It was all about Will. She'd promised to give him an answer when they met again. And she was pretty sure that, as soon as she went back to the Regency, she'd see him, no matter where she was when she landed there. Every transition seemed to be about Will. And Lady Emma. Together.
So she'd better have her answer ready.
But what exactly was the question? What did he really want of her?
She thought hard, trying to remember precisely what he had said in the park. Not will you marry me? That was for sure. Rakes certainly did not marry their mistresses.
No, he wanted to continue their affair. Which had been going on, she supposed, for a while, on and off. During her mourning? Possibly. It might be useful to find out how they'd first met. If she was subtle enough, she might be able to get him to talk about it – what he'd thought when he first set eyes on her, why he'd been attracted to her in the first place, that sort of thing – and pick up clues about the when and where.
But what really mattered was whether it was going to continue. And that was to be Emma's decision. He'd even said he would abide by any restrictions she wanted to impose. That was quite a concession. Most rakes, she imagined, would want to brag about their conquests to their drinking mates. Will, it seemed, was different. Hadn't the ladies at the soirée commented on how discreet he was? So Emma could probably trust him with Lady Emma's reputation.
There was always chance, though. Someone might see them together. And her servants would know, too. Would it be possible to stop them from gossiping? Hmm. She'd have to consult Bailey about that, she decided.
So you've decided to go back AND to continue the affair, have you?
Emma told her inner voice to shut up. Or to concentrate on identifying the most sensible way to keep on meeting Will.
The Lamb House. The Lamb House and the golden lace. They were tied together somehow. That was where she'd first seen Will, in all his naked beauty.
She had to swallow hard at the thought of him and force herself to focus on reason instead of lust. The Lamb House was where they'd first made love, at least, the first that Modern Emma had experienced with him. Will had some kind of relationship with the house, hadn't he? So perhaps they could meet there?
Hmm. Difficult. How would Emma get there when she was living in Mayfair? If she travelled by carriage, she could be seen. And her servants would certainly guess what she was doing.
The best solution would be to materialise at the Lamb House from the modern-day museum. But she didn't seem to have any control at all over where she arrived. It had been the Lamb House once; but it had been a London soirée on the second occasion and her own London house on the third.
What if Emma took the lace gown to the Lamb House and put it on there?
It wouldn't work. She knew perfectly well that it had to be exactly seven in the evening. And she had to be in the research room, listening to St Mary's bells.
But what if she was wrong about that?
She had no answer to that one, so she filled the void by phoning the museum to apologise for taking a second sick day. This time, she spoke to Richard. He was very sympathetic. His wife, Melanie, had suffered from migraines when they were first married, he said, though they hadn't recurred since Chloë was born. The museum had nothing urgent on, so she should take the time to get well. Even if it took a third day.
Emma was smiling as she put the phone down. No, I can't bear to wait another day before I see Will again. I need to BE with him.
She hugged herself and did a little dance round the kitchen table, imagining herself in Will's arms. But her nagging inner voice soon put a stop to that. It reminded her she needed to know what she would actually do when she found him again.
She fetched a pad and pen from her desk and sat down to explore options.
~ ~ ~
Her options hadn't amounted to all that much, in the end. Taking the gown to the Lamb House could never be made to work, because the house closed to the public at five in the evening. There was no way Emma could be alone inside at seven. The house manager was responsible for the security of the property and she always made a point of locking up and setting the alarms by no later than six.
It had to be the museum and the lace gown. At precisely seven o'clock.
Once she was back in the Regency, she would have to find a way of getting to the Lamb House. She would enlist Bailey's aid, she decided. And she would take back Will's dressing room key, too. If she did make it back to the Lamb House, she'd find a way of dropping it there. Someone would be sure to find it and restore it to its place.
So she ensured it was safely stowed in her coat pocket when she set out for the museum, very early on Wednesday morning. She needed to get in early in order to catch up on some of the computer work she had said she was doing on Friday night. She couldn't afford for any of the museum staff to notice that almost no records had been added to the catalogue, in spite of all the extra hours the costume curator was supposedly putting in to deal with the backlog.
In any case, it would salve her conscience to do some routine work. She might even enjoy it.
Perhaps surprisingly, she did. By the time Richard arrived, about ten minutes later than normal, she had dealt with a large bundle of index cards and she was pretty sure that no one could now question how much she'd done. Or when exactly she'd done it. Her brain had been buzzing and she'd been able to do each entry amazingly fast.
Self-preservation? Probably.
But it didn't matter. As long as it worked.
"Goodness. You're in early again, Emma. Are you sure it's a good idea? Migraines can be horrendous, I know. Shouldn't you be taking it easy?"
Emma smiled up at him and shook her head. "I'm absolutely fine now, Richard. Honestly. But my conscience was getting at me. I've hardly been in the job two minutes and here I am, taking two days off sick with a migraine. So I thought I'd come in early and do a few more cards. If I keep at it, I may even speed up enough to get through the pile. Seems to take me ages to do each one." If her colleagues assumed she took a long time over each card, they wouldn't question her slow progress overall. Her little lie was justified.
