Oh, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he would make a fine husband. But Emma had to admit having such a man could drive a woman crazy with jealousy. There was no doubt that for all his promises of true love, he would be taking mistresses like the other members of the ton. Discretion was key. Appearances must be kept. With a face like Lord Hartwell's, he had his pick of women.
Emma turned her attention back to her friends. Lettice rolled her eyes at some hoydenish scheme that Helena was likely hatching.
“Frankly, Helena, I think that is a terrible idea. What is the point of forcing your cousin, Reginald, to dance with Emma? If he had any inclination to do so, he would ask. Besides, he is an awful dancer and Emma deserves better than that.”
“But Lettice!” exclaimed Helena, her red curls shaking with excitement. “Emma will get no attention at all. Caroline is stealing it all.”
“I would advise her waiting, if she wasn’t so dark, more men might be interested in her. It is not fully Caroline’s fault.” Lettice replied. Her pink lips quirked into a small smile and she added, “Besides, to make a real love match, the woman should wait for the man to approach. She should not parade herself about for that to happen. He will notice her because his soul yearns for hers.” Her impassioned speech fell on the deaf ears of her friends. The arrival of a man into their intimate circle silenced them.
Lord Hartwell, his cravat composed into a pristine Maharatta style, bowed to Emma and her friends. His trademark grin, one belonging more to a boy than a man, greeted them.
“Good evening, Lady Emma, Miss Mallory, Miss Devine.” The trio curtsied as one, earning a broader grin from him.
“Good evening, Lord Hartwell,” said Helena. She shot Lettice a resplendent grin and winked. The blonde rolled her eyes at her friend's gauche behaviour, but there was the hint of a swoon beneath her cool gaze.
“Good evening, Lord Hartwell,” she delivered coolly.
“Lord Hartwell,” said Emma at last, chewing on her lip in a fit of nervousness. She knew him well. Many years had passed since they had last spoken. Oh, thank you, follies of youth, she mused. Once upon a time, they were the closest of friends. Those days were long past, as much in ruin as Pompeii. Her nervousness at his appearance was well expected. Her palms began to sweat, likely to ruin her new gloves.
“I,” he began, “would like to know if you had the next dance available, Lady Emma.” His kind tone washed over Emma, sending her into shivers.
She blinked rapidly, her mind processing the simple statement. Or was it a question? It had to be a mixture of both though the intent was clear. Her lips upturned into a slight smile.
“Why, I do believe I can manage that,” she decided at long last. Lettice stared at her with raised eyebrows as Helena prodded her forward.
“It is quite lucky for me that you have an open spot,” he replied, grey eyes dancing in amusement. He knew full well that she had yet to dance; however, he could not understand why. He would not have come over if his dearest Caroline had not implored him so, but he always enjoyed Emma's company. It had been some time since they last met and she had grown more beautiful since that day. She could hold no candle to Caroline, of course, no earth-bound woman could. There was something in Emma's sunny smile and easy graces that had always relaxed him.
Emma bestowed a grin upon him, her face lighting up in humour. She placed her hand on his proffered arm as he led her to the set of dancers. She felt inordinately lucky to have her first dance with a future duke. This would cause other potential suitors to take notice. She tilted her head back to look at her partner, but his eyes focused elsewhere. Emma followed his gaze to where Caroline stood, like an angel in an illumination. The candles at her back created a golden halo around her fair head. As they moved, Emma saw her sister nod her head in thanks to Lord Hartwell. He returned her notice, a mesmerized twinkle in his eyes. Emma forgot all her dance lessons and looked down to her feet. She let out a sigh.
Her sister had asked this of him. He could not resist a favour form his beloved Caroline. She decided to pawn him off for a dance or two to bring the ton's acknowledgment to her younger sister. Emma had no clue whether she should be incensed or thankful. She chose embarrassed instead. The ton now knew her, but as a pathetic sort who could not find dances partners of her own.
