Rules of Refinement (The Marriage Maker)

by Tarah Scott

  Rich fabric rustled as those slippers brought the viscountess near. “You seem sad, child. It pains me that you’ve been abused so.”

  Emilia didn’t believe Lady Cinthia’s sympathy, but she did feel rather abused. An ache filled her throat. She shrugged, for words forced past that ache would come out thick with tears. She would not give her pain to this woman.

  “It would be better for you, I think, if you could leave soon.” False compassion slithered through Lady Cinthia’s voice. “Why suffer while you await your father? A gentleman farmer, I assume?”

  Emilia nodded.

  “He’ll be doubly busy this time of year,” Lady Cinthia said. “I don’t want you to have to linger in this state for days, perhaps weeks, even.”

  A gloved hand settled on Emilia’s shoulder. She tried not to cringe from the feather-light touch.

  “To make up for the poor treatment the men in my life have given you, allow me to provide transport. I’ll hire a carriage to take you home.”

  Emilia looked up. She flinched to find those blue eyes so near her own, the slender viscountess looking down at her from beneath white-blonde locks.

  “Thank you.” She would accept help from this woman, if only to never have to see her again.

  “How about tomorrow morning, then, dear?” Lady Cinthia’s smile was smug.

  “That would be wonderful. Thank you, my lady.”

  “Good. You’ll want to pack. No time for the final ball.”

  “Oh, no, definitely not. I wasn’t going to attend, actually. I don’t feel very…festive.”

  “Splendid.”

  How could the woman smile with absolutely no warmth? Was the ability to completely falsify emotions a particular skill of the English? Whereas before she had longed to visit London, now Emilia resolved never to travel there.

  “I’m glad we had this talk, Miss Glasbarr, and that I’m able to help return you home with all alacrity.”

  “I am as well, my lady.” She was. The sooner she left Edinburgh, the sooner she could forget Robert. It would be a momentous task not to dwell on memories of his laughter, his grey eyes. But a change of scenery must surely help.

  “Well, run along and pack, child.” Lady Cinthia’s clipped accent scattered Emilia’s thoughts.

  “Thank you, my lady,” she said for what seemed the tenth time. She curtsied and left. As she traversed the nearly empty halls, she hoped the viscountess was behind her forever.

  Once in her room, Emilia sent for her trunk from storage and laid out her wardrobe. The drab dress she wore would do well enough for travel. She hadn’t brought much, or gained much while in Edinburgh. Once she was gone, her life would be almost the same as if she’d never attended Lady Peddington’s school.

  By the time the ball began, Emilia was packed. She stood in the middle of the room, empty now of signs of her occupancy. Tomorrow, she would bid Lady Peddington’s farewell. This room, the school, even her friends, would become buried in the past with her dreams. If only she could shed thoughts of Robert as easily.

  She looked down at her dress. She didn’t wish to go to the ball, and couldn’t, dressed as she was, but remaining in her room seemed unbearable. Almost unbidden, her feet set out, the rest of her accompanying them by necessity.

  Careful to stay clear of the front wing foyer, candlelit halls and ballroom, she wandered the building, silently saying goodbye. When she reached Missus Millview’s classroom, directly across the courtyard from the ballroom, she slipped inside to find the space dark. Emilia turned in a slow circle. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved. She would like to say farewell to her favorite instructor, but didn’t wish to admit her failure. Missus Millview had aided her, at risk to her position, and Emilia had squandered that assistance. A man was sent to help her find a good husband, just as she’d hoped. Instead of falling in love with one of the perfectly acceptable gentlemen Robert introduced her to, she’d fallen in love with him.

  By moonlight, she paced the room, and trailed her fingers over the long tables. She made a full circuit. Memories of friends and laughter bubbled in her mind. They were overcast now, colored darker, sadder, by this waystop in her journey. As was the room, muted in the pale glow of moonlight.

  Her steps brought her back around to the long windows. The oak slept without. Across the lawn, light spilled from the ballroom, windows thrown wide to permit fresh air to enter. She pushed open one of the long panes before her and let in soft strains of music. Unwanted tears seeped from the corners of her eyes.

