Art and Artifice (3 page)

“What is His Grace thinking?” Daphne
lamented. “It just isn’t done!” She threw up her hands and
collapsed against the seat, but that was Daphne. Emily had once
painted her as Artemis, goddess of the hunt, all rousing good cheer
with her honey-colored hair and ready smile. Daphne’s mother had
taken exception to the diaphanous robes and insisted that Emily
paint on a high-necked bombazine gown instead. Who ever heard of
Artemis riding to the hunt in bombazine?

“I fail to see,” Priscilla said, green eyes
narrowing dangerously, “how Lord Robert can arrange a wedding so
quickly, unless you plan to elope to Scotland.”

Emily shuddered. “No, thank you. But then, I
had no idea Lord Robert was so determined to marry.”

“Surely he gave you some sign,” Ariadne said,
reaching for a comfit. “A lock of hair, a passionate letter.” She
popped the chewy confection into her mouth as if she feared the
sugar would speckle her pink muslin gown if she tarried.

“Not a word,” Emily assured her. “We haven’t
set eyes on each other since I went away to Barnsley. Apparently
His Grace and Lady Minerva had some inkling. They said Lord Robert
has been visiting frequently of late.” A shame Lord Robert hadn’t
thought to spend as much time with the woman he intended to marry!
She would have dissuaded him from the notion.

Priscilla rose to pace the room. Her hair was
as bright as the gilt chairs, and the blue of her muslin day dress
with its white lace collar was a perfect match for the blue
walls.

“Then all is not lost,” she said. “We have
only to convince Lord Robert that you must wait until after the
Season.”

“We must convince Lord Robert that I am not
the woman for him,” Emily corrected her, back pressed against the
hard wood of her chair. “I don’t wish to marry, Pris. I thought I
made that clear.”

Ariadne and Daphne exchanged looks. “But Lord
Snedley says it is the duty and privilege of all young ladies to
marry,” Daphne protested. “Unless they wish to enter a nunnery or
Convent Garden.”

Emily refrained from commenting on the advice
of the mysterious lord who had taken Society by storm. Lord
Pompadour Snedley’s
Guide to London’s Beau Monde
,
illustrated and annotated, had been all the rage, even at the
Barnsley School. Certainly Daphne had memorized the volume in the
last few days before graduation.

“Surely we can reason with Lord Robert,”
Ariadne protested. “You told us you had been betrothed for years.
If your father approves, it must be a decent match. Why refuse him,
sight unseen?”

Until that moment, she’d always approved of
Ariadne’s logic. Oh, she might get the odd fancy from time to time.
She was an author, after all. Her mind positively brimmed with
knowledge from the plays, poetry, and books she’d read. But in the
face of such logic, how was Emily to admit that it wasn’t logic
that moved her. Her! The one who prided herself on never succumbing
to emotions!

As if Priscilla sensed her weakening, she
came to sit near Emily on one of the delicate little chairs.
“Perhaps this isn’t so horrid,” she said. “Some people might even
say you’re fortunate. With his family connections, Lord Robert is
quite a catch.”

“Perhaps,” Emily acknowledged. “But I don’t
know why I must catch him. I’m not a tremendous heiress; I bring
only a small estate from my mother to a marriage. And if it’s a
duke’s consequence he craves, there must be other dukes with
marriageable daughters.”

“Not as many as you might think,” Priscilla
said with a sigh. “I’m having trouble enough finding one who is
eligible.”

Daphne leaned across the tea table, blue eyes
widening. “Oh, Priscilla, have you set your sights on a duke,
then?”

By the way Priscilla’s head lifted, Emily
knew it for the truth. “They are generally old and crotchety,
Pris,” she reminded her, “except for His Grace, course.”

“You are referring to the royal dukes, the
brothers of the Prince,” Priscilla said with a sniff. “Of course I
would not settle for one of those. I rather thought I’d seek
introduction to the Duke of Rottenford. He’s said to be rather
dashing.”

“He’s the youngest of the bachelor dukes and
has a fortune of ten thousand pounds per annum and a seat just
outside London,” Ariadne said. “I read it in
DeBrett’s
Peerage
.”

“You see?” Priscilla said with a sigh. “He’s
perfect. And if you took the trouble to look into your engagement
further, Emily, you might find that it is every bit as good. It
will put you in the best position. You can flirt, and no one can
get peeved because they’ll all know you’re taken.”