As she danced with a man who was pining for another woman, Emma knew her expectations were right to be low. This way she was not disappointed. This way she would not retreat to her room at 3 o'clock in the morning when all the guests left and weep bitter tears over her sad lot. Her life was better than a lot of Londoners, she knew it was wrong to compare. But she was a flighty female taken to bemoan her existence. She wished for simple changes: a concerned father, a proper mother, and an ugly sister. Was it too much for one to ask?
Apparently it was. So Lady Emma Wren tucked her worries away as moved through the dance. It would be the first of many dances for her that night with the pink of the ton. When she went to bed, she tried her hardest to remember their faces and the snippets of polite conversation. But they were all, even Lord Hartwell's, a great blur. Did that mean she had not met her Prince Charming? That would have been Lettice's opinion at least. Even so, as she drifted off to sleep, Emma found herself smiling back at the image of the boyish grin of Lord Hartwell when he asked her to dance.
The morning dawned with bleak skies, threatening the city with some unseen snow. Or perhaps rain, the chilly March weather might at last give way to spring. Judging from the frost lingering on the windows, it would likely be snow. The weather would not thwart Emma in her plans to visit Hatchard's this afternoon. Since it was only seven o'clock, the fashionable of London were still not awake from the previous night's exertions. Emma had not slept a wink and was in desperate need for a walk to clear her head and rejuvenate her spirit. Naturally, she desired new books too.
Her maid, Mary, rose with the sun to help her dress for the morning. Emma dreaded the process, especially the stays that often dug into her belly. But, it was a necessary evil of her position in life.
Mary was about five and twenty and had attended Emma for most of her life. First as a playmate and then responsible for insuring she was a respectable young woman in the eyes of the ton. Her nimble fingers worked wonders on Emma's unruly hair, taming it into elegant coiffures that showed off her slim neck and rounded shoulders. Even with her skills, by the end of the night or after a spirited dance, long coils escaped from her pins with abandon.
“Will you be calling upon Miss Mallory and Miss Devine today?” she inquired, running a brush through Emma's thick hair. Emma felt her scalp prickle. The knots in her hair revolted against detangling. She winced and squeezed her eyes shut. .
“Yes, I believe so.”
The maid stared at her mistress in the mirror, biting her bottom lip. She could sense Lady Emma's dour mood. It must have been the ball. She had heard the other servants whisper that the younger daughter of the house was a great success. Then why was she behaving in such a dispirited manner?
“How was the ball?"
“I danced with many eligible young men.”
“Is that not the point?” she asked, brow furrowed.
“It certainly is the point. I was nearly a success last night having danced more than I did last Season.” Emma grimaced as the comb scraped against her scalp.
“But?”
“Lord Hartwell was present. He was the first to dance with me; however, it is only because Caroline asked him.”
Mary ceased her ministrations. “At least you were able to dance with him.”
“You are correct.” She looked down to her hands. “I felt like a child again…like we were back at Kellaway Castle and it was summertime…”
“I remember those days.”
Emma straightened her shoulders as Mary twisted her hair into a simple knot. She stared at her reflection. She looked the same as ever, but her stomach churned at the memories of last night. Years had passed since they had last spoken.
He was a man and she was on the cusp of womanhood. When he left they were but children.
“They will surely marry, do you not think?” Emma heard herself ask.
“So it seems.”
“Then I shall have to find a husband far superior to Lord Hartwell.”
“They may not marry at all. Lady Wren is so fickle in love. Why there have been numerous men who have asked for her hand in marriage.”
The two settled into a companionable silence as Mary added pins to further secure Emma's hair. Her mistress opened her mouth to regale her with a tale when the door to the chamber burst open. The Lady of the House rushed in, immaculately garbed for the morning hour. Her fair hair was done up in such an intricate fashion, she must have been at her toilette for hours. But, Lady Sheridan was a devout follower to dressing for her station. There was no smile upon the face that was a mature twin to Caroline's youthful one. It was easy to see how Lord Sheridan fell in love with his wife and still lived in relative happiness with her.
“Emma,” she began magnanimously. Her blue eyes flicked to Mary, a frown tugging at her lips. The maid needed no further instruction. She curtsied to the ladies and then shuffled out of the room.