  Behind her, the door slid open. Emilia tensed. If Dunreid or his wife entered, she would climb out the window and run.

  “One of the maids, Mary, said I would find you here.”

  Her breath hitched. Robert. Her heart leapt, but couldn’t take flight, sent crashing back to earth in pain. “Why should you wish to find me?”

  His footfalls drew nearer. “Are you crying? Will you look at me?”

  “I am, and I will not.”

  “Emilia.” His voice was rough, anguished. “I have things to explain.”

  Music swirled through the courtyard, carried across on a light breeze. The leaves of the oak danced to the rhythm.

  “That you still love Lady Cinthia?” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her tone. “There’s nothing to explain. She’s perfect.” On the outside. “What man wouldn’t want her?”

  “I don’t want her.”

  Now he would lie to her? She looked down at her hands, gripping the sill. “Oh? Not since the last time you had her, when she was at your home, returned in your carriage in…how did Viscount Dunreid describe her state? Disheveled?”

  “Dunreid doesn’t know of what he speaks.” Two more steps, and she could feel the heat of him behind her. “She was at my home. She wanted…”

  His tone was tentative. She could hear how he searched for the right words. Pain filled her at the hope he would find them.

  “She wanted what you suspect she wanted,” he finally said. “I won’t lie, a month ago, I would have said yes, engaged to Miss Thomas or not, but the viscountess was too late. My answer was no.”

  Emilia closed her eyes. Tears slid down her cheeks. He sounded sincere. How could she know? She wanted so much to believe. Could she trust herself?

  “I was so happy when you sent that necklace.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Her eyes flew open. She risked a glance over her shoulder. Serious grey eyes. Dark hair not as neat as usual. Unshaven. He looked miserable, and seeing him that way filled her heart with new pain.

  “You didn’t?”

  “Lady Cinthia did.” How cold his voice went as her name left his lips. “She, rightly, suspected I would see the necklace and believe you’d given in to Dunreid. She is the one who told me he sent one.”

  “When she was with you, at one of your not-longed-for, not-scandalous meetings?” Emilia asked, the pain of imagining them together too sharp to relinquish with ease.

  He came around her, to stand beside her at the window. A thumb, skin slightly rough, smoothed tears from her cheek. “I do not love her, or want her, or have even the smallest, remotest desire to set eyes on her again. Ever.”

  “Ever?” Emilia’s voice sounded small. Could he be telling the truth?

  He cocked his head. Across the courtyard, strains of a waltz drifted toward them. The hour was later than she thought. She should be locked safely in her room.

  “Dance with me.”

  Emilia nodded, unable to resist. A strong hand gripped hers, no gloves to mute the mingled warmth of their skin. Another hand slid along her waist. Holding her near, but with care, as something fragile, Robert turned her away from the window in time with the distant notes. With her gaze, she traced the folds of his wrinkled cravat, unsure where to look.

  The arms about her were strong, a barricade against all that was evil in the world, something to brace her against a storm. She longed to believe they were the arms of a man who loved her.

&
nbsp; But if she believed his words tonight, that he didn’t love Lady Cinthia, that she sent the necklace to sow strife between them, that also meant he hadn’t sent the gift. Robert had never declared his affection for her. A new despair unfurled in her.

  “Emilia.” His voice was soft, oddly rough. “Look at me.”

  She hesitated. Could she resist him once she looked into those grey eyes? Did she wish to resist Robert?

  Emilia raised her gaze to his face. He smiled. Her attention shifted to his mouth, to the way his lips curved, to the scruff shadowing his chin. Was this how he appeared when he woke in the morning? She lifted her hand from his shoulder, touched his cheek. He leaned into her caress. Her face heated. She dropped her hand back onto his shoulder, breathless.

  “I didn’t send the necklace, but I should have,” he said. “I had a hundred chances, which makes me a hundred times a fool for not telling you sooner.” He gave a gentle smile. “I love you.”

  Her gaze snapped up to meet his. They stilled, though music still drifted in.

  “You love me?”

