning his glass. It wasn’t even half empty. “I am eager to meet Miss Harlow. I will look for you both. Good to see you, Culley.”

“And you, Raithby,” Kit said.

Raithby left. Kit stayed. His glass wasn’t even half empty, after all. And he had no where else to be until . . . what was on for tonight? Oh, yes, a musicale at the home of . . . damned if he could remember whose home.

That damned door of memory, still open, still flooding his thoughts.

Emeline tumbling off the second branch of the oak next to the pond, his frantic run, her landing in his outstretched arms, the breath rushing out of them both, her eyes so pale a blue that they looked like rain clouds, her cheeks pink, her mouth pink, her tongue pink, and the shiver that ran through her, a shiver he caught and felt in the center of his bones . . . that day, that moment, that instant . . . Emeline in his arms. Emeline in his bones. Emeline in his life.

Emeline, who was like a sister. Yet who was not his sister.

This was why he avoided brandy. This was the instant that he had been determined to forget, to deny, to destroy.

Kit pushed his glass across the table and stood, following in Raithby’s footsteps, out into the afternoon light of a soft London day.

“Don’t you think we should go home?” Emeline said. “We have to dress for our evening at Lady Jordan’s.” It was just four o’clock. They were expected at Lady Jordan’s at nine. Dressing, even in one’s finest, did not require five hours.

“We simply must find the perfect hat for that new cotton gown,” Mama said. “Perfection cannot be rushed. What do you think of this shape, Mrs. Culley? Is it too severe for Emeline’s profile?”

Mama made a rippling motion with her fingers, Emeline turned to present her profile to Mrs. Culley, and the milliner, and the milliner’s assistant. They studied her face with all the solemnity one gives to translating a difficult Latin text, and then, without a word, the hat was set down. Apparently it was too severe for her profile.

Mama had never said a word against Emeline’s appearance. She did not pounce when Emeline requested a second portion. She did not scowl over Emeline’s figure. She did not even shake her head when Emeline’s hair had darkened to an unremarkable shade of not-quite-blond and not-quite-brown. Emeline knew that she was fortunate in having a mother who did not fault her for, well, for anything. She knew there were many upon many mothers who made a study of fault-finding.

“What shade is the gown again?” Mrs. Culley asked.

“Ivory bisque with the most remarkable shade of pink as the overlay,” Mama said. “We should have had the dress sent over. It is extremely foolhardy to buy a hat without the gown to hand.”

“I remember the shade of pink, Mama,” Emeline said.

“And you cannot find its match in the shop.”

“Perhaps it need not be a precise match,” Emeline said.

Mama gasped. Mrs. Culley hid a smile. The milliner, Madame Lacroix, looked horrified.

“Perhaps that straw bonnet, with a bit of pale gray ribbon?” Emeline suggested.

“With pink and mauve roses just above the brim,” the milliner said, looking far less horrified. “Madame, I believe it would suit. Miss Harlow has the sort of face and the bearing to manage it. It would be very fashionable, very much of the moment.”

“A bit of a risk?” Mama said.

“Is this not the time and place to take a risk?” Emeline asked, knowing the problem of the hat was solved. Mama was not, and never had been, afraid of risk.

Sensing she had made the sale, Madame Lacroix said, “Perhaps a few violets of more blue than purple hue, to add a spark of excitement to the effect?”

“Very daring,” Mrs. Culley said.

Mama loved to be daring, within limits.

“Very well,” Mama said. “Make it up and have it sent round to Dover Street. Not too daring, mind. My daughter must be seen as fashionable, not forward.”

“Of course, Madame.”

The problem of the bonnet was resolved. Emeline was not adverse to shopping. She could shop for hours and not tire. Shopping in London should have met, and exceeded, her every shopping desire. It might have, if Kit had not been in London at the same time and if Kit did not treat her like a sister. She had to convince him she was not his sister, even though it was flatly obvious that she was not, and she could not convince him if she was in one shop after another. Kit was not going to stroll through the shops, and if he was not at her elbow, she could not convince him of anything. It was extremely frustrating.