“And you can eat whatever you like,” Ariadne
added, “without fear that you won’t fit in your presentation gown.”
She reached for another comfit, and Daphne nudged her hand
away.

“Besides,” Priscilla continued, “everyone
will want to congratulate you. As your dear friends, we’d be quite
popular.”

That was the one problem with Priscilla. She
tended to think of her own needs first.

“But Priscilla,” Daphne protested, “how could
we enjoy ourselves knowing we’d consigned Lady Emily to a
monster?”

“Forgetting etiquette does not make Lord
Robert a monster,” Priscilla began when there was a cough at the
door. Warburton met their gazes with a smile.

“Forgive the interruption, ladies, but the
monster, that is Lord Robert, has come calling, and I wasn’t sure
you wished to receive him.” He eyed the girls pointedly.

Emily raised her chin. “I’d very much like a
word with him, Warburton. Please show him up. Is Lady Minerva
receiving yet?”

“Alas, no. I believe she has only just called
for her breakfast tray.”

Emily nodded. “Then we’ll receive him
ourselves.”

"But do give us a few moments first, Mr.
Warburton,” Priscilla said sweetly.

Emily thanked him and turned to ask Priscilla
why they needed time. But one look at her friends, and she
knew.

They were all primping.

She supposed she should do the same: fluffing
up the curls on either side of her face like Priscilla or biting
her lips to make them appear rosier like Ariadne. She wasn’t sure
why Daphne was flapping her arms up and down like a goose, but she
guessed it was on the sophisticated advice of Lord Snedley.

Still, Emily saw no need to posture for Lord
Robert. He’d insisted on marriage before he had any idea of whether
they’d even suit! She was ready to level him immediately, tell him
that under no circumstances would she marry him. But when he paused
in the doorway a few moments later, words failed her.

He looked like one of the heroes in her
paintings -- tall and powerful. Against all odds, he had the same
glorious mane of hair as her mysterious caller of last night,
though it was artfully styled around a face that had surely graced
a statue of a Greek god. His eyes were a deep clear blue that
warmed with his smile. His dove gray coat was so fitted it showed
nary a crease as he bowed.

Priscilla eyed him, Ariadne paled, and Daphne
stared open-mouthed, despite all of Lord Snedley’s pointed
advice.

“Heaven is missing a few angels today, I
see,” he said as he straightened.

“I have read that line a dozen times before,”
Ariadne said in a disappointed whisper to Emily. “He could do
better.”

He evidently thought he’d done well, for his
smile was confident as he strolled into the room. He went to
Priscilla first, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips.

She smiled. “Such a pleasure to meet you, my
lord. Lady Emily has told us so much about you.”

And not a whit of it good. What was Pris
thinking, smiling so fetchingly that dimples danced at the corners
of her mouth? Lord Robert blinked as if he’d forgotten his own
name, then some other emotion flashed across his face. Regret? Of
course! He didn’t know which one of the girls was Emily. So much
for having conceived a passion for her.

She rose. “You can stop the pleasantries. I’m
not going to marry you.”

He raised his brows, as if he had not
expected her to attack and now must marshal his thoughts. Priscilla
rolled her eyes, clearly begging heaven for help. Daphne nodded her
support so vigorously she was in danger of hitting her sister with
her swinging curls.

“But of course you are, dear Lady Emily,” he
said, moving to her side. The scent of cloves washed over her, and
she had to stop herself from inhaling like a child in a kitchen
with freshly baked buns. He took her hand and kissed her knuckles.
The warm pressure sent a shiver up her arm. Oh, why did he have to
be such a paragon!

“I am your most devoted servant, I assure
you,” he murmured, releasing her. “As soon as I heard you had
arrived in London, I came straight away to pay my respects.”

As it was now nearly noon, she doubted he’d
been in any particular hurry. Still, if he could be polite, then so
could she. “These are my dear friends, Miss Tate, Miss Courdebas,
and Miss Ariadne Courdebas.” Very likely she’d said their names so
quickly he wasn’t at all sure who was who, but Lord Robert
obligingly nodded to them all.

“And what scintillating conversation have I
interrupted?” he asked, spreading his coattails to sit on the chair
closest to hers.

Priscilla and Ariadne exchanged glances
again, and Emily glared at them in warning as she took her seat
once more.

