“Good afternoon, sir. Madam. May I help you?”
A middle-aged, perfectly dressed and sharp-eyed woman regarded them both with a polite smile, her faint French accent almost caressing the words.
Caleb grinned, the warm, rakish smile that caused female stampedes. “My wife requires a new bonnet. I’m told this is the place.”
Twin spots of faint color appeared on the woman’s cheeks. “Of course…Major Montclair! Forgive me, I almost didn’t recognize you out of your regimentals. Welcome home, sir. Your dear maman is a most valued patroness and mentioned a few weeks ago you were returning. I am Madame Helene, proprietor here.”
Barely refraining from rolling her eyes, Emma glanced again around the shop and down at her hem and slippers to check they were clean. Even though she held no food or drink, the urge to remain statue-like for the duration of their visit was overwhelming. Everything was just so perfect, right down to the cards of thick, pearl-encrusted lace, silk and satin ribbons in every color imaginable, and polished wooden shelves with sample bonnets resting on individual pale blue velvet cushions.
A gentle tap to her arm jolted her back to reality.
“My dear?” said Caleb, his lips twitching, and she groaned inwardly, wondering how long they had been trying to get her attention. “Did you have something particular in mind?”
Emma braced herself and looked steadily at the elegant Frenchwoman.
“Do you have a suggestion?”
“Hmmm,” said Madame Helene, tilting her head, coolly assessing. “A perfect oval. And with those eyes, that hair…delicate. Discreet.”
Taken aback, she bit her lip. “So no feathers? No turbans? You don’t think my hair beyond all reason?”
For a moment, Madame Helene looked like she might cast up her accounts, and Emma swallowed an unexpected urge to giggle.
“Madame Montclair,” the woman replied in a steely voice straight from the schoolroom, “There are no such travesties in my shop. I style the discerning lady, the lady who understands the grace of simplicity. And your hair is magnifique. Like the copper. I have a bonnet that may be just right. Excuse me, please.”
Five minutes later, Emma stared at a looking glass, utterly in love.
The bonnet was cream silk, close-fitting at the back with a gently flaring stiffened brim at the front that framed but didn’t overpower her face. A small cream silk rose rested on the emerald-green trim to one side, and a matching wide emerald ribbon tied under her neck.
“Ohhhhh,” she breathed reverently, stroking the ribbon that made her eyes glow. The woman who wore such a bonnet could face down the ton tabbies, without question.
“This is the one, oui?” said Madame Helene a trifle smugly, her gaze warming. “I must scold Lady Hugh for not bringing you to me. Feathers and turbans. Bah.”
“Never again! What do you think, Caleb?” Emma said gaily, laughing as she pirouetted on her tip-toes to where he sat rigidly on one of the chaises. Her husband’s grey jacket, dark brown trousers and highly polished Hessians screamed aristocrat, but his bronzed hands and face were a startling contrast, and her giddy joy vanished abruptly at the frown on his face. “Don’t…don’t you like it?”
“The bonnet is fine. Box it, please, Madame Helene, we must be on our way.”
A deep flush heated her cheeks. Of course. She had just embarrassed him and made a complete fool of herself, twirling around in an exclusive milliner’s shop like some starry-eyed twit at Almack’s rather than a respectable, married soon-to-be-baroness.
No doubt Caleb already regretted his marriage bargain.
There was no way this was going to work.
There was no way this was going to work.
Gritting his teeth, Caleb shifted uncomfortably on the remarkably pristine chaise and willed his unruly cock to subside.
It was bad enough at home knowing Emma slept just twenty feet away in their marital bed while he lay wide awake on the daybed. But the way his wife had looked just now, the delight on her face at what was clearly her first enjoyable visit to a milliner, that sultry, husky laugh, dancing in unrestrained joy – that was his Emmy of old. The glimpse of heaven and sunshine he had defied everyone to marry, because position and wealth and expectations were nothing next to her smile.
