The Heir and the Spare (8 page)

“It is a horribly depressing day,” Lady Palmerston said, rustling the pages of her newspaper. “I don’t think we shall receive many callers this morning, and I have no inclination to pay calls myself, or do anything that requires me to leave this chair.”
There goes my plan to go to the circulating library,
Emilia thought.

“Do you think Lord Huntley will call on us today?” Emilia asked, looking out the window once more.

“Probably not, as he is most likely feeling the aftereffects of imbibing far too much alcohol,” Lady Palmerston answered, not even looking up from her gossip column, which detailed a raging party at the home of a certain actress, Mrs. Roth, better known for her performances in the bedroom than on the stage, if the gossip sheets were to be trusted. Usually, they were. Apparently, a certain Lord H— had enjoyed a game of whist, a large quantity of brandy, and Mrs. Roth. One must keep track of these things.

“Perhaps he has business appointments or something,” her niece offered, in such a hopeful tone that it nearly broke Lady Palmerston’s heart and yet still managed to vex her. Clearly her dear niece did not have much experience with rakes, rogues, and scoundrels.

“Emilia, dear,” she began, setting down the paper. “Perhaps my brain is no longer functioning properly, due to my old age—”

“You can’t be older than five and forty, which is not so very old. But while we are on the subject, how old are you?”

“It’s a secret. But please, do explain why you are in love with Lord Huntley.”

“I do believe it was a case of love at first sight,” Emilia said reluctantly, moving from the window to the settee.

“The most unreliable sort,” Lady Palmerston said.

“But we had a
connection
,” Emilia persisted.

“I see,” she replied. When trying to obtain information, particularly from love-struck young girls, it was only necessary to ask one question before all the desired information came tumbling out.

That explained quite a bit. The scoundrel was handsome. And he did happen to be at the right place at the right time. That really was all it took for love at first sight, she thought. But if there had been a “connection,” it appeared that Lord Phillip had either forgotten it or had never felt it. Then again, the man was a fool.

“But now,” Emilia went on, “I am not so sure. But I keep wanting to give him chances to make me sure. Does that make sense? Like that second waltz at the Maclesfield Ball. I thought I would melt, right there in the ballroom. And yet, when he calls, he is perfectly pleasant, but I don’t
feel
anything.”

“It does make some sense,” she replied. Phillip did seem intently focused on Emilia that evening, more so that he usually did.

“Besides, I am terribly bored just sitting here.”

“Hmmph.” She, personally, found Lord Phillip to be terribly tedious and did not see how his presence in her drawing room would relieve anyone’s boredom.

“Were you this confused when Lord Palmerston was courting you?” Emilia asked. Her aunt seemed thoughtful for a moment before responding.

“No. He was a very blunt and honest man. But, obviously, I never took another husband since this courtship business can be so . . .”

“Agonizing?” Emilia supplied.

“I was going to say that by the time I was widowed, I found other people’s affairs far more interesting than my own.”

Groves entered just then, bearing a letter for Emilia on a silver tray. She looked at the seal and her eyes lit up.

“What does the scoundrel want now?”

“He wishes for us to attend the theater with him tonight.”

“He doesn’t seem like the sort to enjoy the theater.”

“Yes, but I am. Can we go?”

“I am intrigued, as it is decidedly out of character. Yes, do reply that we shall attend with him.”

Later that evening, properly dressed for the theater, the two women once again waited in the drawing room.

“Shouldn’t he be here by now? It is eight o’clock,” Emilia said, eyes on the clock.

“It is unfashionable to arrive anywhere on time. One must be precisely fifteen minutes late,” Lady Palmerston replied. Her niece was sweet and well meaning, but terribly naïve about certain matters.

“What a silly rule.”

“Of course. That is why we follow it religiously.”

At precisely eight fifteen, Groves announced that the scoundrel had arrived. Those weren’t his exact words, of course. But nevertheless, they donned their shawls and went out to his carriage.

Phillip’s carriage was black. Inside it was richly appointed with red velvet seats. The scoundrel moved to the opposite side of the carriage so the ladies could ride facing forward. Emilia, once again disregarding the rules, sat beside him. Lady Palmerston gave them a warning glance.

“What are we seeing tonight?” Emilia asked.

“I have no idea,” Phillip answered casually. “I figured we would just look at everyone else in attendance. I have a very good view from my box.”

Lady Palmerston laughed. “Huntley, that is the first thing to come out of your mouth that I have liked.”

“Pleasing you, Lady Palmerston, has been the highlight of my life,” he replied dryly.

Clearly they understood each other, Lady Palmerston thought. He seemed well aware of the fact that she disapproved of him. But what on earth did her niece see in him? So what if he had caught Emilia once when she tripped! So had footmen all over town—some of them just as handsome, in her opinion—and Emilia had not fallen madly and inexplicably in love with any of them. She might grant that his reputation did give him an air of intrigue, the stuff of novels that a girl would no doubt find irresistible. She should never have told her niece that. Yet it was precisely because of that reputation that she was highly suspicious of his present utterly decorous behavior toward her niece. She was not privy to his finances, naturally, but everyone knew of Emilia’s fortune.

The box did indeed have an excellent view, Emilia thought, as she leaned over the balcony to look at the jostling crowds below. The air smelled of the many bodies packed in, tempered by the oranges being sold and devoured.

Phillip occupied the chair beside her, seeming slightly bored by what must have been routine to him. But he couldn’t dampen her excitement at being at the theater. Lady Palmerston removed a pair of gold quizzing glasses from her reticule and started scanning the other boxes, her silence punctuated by the occasional
hmmph.
The din of the crowds fell silent as the velvet curtain parted for Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night
, one of Emilia’s favorites that she had read many times, but had never seen performed.