  He slid downward, dropped to one knee before her. He raised the hand he still held to his lips. His kiss, the press of his lips to the back of her hand in a fleeting warmth, made her dizzy. When he looked back up, his grey eyes shone in the moonlight.

  “Marry me, Emilia Glasbarr. Love me. Grow old with me while our children run in the yard and we pick out fabulous carriage horses together and visit every museum, attend every recital. Let me be yours forever.”

  New tears threatened. She dropped to her knees before him, pulled his face down to hers. Her heart, freed, took flight as their lips met.

  Epilogue

  ROBERT, WITHOUT A CARE for his fine clothes or the gaping onlookers, clambered down from the tree he’d climbed to free his young son’s kite. Emilia sat on a nearby rise, sketching furiously, pad of paper resting on her very round middle. Many women would deem themselves too far along to appear in public, but Emilia loved the sunshine and trees of the park, and their son loved his kite.

  If he had to guess, Robert suspected she was capturing the moment he slid out along the limb. He’d been just able to reach the kite as the branch began to dip precariously under his weight. She wouldn’t look up until she was done; likely, hadn’t even waited to see him return to the ground, perfectly confident in his ability to manage the climb. He smiled.

  He turned to his son, and knelt to proffer the bright red kite. “Take this to your mama. When she looks up from her sketch, ask her to untangle the string.”

  “Yes, Papa,” the boy said.

  Robert ruffled his blond curls, then turned him toward her with a gentle push. He was young, not even in full sentences, and easily distracted. Robert watched to make sure he reached Emilia. The lad settled down on the blanket beside her to wait with surprising patience for a child.

  “You could have sent a footman up that tree.”

  He turned to find Sir Stirling James standing against the backdrop of the dispersing onlookers. “Stirling,” Robert greeted, genuinely pleased. “I never pictured you as one for the park.”

  “I came to see what the crowd was about.” Stirling gestured toward the dwindling throng. “Apparently, everyone wanted to watch the mad, wealthy Englishman climb a tree, to see if he could go up, and down, without cracking open his head.”

  “Any mad Englishman worthy of being known as such can climb a tree successfully.” Robert shrugged. “Besides, once we reach the park, I give the staff a few hours off. With a picnic basket, a toddler and Scotland’s most beautiful woman, what could a servant possibly need to bring me?”

  “What indeed?” Stirling’s eyes glinted with amusement.

  Robert frowned. “You didn’t come to the wedding. In fact, I haven’t seen you since…” Since the day Stirling dunked his whisky-sodden self in a tub of ice cold water.

  “I was rather busy.”

  “Well, we missed you. You should join us. We were about to start our picnic, as soon as my lovely wife puts down her sketchbook. She’s quite skilled. I’m sure drawing me sprawled along a tree limb won’t take long.”

  “You’re happy, then, Banbrook?” Stirling asked.

  “Thoroughly.”

  “Glad to hear it. I thought you would be.”

  Robert took in Stirling’s smug expression, and the truth hit him like another dousing. “By God, you never meant me to find anyone for Emilia. You meant for me to wed her.”

  Stirling’s smile turned sly. “Some questions are better unanswered.”

  Robert turned back to his wife. She absently patted their son on the head, still sketching with her free hand. “You set me up.”

  “Someone had to put you on the right track.”

  Robert proffered his hand. “Thank you.”

  Stirling clasped hands in a brief shake. “My pleasure.” He squinted up at the sky. “Too bad about Viscountess Dunreid.”

  Robert shrugged. He hadn’t thought of Lady Cinthia in ages. He gestured up the hill, indicating his family. “I have to confess, I haven’t had the time, or inclination, to keep abreast of the viscount and his wife.”

  “He caught her in the arms of another man. Retired her to the country.”

  “Probably won’t help.” Dunreid was smart enough to know that. More likely, he felt boredom a fitting punishment. Robert hoped she didn’t spend her time there destroying other people’s lives. “Where in the country?”

  “So you can visit?”

  “So I can stay away, and warn anyone there I care about to do likewise.”