So now he had hit a new low in life: jealous of a damned bonnet, fury at himself for leaving her in poor care, and gripped by a fear greater than any a French soldier ever triggered.
What if she never looked at him that way again? What if it truly was too late and he couldn’t convince her to stay in London with him? One day he could see her on some country lane with the faceless Donald, eyes sparkling with love and contentment as one hand gently rested on the curve of a swollen belly, full with the longed-for child he had never been able to give her…
He cursed under his breath, resisting the urge to tug viciously on his cravat. Civilian clothes were the very devil.
“Caleb?”
Shifting again on the chaise, he regarded his wife’s wary eyes and tight smile, Madame Helene’s wintry disapproval.
Nice one, Montclair. Keep up this level of charm and watch Emma sprint and leap into Donald’s clerkish clutches.
“Excuse my gruff manners,” he replied, forcing a smile onto his face. “I have not accompanied my beautiful wife on a shopping visit in an age. Quite forgot myself for a moment there, but I do have a meeting to attend at the War Office. Perhaps, Madame Helene, you might forward a second bonnet for Mrs. Montclair to the townhouse? I shall leave the trim in your expert hands.”
“Of course, sir,” the milliner replied, mollified, as an assistant dashed forward to wrap Emma’s bonnet in a tissue-lined box.
“Then send the bill to my bankers, Dayton and Co. They will ensure it is paid within the week.”
Madame Helene’s eyes bulged, and Caleb suppressed a grimace. Ah, yes. Settling accounts on time and in full was highly unusual and most un-aristocratic.
“Very good, sir,” she positively gushed now. “We hope to see you both again soon.”
Winding the hat box cord around one wrist, he reached out and tucked Emma’s arm into his, and they strolled out the door into the bright warmth of the spring afternoon.
“Well?” he said. “Do you want to walk or take the carriage to the War Office? Whitehall isn’t terribly far from here.”
“Walk. I have my comfortable slippers on.”
After depositing the hat box in the Montclair carriage and sending it onward, they made their way toward Horse Guards Parade in silence.
Until Emma cleared her throat.
“I don’t understand, Caleb. One minute you glare at me, the next buy me two bonnets?”
Inwardly cursing, he debated an agreeable reply. In the past, they’d been able to talk frankly, but the truth was too raw and their truce too fragile to shatter with declarations yet.
“Can’t a man just buy his wife some fripperies without being interrogated over it?” he blustered, trying not to grimace at his stuffed shirt tone. “Come to think of it, when did you last buy new slippers, fans and gloves? When I visited Dayton this morning, he spoke entirely too approvingly of your parsimony. Your allowance is there to be spent.”
She shrugged. “I don’t really enjoy the shopping part. Besides, apart from the odd charity ball and luncheons with the other military wives, I haven’t been in town all the time.”
“Oh? Where have you been?”
“I steal away to the country when permitted. I can go for walks, ride, visit parish families, and no one knows to the shilling how much my gown cost, or that my slippers are two seasons old. And they talk about marmalade recipes, young couples and christenings, rather than Lady J’s affair with Lord F, or why Miss B must be refused vouchers to Almack’s.”
Caleb nodded. “Mother remains in town, I suppose. Something else in the countryside’s fa
vor.”
“There is that,” said Emma, her mouth curving in a self-deprecating smile, but just for a moment he saw something else, pain that spoke of true unpleasantness.
“Did she read your letters?” he asked through clenched teeth, as the thought suddenly occurred.
“Yes. Opened on arrival and before sending, except some I took to the postmaster myself. You asked me why I didn’t write about intimate matters, that is the reason.”
“Damnation,” he snarled, concentrating fiercely on walking and not putting his fist through a stone wall. “It won’t happen again. Ever.”
“It was an annoyance. After talking, writing was the next best thing.”
“Well, I liked getting them,” he said abruptly. “I became a very familiar face to the ensign in charge of distributing the post. He used to hide in ditches and up trees to avoid me, I wasn’t overly pleasant if he walked past my tent.”