“Good morning, mother,” greeted Emma, bowing her head. Emma remained seated at her vanity, carefully watching her mother. Constance paced the room, shaking her head.
“You, daughter, have received a marriage proposal,” her voice was heave with dread as she relayed the news. Lady Sheridan had hoped to be spreading this joyful news with Caroline, not Emma. The girl did not even have the grace to cry to shriek with joy. She stared as if in a daze. “What do you have to say?”
“Who is it?” she asked, her hands grasping one another in her shocked state. “I can scarcely recall anyone form last night, mother.” Except for Lord Hartwell, she added to herself. Mother should not be privy to that tidbit.
“I am certain sure you shall remember this man,” replied the Lady Sheridan. She proffered an ivory card to her daughter who accepted it with trepidation. She held the card near her face to read the name.
“Thomas Black, Marquess of Hartwell.... oh dear, Mother, this cannot be right,” Emma muttered, dropping the card to the carpet. To the best of her knowledge, he was in love with her sister. Her gorgeous, charming sister. Lord Hartwell did not want to wed Emma. The little girl who used to beg him to read to her on Christmas Eve during those cold winters of their youth.
Lady Sheridan looked at her daughter, the one she had never expected. The one with whom she was always too strict. Emma needed to work much harder at being a lady than the other girls in the ton. She shook her head and moved to leave the room.
“At last we agree on something.” She stopped in the doorway. “Your betrothed will be calling upon you sometime this week. Caroline is distraught at the news. Do not lord this over her.”
Emma heard the door click as her mother left her. She fell back onto her chaise lounge.
“This means, then,” she whispered to no one. “I will be a Duchess?” The title filled the empty room with all the duties it implied. The responsibility weighed upon Emma's mind, teasing her with the prospect of so great a match. This proposal encompassed all that she desired. To achieve it at the expense of Caroline's happiness left a bittersweet taste in her mouth. She was not deserving of such an honour as to marry a future duke. There was little to be done to recompense with her sister. She would be heartbroken. What of Lord Hartwell? Was he pleased? Emma scoffed at the absurdity she had dared to even entertain. He was more than likely ruing the moment he obeyed the wish of Caroline.
Chapter Two
“You are marrying Lady Emma?” asked Nathaniel Vale, Earl of Hedgeton. Exceedingly tall with burnished gold hair, he had been Thomas Blake's best friend since their Eton days. The two had met at their club that afternoon as they did every day during the Season. Today, Thomas was bursting with urgent news. He squinted his green eyes at his friend, who was drowning his sorrows in a glass of claret.
“The lesser of the Wren sisters,” he announced dejectedly. Thomas ran a hand through his hair to shove it out of his eyes. “This betrothal had been in the works for many years, according to my father. As you know, our families are old friends. My father is ecstatic.”
“His Grace would be. He adores Lady Emma,” Nathaniel said, trying his best to be hopeful. “You did too once.” He waved away the servant who was returning to fill Thomas' glass. His dark-haired friend shook his head. He was not open to hope or happy endings today.
“So I did. That was ages ago. Before we left on the Grand Tour. I even fancied marrying her back then…”
“And then we returned and suddenly Caroline is all you saw,” Nathaniel added.
“She brightened up London like the sun,” he replied wistfully. He clutched his glass tightly. “Alas, it is Lady Emma who shall be my bride. The dark moon to her sister’s sun.”
Nathaniel rolled his eyes at his friend's single-minded affinity towards Caroline Wren. He had not known the sisters as long as Lord Hartwell. While Caroline had her charm, he had always found Emma to be far more intriguing. She had more layers to her. She was mysterious like the moon. But did the moon only have to be mysterious? Did the sun only have to be blinding? Both girls were more than these simple metaphors.
The earl remembered a time when Thomas' lips talked more of Emma and her laugh, but that was before the girls were old enough to debut. Once Caroline came out in Society, his mouth praised her sly smile and flaxen hair.
“Well, Tom, you are at least on friendly terms with Lady Emma. She is pleasant and intelligent. It is not as if you will be marrying a dunce.”