  Stirling gave a satisfied nod. “That pretty much tells me all I wanted to know.” He started to turn away. “Enjoy your picnic, Banbrook.”

  “You aren’t joining us, then?” Robert wasn’t sure why, but he had the oddest sense he would never see Sir Stirling James again.

  “Next time. Busy day ahead. You did well, Banbrook.” This last was said over his shoulder as he joined the remnants of the onlookers.

  Robert blinked. Somehow, commanding figure that he was, thin as the crowd had grown, Stirling had already disappeared. With a shake of his head, feeling almost as if he’d imagined the encounter, Robert headed up the hill to picnic with his golden-haired son and his beautiful wife.

  ###

  Shameless

  The Marriage Maker

  Book Six

  Rules of Refinement

  Tarah Scott and Erin Rye

  Chapter One

  What More Could a Girl Ask For?

  JULIET SQUINTED AGAINST THE late morning sun that streamed through the open window behind Lady Honoria Peddington’s study desk. Girlish laughter wafted up from the modest courtyard as Honoria rose then skirted the large, claw-footed mahogany desk to where Juliet stood on the dark green, paisley-patterned carpet. For a woman nearing fifty, Honoria was remarkably beautiful, with only the barest hint of gray in her red hair.

  She pinned Juliet with a critical stare. “Curl your locks into proper ringlets for tonight.”

  “Tonight—” Juliet broke off when Honoria brushed one of the locks with her fingers.

  “I want to see candlelight dance off those gold streaks.” Honoria began a slow walk around Juliet, as if inspecting a horse she wished to purchase.

  With the real Lady Peddington making her circuit, Juliet stared at the large oil portrait of Lady Peddington that graced the mantle. At her back, hung a collection of small portraits of the local nobles of Edinburgh. She imagined the lords’ collective ‘tsk, tsks’ as Honoria reached Juliet’s face and grasped Juliet’s chin, tilting her head sideways. “Stain your lips a darker shade of red. Your pout will drive him wild.”

  Him?

  Her heartbeat accelerated.

  Honoria released her. “And line your lower eyelashes. Your blue eyes are one of your best features.” She stepped back and crossed her arms. “You will meet the Duke of Hamilton tonight at the Midnight Ball.”

  “Midnight Ball—the Duke of Hamilton?” Anger tw
isted through her, followed by fear. Of all things the headmistress and founder of Lady Peddington’s School for Young Ladies could have thrown at her, Juliet hadn’t imagined this.

  “So, the notorious Duke of Hamilton intends to make me his mistress?” Juliet forced a smile and added with a double dose of sarcasm, “Why, Auntie Honoria, what more could a woman want?”

  “Little, indeed,” she said, ignoring Juliet’s derision.

  “Surely, you remember that I am returning to London in the morning,” Juliet said. “I have no time for balls—or dukes.”

  Honoria pinned her with a stare. “I did not insist you attend the first ball, but I must insist you attend this one.”

  “Only gentlemen looking for less-than-honorable associations attend your Midnight Balls. You know that isn’t what I want.”

  “There is nothing dishonorable about an agreement between adults,” Honoria replied unruffled. “The duke will expect you at midnight. He is not a man who likes to be kept waiting.”

  Her heart sank. The Duke of Hamilton. His portrait did not hang on the wall alongside the illustrious nobility of Edinburgh. Still, Juliet had heard of the man. Who hadn’t? His reputation preceded him. He was daring, handsome, scandalously rich and, “He’s never stayed with a woman longer than six months,” Juliet finished her thought out loud.

  “There is a first time for everything,” Lady Peddington said.

  Lady Honoria Peddington wasn’t truly her aunt, but she was the closest thing Juliet had to a relative. Auntie started her career in the same brothel as Juliet’s mother, where they’d formed a sisterly bond. As the years passed, both women had fulfilled their dreams. Honoria Peddington—born Honey Pedding—relocated to Edinburgh and opened Lady Peddington’s School for Young Ladies. Juliet’s mother moved to London and opened Lady Aphrodite’s House of Pleasure—Juliet’s childhood home.