“Are you in need of a hat, Mrs. Culley?” Mama asked. “Those ostrich feathers look interesting.”

Oh, Lud, would they never leave this shop?

It was just then that Kit walked by the shop, his very elegant profile illuminated by a stray sunbeam.

“Christopher?” Mrs. Culley said, her face breaking into a smile. Then she drooped a bit, her shoulders dropping, her head tilting, her spirit sinking a bit into the coarse boards of the shop. There was nothing unusual in that. Mrs. Culley wore a face for Kit that she did not wear for others of her acquaintance.

Emeline darted to the door, opened it so fast that she hit her toes with it, winced, and called, “Kit!”

Kit turned at the word, saw her face, blinked, braced, and then smiled.
Braced.
Then smiled. When had she become the woman Kit steeled himself to face?

What was happening to them? They had always been so easy in each other’s company, so relaxed and so prone to laughter. In the last year, since her come-out had been arranged, her temper flared whenever she was with him and he turned as stoic as a stone. All the easiness was gone. In its place was prickling awareness, tension, stampeding emotion. She hated it. Usually. Some days she thrilled to ride in the midst of the stampede.

“Emeline. I had not thought to see you until this evening.”

He dipped his head in a bow, his hair falling forward to touch his brow; he flicked it back with an abrupt toss of his head. Two women in their forties, passing them in that moment, made murmuring sounds of flirtation and appreciation, she was certain of it.

“We are hat shopping,” she said, watching the women until they were well out of earshot. “Your mother would like a new hat, one with ostrich feathers. I do think that she would relish your opinion on the matter,” she said. All one had to do to get Kit do what one wanted him to do was to use his mother as a whip.

She had known Kit and Mrs. Culley all her life; was she expected to not know how things worked?

“Of course.”

“You’re not otherwise occupied? I thought your mother said you had an appointment?”

“I did. With Lord Raithby. At White’s,” he said, walking behind her as the milliner’s assistant held the door open for them.

“Christopher,” Mrs. Culley said, casting a melting gaze upon her eldest.

“Mother. Emeline said you were shopping for a new hat?”

“With ostrich feathers,” Emeline said.

“Good day, Mrs. Harlow,” Kit said.

“Mr. Culley,” Mama said, dipping her chin.

It was all very tedious. They had seen each other nearly every day for more than a decade. This Town formality could hardly be necessary, no matter what Mama said.

“Kit is so very eager to help you choose a bonnet, Mrs. Culley,” Emeline said. When Mama gave her a stern look, Emeline smiled and looked at Kit. “We are in the midst of a dilemma, Mr. Culley,” she said. “Mama is of the belief that it is of the utmost necessity that you be referred to as Mr. Culley whist in Town. I am of the belief, the most resolute belief, that, given our years of intimate contact, such a change in terminology is not only unnecessary but ridiculous. What is your decision on the matter, Mr. Culley? We will abide by your judgement.”

Kit had, by turns, looked startled, confused, and amused.

“I am to be given such complete control? That will be a new experience.”

“When one goes up to Town, one is assured of new experiences,” Emeline said.

“That is not quite what I said, Emeline,” Mama said.

“Wasn’t it?” Emeline said, staring at Kit. “Something very like it, as I recall.”

Kit twitched his lips against a smile and Emeline’s heart leapt within her bodice. He was not a congenial looking man; he was too Greek godlike for that. Kit had a stern face of sharp lines and angles. His thick curling hair was the only soft part of him. Now, in his coat of blue wool with a military cast to the lamb’s wool collar, he looked quite unbending indeed. But she knew him better than that. Kit had a gift for joy and play that his looks belied.

Would she have loved him if she met him now for the first time, at some formal event of her first Season?

What did it matter? She loved him, had loved him, and would always love him.

She had known and loved the lanky Kit who cuddled puppies and teased Pip at the dining table and carried Harry on his shoulders across the hay fields. She loved the Kit who ignored her, laughed at her, talked with her, and stood in silence beside her. He had to love her in return. He simply must.