In order to be with Will.
The mere thought of him made her insides start to melt, all over again. His naked image was so real in her mind that she felt she could almost reach out and touch him. And his reaction when he'd seen her— There was certainly no room for doubt about just how much he wanted her.
"Er– if you're really sure you're feeling OK…" Richard was hovering, almost hopping from foot to foot. Emma had been so absorbed in her own daydream that she had forgotten him.
This time she made a real effort to reassure him. She got up from her chair and put a friendly hand on his arm. "I'm absolutely fine, I promise you, Richard. It's a long time since I had anything like this, but in the past they always cleared up after a day, or two at most, and I would be right as rain."
"Until the next time?" His mouth quirked into a rueful smile. It seemed he did know about migraines.
"Yes, well, that was then. There's no reason to assume I'll have any more. At least, I'm hoping so. I had, er, some personal problems at the weekend and they obviously got to me a bit. But they're sorted now," she finished firmly. She really didn't want him to ask.
Unfortunately, he did. "Would it help to talk about it? I can be very discreet, you know."
She shook her head. "Thank you, but no. It's not something I'm prepared to talk about, even with someone as sympathetic and discreet as you. Sorry."
"Um. Yes, I see. But if you change your mind, the offer is always open."
"Thank you. You're a good friend, Richard. I do appreciate it." When he still didn't leave, Emma realised she must have missed an earlier signal. "But that wasn't what you originally wanted to say, was it?" She smiled invitingly.
"No, actually. We're in a bit of a fix, Melanie and I. We've got tickets for the Met opera on Saturday – the screening at the local cinema, you know? – and Melanie doesn't w
ant to miss it. Unfortunately our usual babysitter has double-booked herself and so I was wondering if you might—?"
"Babysit for Chloë? Saturday night? Of course I will. I'd love to. What's the opera?"
"Madam Butterfly. It's Melanie's favourite."
"Have to say it's not mine," Emma said with a grimace. "Oh, the music is lovely, but the plot infuriates me – a grown man going through a sham marriage with an underage girl in order to have sex with her? And then declaring his eternal love for Butterfly, knowing all the time that he's going to abandon her? No, Pinkerton is a predatory bastard of the first order, I reckon. No amount of beautiful music can make up for that." She stopped herself before she said something even more revealing about betraying husbands. Richard might start to put two and two together, given what Emma had said about personal problems. "Don't tell Melanie I detest her favourite opera, though," she added quickly, with a conspiratorial grin. "I wouldn't want to spoil her special night out."
~ ~ ~
"I've forgotten the blasted key."
The words were out before Emma could stop them. She looked round quickly to see if anyone had heard. It seemed that no one was about. She let out a long sigh of relief. She'd made it back to the Regency, wearing the lace gown, but she'd left the dressing room key in her coat pocket, back in the museum. Ah well, it couldn't be helped. Another time, perhaps?
She was alone, thank goodness. But where was she this time?
It was some kind of sitting room. There was a fire in the grate and candles in the wall sconces. There were portraits on the walls, too, but nothing she recognised. So she assumed it must be someone else's house.
Whose? And why was she here?
Above the crackle of the logs, she thought she could hear music. Was that a flute? She went to the door and opened it a crack. Yes, music. Quite a large group by the sound of it. Several stringed instruments and woodwind as well.
If there's a small orchestra playing, then it's a ball or, at least, a pretty large musical soirée. And if I'm here, in my ballgown, it's because I was invited.
Is Will here, too?
It couldn't be the Rutherford ball, could it? Not unless she was doubling back on herself. She'd been in the Regency on the night of the Rutherford ball and she had stayed at home, trying to fathom out how the lace gown worked. It had been very late when she'd started to take the gown off and found herself back in the museum.
The gown couldn't have brought her back to an earlier time, could it?
Somewhere a clock began to chime. One, two. Followed by silence.
Two o'clock? In the morning? What time was it when I took the gown off?
Emma tried to remember. She'd been waiting for half-past three, to go down to the entrance hall, but it had been much earlier when she'd taken the gown off. After midnight, certainly. But after two?
She didn't think so.
Even if she couldn't go back to a time she'd already "lived" in the Regency, it might be the Rutherford ball. Balls went on for hours after midnight. This seemed to be a case in point: it was two o'clock in the morning and the orchestra was still going strong.
I don't know whether it's the Rutherford ball and it doesn't really matter. Will is probably here. And I'm going to have to talk to him. So I might as well get it over with.
She pulled the door wide, raised her chin and sailed out into the corridor, following the sound of the music until she found the source.
It was a ball, all right. The ballroom was enormous, lit by what seemed to be thousands of candles and heaving with people. The heat was overpowering. Several of the gentlemen were perspiring visibly in their layers of evening clothes, especially the soldiers in tight dress uniforms with high gold-braided collars. Most of the ladies were fanning themselves pretty hard, too.
Emma opened her own fan and waved it gently as she stepped forward into the room. She looked, she hoped, like a late arrival who had not yet been affected by the heat.