“Really? I can’t remember writing anything particularly interesting.”
“Didn’t care about the topic, only that you wrote. Although the Lucy stories were always amusing. And the day that market piglet got loose and terrorized the ton ladies in Piccadilly. I reread those ones several times.”
Emma laughed, and he nearly crowed in triumph when her hand curled a little tighter around his jacket sleeve. “You kept them?”
“All of them. Tied with string in a leather pouch so they wouldn’t get ruined by mud or rain. And this,” he finished, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out an extremely battered embroidered linen handkerchief, frayed on two edges and more gray than white.
One gloved finger reached out to trace the faded embroidery.
“C.M. Christmas, 1811…oh, how embarrassing. Terrible, crooked sewing for all the world to see. You should have tossed that away.”
“My lucky handkerchief? Never! Do you know how many battles this fine scrap of fabric saw? I’m sure, given time, it would have received a letter of meritorious service from the King, although the army never relented on pay or extra rations, sadly.”
“So many battles,” she said softly. “So many years. Caleb—”
“Look, here we are. Entrance is just up those steps. But we need to make our way to the third floor today.”
Her face fell at his clumsy interruption, then she inhaled sharply as she grasped his meaning. “Caleb, I cannot go into the War Office.”
“Of course you can. This building has been around sixty odd years, I’m sure it’s seen at least, er, two or three ladies.”
“It will cause a scandal. And no doubt some sort of earthquake, lightning strike and mass male swooning.”
“Why, Mrs. Montclair, that almost sounded like a joke. I think you are relenting. Actually, I think you are most curious and would love to see the dark and shadowed heart of British Command, while listening to my enthralling report. Please promise to refrain from throwing rotten fruit or paper darts. I am a nervous public speaker.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” she replied smartly, raising a hand in the kind of mocking salute that would see an ensign scrubbing piss pots for the rest of his career.
Caleb grinned.
Six weeks to win her heart again?
He had been overly pessimistic. Perhaps it was not such an uncrossable mountain after all.
The sprawling, multi-storied War Office building was both stately and imposing, Palladian in style and constructed of stone so white it seemed to shimmer in the afternoon sunshine.
On another occasion she might have just stood and marveled at the architecture for hours, the large rectangular windows made to welcome light and the magnificent domed clock tower. Instead, her stomach tight with a mixture of nervous tension and excitement, Emma gripped Caleb’s sleeve as they walked quickly through the main entrance and down several busy corridors.
She could practically feel both surprised and annoyed male gazes boring into her back, but several others inclined their heads deferentially or saluted her husband, and a tingle of pride kept her head high.
Finally they reached a wide staircase protected by several guards. A young clerk sat at an adjacent desk, his expression almost comically incredulous as they approached.
“Sir? Madam?” the clerk said in a tone more pompous than a duke’s, “Are you lost? I’m afraid you cannot be here. Trot along, now.”
Caleb’s expression turned stormy, and she almost felt sorry for the clerk. Almost.
“Not at all lost, boy,” he said frigidly, taking several wax sealed documents from his jacket pocket. “Major Montclair and Mrs. Montclair here to see Lords Castlereagh and Liverpool on behalf of my godfather, Field Marshal Wellington.”
In the space of two seconds, the clerk’s face went from pink to parchment to pea-green. Then he leapt to his feet so fast he knocked over his chair, nearly jabbing a finger into his eye as he attempted to salute at the same time.
“Major Montclair! Forgive me, sir…I wasn’t expecting a guest with you…I didn’t realize…your clothes—”
“Neither my guest nor my attire are your concern. What is your concern is informing the Foreign Secretary and the Prime Minister of my arrival for our two o’clock meeting. Now be quick about it. Less trot, more gallop.”
“Yes, sir!” the clerk gasped, saluting again as he turned and sprinted up the stairs.
“Oh dear,” said Emma lightly into the seething silence. “I think you might have frightened at least a decade off his life. And cease tugging at your cravat, or you’ll surely strangle yourself.”