“You speak wise words, my friend. Will she make a good duchess though? Caroline would have looked exquisite in my mother's jewels.”
“It takes more to being a duchess than simply wearing jewels well. Besides, the jewels are emeralds, if I recall correctly. Emma looks beautiful in greens. Did she not look so last night?”
The blond waited, eyebrows raised, for his friend's reply. Perhaps, he could lead Thomas away from Caroline. Doubtless, that woman was already planning which bachelor should have the honour of courting her next. Caroline was quite resourceful and seemed to not care one whit about marriage. Emma, however, had often spoken of setting up her own house and own rules. Lord Sheridan had certainly chosen a good husband for her in that case. Thomas was an easy-going sort. Plus the homes of the Duke of Kellaway were in desperate need of a feminine hand.
“You are correct as usual, Nathaniel. My betrothed is lovely and practical. She is no Caroline, but not many women can be.” With a second sigh, he downed his class of claret. “I shall have to call on my fiancée soon. We are to ride in Hyde Park.”
You would do well to not call upon your future wife in your cups. I do also hope you will be civil to her.”
“Nathaniel, I am no cad! I have honour and decency. I will not treat her badly.”
“This I know well. But it does warm my bachelor's heart to hear. She is like a little sister to me.”
“That is why you are singing her praises! I had almost thought for a second you envied my position,” Thomas accused. The thought was preposterous for Thomas was aware of Nathaniel's affection for Miss Alice Mallory.
“Perhaps a bit, old friend,” Nathaniel replied with a shrug. Getting married was a necessary evil. So having a bride like Emma whom he knew well was not so bad. She was beautiful so the marital duties would not be hard to fulfill. Perhaps this was not what he should be considering on the day of his best friend's betrothal. He turned his thoughts to more practical matters.
“When is this grand occasion to be? I am sure that the ton will be out in full force to attend the wedding breakfast.”
“Oh yes, I do believe it is to be a bit rushed though not until the spring. I am not at all sure why. Then, my father wants us to stay on the Continent after the honeymoon to take care of some business.” Though Thomas had momentarily resolved to be resigned to his fate,
there was a sadness that tugged at him, reminding him that he was going to be marrying Emma not Caroline. The hair that would drape across his chest every morning for the rest of his life would be nearly as dark as his own. Any children they had would have untamed curls and a golden laugh.
From where did that thought arrive? He had always been amused by Emma's laugh. Today was not the day to think of his betrothed. He was going to remember his beloved, Caroline. He would become a martyr of true love. It was to be his destiny. Besides, he reasoned rationally and dishonourably, it was not at all uncommon for men of his rank to take a mistress. Lady Emma would have to know her place. Many women were reared that way to accept any infidelities. Lord Hartwell was nearly certain that his betrothed would not be so amenable. He, too, would find the upkeep of both a wife and mistress too much to bear.
Suddenly, he was struck with a memory from years ago over Christmas. That year it had been a small Christmas with just Lord and Lady Sheridan, Emma, Caroline, Lord Hartwell and his father. Emma was about seven and so he was twelve. It was a few days before Christmas Day and the men were preparing to go on a quick hunt. They desired some outside activity and were willing to brave the winter chill. Emma, however, was absolutely determined to go along with the men. Lady Sheridan was even more shrill back then and implored her daughter to remain behind.
“It is not acceptable for a young lady of breeding,” she repeated. Her protests did not affect her daughter one whit Emma ignored her mother and insisted that she was too high of a rank to be touched by such rumours. Besides...
“Mother, I am seven and we live in the country. Who among us is going to spread my participation to the great lords and ladies in London?” Lady Sheridan opened her mouth. Then closed it. Her mouth opened, trying to think of a retort. Then closed. Emma was a force. She refused to have her hair dressed by her maid, preferring to let it hang down her back in wild curls. Emma stood, hands on her hip, waiting for her mother's reply. She was perhaps too quick-witted for her mother who often gave her what she wanted to simply stop the arguing. It gave her headaches. Emma was never one to back down. She would quarrel until the opposing side admitted she was right.
Colors of a Lady Page 2