Was she a late arrival? Or had she been here earlier, in her doppelgänger guise? No way of knowing. She'd just have to brazen it out.
I'm getting better and better at being brazen. She almost laughed at the thought. There were definitely advantages to being a haughty aristocrat. No one dared to question what she chose to do, even when it was outrageous.
"Good evening, Lady Emma."
Will. Yes, it had to be Will. And he was being remarkably circumspect. Was that because there were so many people about?
She responded in kind, dipping a tiny curtsey in response to his elegant bow. "Good evening, Sir William. How very pleasant to see you again. You are well, I trust?"
He dropped his voice half an octave. "As well as I was when I left you this morning."
Oh.
"You mean…?" She let the words trail off.
"Have you forgotten already, ma'am? You wound me. You do indeed. May I remind you that I had the honour of escorting you for a space in Green Park? We discussed, er, milkmaids. And cows."
He might have lowered his voice but he was definitely enjoying baiting her, even though he must know it would do her reputation no good at all if she were known to have met him in the park. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Will Allmay definitely had a nasty sense of humour.
"I fear you are mistaken, Sir William. If you discussed something as…as agricultural as cows, it must have been with some other lady. What do I know of cows, pray?"
He raised his eyebrows. Rather scornfully, Emma thought. "Forgive me, ma'am. I fancied you might have taken an interest in your late husband's prize herd of longhorns. I'm told they are quite a sight to behold."
She bit her lip. He was enjoying this, blast him. And he clearly knew more than Emma did. "My husband's herd was special, sir, and quite out of the common way," she said quickly. "The animals in the park, so I am told, at least, are merely simple milking cows. Why should you think I would interest myself in such beasts?"
"Why, indeed?" He cocked his head. The orchestra had begun to play a waltz. "But shall we forget the agricultural in favour of the cultural? Might I ask for the honour of this dance? It is a waltz, you know." There was a wicked glint in his eye as he added that last, and totally unnecessary, rider. He was telling her how much he wanted to hold her in his arms.
Emma wanted it too. But did the high-stickler dare to dance, publicly, with the greatest stud in London?
He held out his gloved hand. And waited.
"I—" She fiddled with the dance card hanging from her wrist. "I'm not certain I am free," she began.
He seized her card and opened it. "As I thought," he muttered in a low voice. "Every dance is free because you have only this moment arrived. But I am glad, for I had begun to think you had broken your promise and would not appear at this ball at all."
"Sir, I made you no promise," she protested. Then she, too, lowered her voice to a bare whisper. "I said we would talk the next time we met. But I made no promise to attend this ball." She drew herself up. "I do not break my promises."
"No," he replied simply, "you do not. And it is one of the things I admire about you, my sweet. One of the many things. So now – will you waltz with me?"
What choice did she have? She put her hand into his, walked with him onto the dance floor and was drawn into his arms.
Chapter Twelve
Being in Will's arms was heaven. Second only to being in his bed, lying naked together.
Emma tried very hard to put that thought out of her mind, but with his left hand clasping her fingers, and his right against her back, it was impossible, even though he was not actually touching her: his skin was separated from hers by his gloves and her lace. Yet it felt as though her back were burning. She fancied that, when she looked at her skin in the mirror, there would be a fiery handprint where his palm had rested.
They barely spoke during their waltz. For a long time, Emma could think of nothing to say. And Will, it seemed, was content to be holding her. At last, as he whirled her round the floor, dancing with
control and elegance, she managed to say, tritely, "How well you dance, sir."
He chuckled low in his throat. "For an uncouth sailor, you mean, ma'am? I should perhaps say that a good sense of balance is essential for dancing the waltz." With that, he threw her into a reverse turn which she managed to follow, just, though it was the last thing she had expected. "And a sense of balance is one thing that we uncouth sailors acquire pretty early on in our careers. Indeed, if we fail there, our careers tend to be, er, rather short. When one climbs a mast, in a rolling sea, a sense of balance is – shall we say – useful?" He chuckled again and then fell silent.
Emma couldn't bear to look into his eyes, so she fixed her gaze on his mouth. No, another mistake. She tried his cravat, and that strange gold pin, instead. Less arousing.
After several more turns, he said, very quietly, "It is usual to converse with one's partner while dancing, ma'am. Or, at least, to look at him occasionally."
Oh. "I—" She glanced up quickly into his face. It was a mad thought on her part, but he seemed to be drinking her in.
Don't look at me like that. She thought it, but she managed to stop herself from saying the words aloud. It would have been such a confession of failure on her part. He would know that, when she was in his arms, she was incapable of coherent thought or action. If he did not know it already.
They continued to waltz in silence. She thought his hand tightened a little against her back but it might have been wishful thinking. She loved being held close to him, but she was afraid of what the other dancers, and the onlookers, might see. It was a highly dangerous proceeding, waltzing with Will Allmay. If she had any sense, she would never do it again. But the temptation, she knew, would be very great.
Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip Page 10