“Certainly, when we are alone together, as we are now, we should and must continue on as we have done,” Mrs. Culley said.

“How like you, Mrs. Culley,” Mama said, giving Emeline a hard look. “You may always be relied upon for the gracious gesture.”

“It’s decided then,” Kit said. “Things shall go on as they have done.”

Things were most definitely not going to continue on as they had done. She would make Kit realize that he loved her, somehow. The
how
of it would come to her. Somehow. It had to. She would not consider a life as anyone other than Kit’s wife.

The problem, and how simple life would have been if there had been only one problem to solve, was that Mrs. Culley had higher aspirations for Kit’s wife than the girl who lived across the village. In everything he did, Kit bowed to his mother’s wish. Yes, of course, Mama wanted a titled gentleman for her, but she, unlike Kit, had the resolve to not bend to every word out of Mama’s mouth. Not
every
word.

“We were considering the ostrich feathers, Mr. Culley,” Mama said. “Perhaps they would suit for Lady Jordan’s this evening?”

“They may be too bold for me,” Mrs. Culley said.

“Hardly that,” Kit said.

The two older women moved off to discuss ostrich feathers with Madame Lacroix. Emeline snagged Kit by the wool at his wrist and whispered, “How like
you
to let your mother make all your decisions for you.”

Kit looked down at her, his blue eyes coolly bewildered. “I agree with her. Of course you must continue to call me Kit. Anything else would result in both of us feeling ill at ease.”

“I did not give you permission to speak for me or my feelings,” she said. “I don’t see any indication that you know what I think or what I feel.”

“Certainly, if you don’t want to call me Kit you may call me whatever suits you best.”

“I could not possibly call you the name that suits you best,” she snapped.

“What are you so angry about?”

“The fact that you don’t know is . . .” she stepped away from him to stare out the front window onto the street.

She was too angry at him, the stampede surrounding her drowned every soft noise that whispered she be mild and sweet and docile. Stampedes trounced docility. He was so attuned to his mother and not at all to her. Hadn’t it always been so? Had she expected being in London would change any of that?

“Don’t you like being in Town for the Season?” he asked, his breath just reaching her hair.

She resisted the pull to lean back against him. If they were at home, she might have. Being in London had changed things between them, but not in the way she wanted.

“Of course I like it,” she said. “Why shouldn’t I like it?”

“I didn’t say you shouldn’t like it,” he said.

“Don’t you like it?” she countered. “So many lovely young women to peruse. I don’t know how you find the time to stand about in millinery shops.”

“I was pulled into a millinery shop,” he said, his lips compressing in annoyance. She knew all of Kit’s expressions. She was intimidated by none of them. Entranced, yes. Overawed, no.

“You were summoned by your mother. What else could you do but obey?”

“Over the years, I have always been under the impression that you liked my mother.”

“Of course I like your mother!” she said, twitching in annoyance.

The milliner’s assistant looked over at them. That was nothing.

Mama looked over at them, which was another thing entirely.

“Mr. Culley, your dear mother cannot possibly decide if she can carry the elegance of ostrich feathers without your trusted judgement guiding her. Do come and tell us what you think.”

“Of course she can’t and of course you must,” Emeline breathed.

Kit ignored her and walked across the shop to his mother.

It was a metaphor of their entire relationship and it produced the most profound feeling of hopelessness within her. She had to do something, anything, or nothing would change between them. Kit would bow to his mother’s wishes and marry someone his mother deemed worthy of him. Without the hope of Kit, she would marry someone her mother found acceptable and that would be that.

Something must be done.

If only she knew what.

Kit was already at his mother’s side, mouthing assurances that she could, indeed, and should, most certainly, attempt the ostrich feathers for the musicale at Lady Jordan’s that evening when Lady Eleanor Kirkland entered the shop with Miss Elaine Montford in tow. In tow, most certainly. Eleanor Kirkland pulled all along in her wake, Miss Montford most specifically.