As Phillip leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, Emilia leaned forward in her seat, taking in the brightly painted backdrops and costumes of the actors. She murmured the lines along with the actors. Every now and then she would look over to see if Phillip was enjoying this at least half as much as she was.

The man had fallen asleep!

She scowled at him, then turned her attention back to the stage. But she couldn’t focus on the play. Weren’t men in love always trying to be near the object of their desire? Stealing a kiss, a touch, even a secret glance? Perhaps she had been reading too many novels.

He had done so once. But he clearly had no intention of doing so again.
Promise me it won’t happen again,
he had said. Oh, the thought burned still. But couldn’t he even show the smallest sign of affection? He could hold her hand, at least . . . It was dark, and they were seated quite close to one another, and her chaperone was in all likelihood more focused on what was transpiring in other boxes.

Twice he had made his desire clear, and both times he had seemed like a different man.

Perhaps she was the fool, to want to bond herself to him for life based on the memory of one kiss. It had been the greatest five minutes of her life. But supposing she did marry Phillip, supposing he even asked, would kisses like that compensate for a husband who was otherwise indifferent? Who oh-so-rarely had a spark in his eyes when he looked at her. Were love and passion so much to ask for?

Phillip selected that moment to emit a snore. Appalling. His head suddenly jerked forward, and he awoke. He lazily fixed his eyes on the stage. Emilia turned away.

Oh, to be loved and love like
that
, Emilia thought.

She didn’t wish to, but she could not help wondering why she fancied herself in love with Phillip. It wasn’t for his great estate or nobility. He apparently did not possess a stainless youth, according to her aunt, but that didn’t matter to her either. It was that one kiss.

A gracious person
. . . the line stuck in her head. Your Grace—that was how to address a duke or a duchess. And if she married Phillip, she would one day be a duchess, and every time she tripped, fell, or spilled something, someone would ask her, an utterly graceless person, “Are you all right, Your
Grace
?” A bubble of horrified laughter escaped her.

And then she remembered what had first captivated her so about him. The way he moved, the way he carried himself, the way he caught her. How could Phillip ever again catch her if he never stood close enough?

The curtain drew to a close, signifying the end of the first half. Phillip offered to fetch them lemonades, and then vanished, leaving the two women alone. They spent the duration of the intermission gossiping about the fashion choices, both disastrous and complimentary, of the other women in attendance.

Phillip returned to the box and handed them each a glass of lemonade just as the curtain parted for the second half of the performance. Sometime in the fourth act, Emilia stole a glance at Phillip, who was staring straight ahead, with his eyes just barely open. She just couldn’t help but look at him. She focused on Phillip’s perfect, aristocratic profile. She saw the planes of smooth, flawless skin, the slope of his nose, and slight frown lines. His mouth that had once offered her such pleasure was now held in a grim line.

Phillip was aware that Emilia was staring at him. Finding the play dull, he amused himself while trying to decide which was more irritating—her staring at his profile, or the way she would occasionally mouth the words along with the actors. Since when did females have Shakespeare memorized? No matter, it would all change once they were married. Of course, he would not be such a fool to bring it up until then. She didn’t seem the sort who would take kindly to being told her behavior wasn’t befitting a duchess. He could not afford to jeopardize losing her affections. Or her fortune. He would be a model of decorum until his ring was on her finger.

After escorting his heiress and her chaperone home, and not being due to Mrs. Roth’s home until much later in the night, Phillip went to Whites. As he assumed, Parkhurst was there.

The two men soon occupied a corner table, drinks in hand.

“Didn’t see you at the Loringthon Ball tonight,” Parkhurst said.

“I went to the theater,” Phillip said, grimacing, not entirely due to the large sip of brandy he had just taken.

“You?” Parkhurst said with a snort. “Oh, let me guess. Part of your courtship routine.”

Phillip nodded. “I cannot endure it much longer.”

“Miss Highhart seems agreeable enough.”

“She is, I grant her that. But she stares at me. Lady Palmerston glares at me. It’s really unnerving.”

“If she annoys you this much now, it will only be worse when she stares at you adoringly at the breakfast table every morning for
the rest of your life
.”

“Damn it, Parkhurst! I’m trying not to think of that. I suppose I can just dump her in the country or something.”

“There are other heiresses, you know.” There was something in Parkhurst’s voice that made Phillip wonder if his friend pitied the girl, or harbored some affection for her.

“Yes, I know that,” Phillip snapped. “But they are all terrified of me, and Miss Highhart fancies herself in love with me. It’s annoying, but it does make the whole process easier.” He took another sip. “I just can’t bring myself to propose. I don’t even know how one goes about it.”

“You know, Phillip, you really ought to throw a house party.”

“Why ever would I do that? And what does that have to do with anything?”

“People are always getting engaged at house parties. Plenty of opportunities for compromising positions and getting caught and all that.”

“True,” Phillip said. “I’ll think about it.”

After a moment of silence, both men finished their drinks in one long gulp and Phillip said good night. He made his way to the home of the notorious Mrs. Roth.

The
following morning Emilia was reading the newspaper while alone at the breakfast table. She squinted at the small print in an article in the business section about the success of Diamond Shipping, the company that her father owned. She put it aside, unfinished, when her aunt arrived.

“Good morning, Emilia. How are you this morning?” her aunt asked while a servant poured her a cup of tea.

“Fine, thanks.”

“This arrived for you,” her aunt said, handing her a letter. “It’s from that scoundrel.”

Emilia opened the letter and quickly skimmed the contents. “It’s an invitation to a house party at Cliveden. Can we go?”