“Damned bloody thing. I loathe not wearing my uniform, especially here. Especially for something like this. I look like a dandy, not a soldier.”
“You are retired now,” she said, very, very gently.
“I’m well aware of that fact,” he snapped, then closed his eyes briefly. “Excuse me. The transition from army major to baron-in-waiting is proving difficult. I know how to be a soldier. That was all I ever wanted to be. But no one expected Uncle Brentwood and both my cousins to succumb to that fever, and now as soon as the legalities are completed, I shall have a damned title. What the devil do I know of lands and tenants? Nothing.”
Stunned, Emma sucked in a harsh breath.
Caleb Montclair uncertain?
Not for a moment had she pondered such a possibility. He was always so strong and forceful, swiftly assessing situations, rolling up his sleeves and marching into the fray. And with his upbringing at the very heart of the ton, she had assumed the easiest and smoothest of inheritances from his mother’s family, even if it was entirely unexpected.
“Cal,” she began slowly, as words scrambled and tumbled around in her mind, inexplicably unable to reach her tongue. “I—”
“Major Montclair? Mrs. Montclair?” interrupted a deep voice, and they both turned to see a smiling, much older aide standing at the base of the stairs. “If you’ll both follow me please, I will take you straight to the briefing room. And I do apologize for your unsatisfactory welcome. New clerk, son of a General, and a complete nincompoop.”
Choking on a laugh, Emma held her gloved hand firmly to her mouth until the inappropriate mirth passed. The War Office was definitely not the place to behave like a candidate for Bedlam.
It felt like they climbed several hundred stairs and walked at least a mile of echoing, sparsely furnished corridors, but eventually they arrived outside a nondescript wooden door, and their escort knocked twice, bowed and left them alone.
Seconds later the door swung open, and a familiar face appeared.
“Major,” said Robert Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh the brilliant politician turned British Foreign Secretary, holding out his hand to Cal and smiling with genuine warmth. “Good to see you. Is it Brentwood as well now?”
“All bar the paperwork,” replied Caleb, shaking the man’s hand. “Enjoying being back after your stint in Vienna? C
learly Bonaparte was just waiting for you to leave to start agitating the continent.”
“Bah. I’m nervous, I truly am. The Elban debacle was bad enough, but raising an army, marching across Europe, this is all going to explode shortly, I’m sure of it…we’ll talk later. Excuse me, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, madam.”
Emma curtsied low. “Emma Montclair, my lord. I met Lady Castlereagh at a hospital fundraising ball a few months back. She was remarkable, so charming and yet so terrifying.”
The viscount blinked in surprise, and she wanted to flee in humiliation at the blurted words. Then he chuckled and inclined his head.
“Mrs. Montclair,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “that is my Amelia to the letter. Wish she’d give my speeches for me, born diplomat that woman. But come in, come in, and we’ll get started. Liverpool and the others are here already.”
“They don’t mind I’m here?”
“I’m sure,” said Caleb, “given time and sufficient whisky they will suppress the trauma.”
Castlereagh snorted as they entered the room. “If you weren’t a bona fide war hero…now, here’s Renwick to show you to your seat, Mrs. Montclair.”
With brisk efficiency, the third aide ushered her to a chair at the back of the room and offered tea. Shaking her head, she sat and watched the group of men in front of her settle into their seats. There were about a dozen of them, some in elaborate military uniforms, some in tailored jackets and trousers, all clearly of high standing, arranged in a semi-circle around an oversized oak desk. Caleb stood on the other side, spreading out documents and what looked like hand-drawn maps.
“Gentlemen,” said Lord Castlereagh. “It is my pleasure to welcome Major Caleb Montclair here today. As you know, Major Montclair served with great honor and distinction for six years under Wellington in Spain, France, Vienna and most lately Brussels, and recently retired to take up the responsibilities of a pending title. He has come to offer his firsthand thoughts and experiences…”
20150618 A Midsummer Night's Kiss epub final Page 19