“We were discussing etiquette, my lord,”
Daphne announced, affixing him with a narrow-eyed look. “And how do
you feel about the subject?”

Lord Robert pursed his lips as he leaned back
in the chair and stretched out his legs. They were quite long.
Priscilla was eying them as if measuring each inch.

“I suppose I’ve never given it much thought,”
he said, spreading his hands. “A gentleman is merely a
gentleman.”

Emily frowned, but Priscilla jumped in to the
conversation. “But surely it is good etiquette to congratulate you,
my lord. We were so excited to hear of your engagement.”

Excited was hardly the word, but he could not
know that as he smiled at her. “I am the most fortunate of
mortals.” He ran a hand along Emily’s arm. She supposed the gesture
was meant to be romantic, but it felt possessive. She knew she was,
by her nature, entirely too suspicious, but she could not shake the
feeling that something was wrong. How could he be so nauseatingly
perfect, so delighted with marrying her? As a child, he’d teased
and tormented her. She’d always considered him a toad!

Priscilla clapped her hands together. “Oh, I
just had a vision! We will toast your engagement at the Ball! I’ve
heard of the most cunning fountain, all bubbles and froth, and the
ladies might dip their goblets for a taste. It will be the talk of
London!”

Lord Robert withdrew his hand from Emily’s
arm. “Ball? What ball?”

“My and Emily’s coming out Ball,” Priscilla
said, dimples popping into view once more. “On April fourteenth. Do
say you’ll come.”

His smile was sad. “Unfortunately, that is
impossible. Lady Emily and I will be married and in Devonshire by
then.”

“We most certainly will not,” Emily
argued.

As he frowned, Priscilla put in smoothly,
“Surely Lord Robert is teasing us. No gentleman would deprive his
betrothed of her first Season.” Emily thought she was not the only
one who heard the steel behind the tone.

“It is with great regret that I must do so,
Miss Tate,” Lord Robert assured her. “Most likely Lady Emily has
mentioned to you that my dear father went to his reward this past
October. My poor mother, Lady Wakenoak, is heartbroken. As this
marriage was my father’s dream, I ease her pain by honoring his
wishes as expediently as good taste allows.”

“My condolences on your loss,” Emily said,
remembering His Grace mentioning Lord Wakenoak’s passing in a
letter and feeling like a selfish oaf for wanting to distress the
poor widow further. “But I truly do not wish to wed.”

“Especially before the Ball,” Priscilla
added.

His russet brows drew together as if he were
not certain how Emily could refuse him. Very likely, so few people
ever had.

Daphne nodded her support. “We’ve been
looking forward to this Ball for ages, my lord. It is the pinnacle
of our achievements and signals to the world that we are ready to
take our rightful places in Good Society.”

“Well said,” Ariadne put in admiringly. “I
shall ask you to repeat that later so I can copy it into my
journal.”

As Daphne beamed, Lord Robert leaned closer
to Emily. “Surely,” he murmured, “we shouldn’t quarrel over such a
small matter, my pet.”

Those lovely blue eyes pleaded for
understanding. It was quite like looking into the coming night and
the secrets it promised. The thought set her cheeks aflame.

“This is no small matter, sir,” Priscilla
protested. “Lady Emily has plans for her Season. She intends to
gain entrance to the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts.”

The Royal Society. Her paintings. Her dreams
made Lord Robert’s lovely eyes fade in comparison. Emily rose, head
high. Even the swish of her wool skirts sounded defiant. “Yes, Lord
Robert. Joining the society is the only way for me to become an
acknowledged artist. Painting is my life’s passion.”

Though he ought to have stood when she had,
he gazed up at her, smile as solid as the muscles beneath his
tailored coat. “Now, now. Every young lady seems to consider
herself an artist until she has better ways to spend her time. I’m
certain you will have no trouble leaving it behind. Besides, we
will be in Devonshire by a week from tomorrow, so you will not be
able to attend Miss Tate’s ball or any meetings of the Royal
Society for the Beaux Arts.”

As Emily joined Priscilla in glaring at him,
he rose at last. “Ladies, I should remember my purpose in calling.
My mother is hosting a dinner party on Sunday to celebrate the
engagement. Because His Grace is so busy, we’ll likely sign the
marriage settlements then as well. I trust you can all come.”