Finally, his father let out a loud laugh. He was jolly when most expected dukes to be stoic. His hair, at this point, was still black and curly, devoid of the streaks of white it developed over time. He knelt down by Emma and ruffled her hair. She offered him a demure smile.
“Oh my, the little one does make a point. I shall not tell a soul about this adventure. Let her join us. The winter air is good for children. She must be bundled up though.”
Since no one would dare rebuke a Duke, Emma got her way. She skipped happily up the stairs towards her room. Her maid, Mary, followed her closely. Lord Sheridan let out a breath, chuckling to himself at his younger daughter.
“She's such a delight,” Kellaway said with a laugh. “There's a wife for you, huh?” He teased, elbowing his son. At twelve, Thomas was not thinking at all about marriage, especially with a child such as Emma. He was almost a man and she too much growing up to do. Besides, he enjoyed being right just as much as she, which often lead to heated discussions. Well, as heated as disputes amongst children can get.
“Emma is nothing but a child, father. I will marry a woman when the time comes,” he replied with a scoff.
“Emma marry a Duke's son? Oh no, that shall have to be Caroline.” Lady Sheridan cut in, devoid of manners as always. At this point in their lives, Caroline was less noticed than Emma. They were but a year or two apart in ages. Caroline's beauty had not reached the brilliance it would once she started blossoming into a woman.
Then, once it did, Caroline would eclipse Emma in attention. Lord Hartwell remembered the change quite well. Every Christmas season, Caroline burned brighter and became more alive. While Emma became more reserved, losing her sparkling wit.
He accounted it to Caroline's burgeoning beauty having an effect on her sister's confidence. Now he wondered whether it was the governess who insulted her dark skin or her mother who demanded efforts that were superior to perfect. He had never reflected on it much. It was just how the Wren sisters were. Few remembered the tiny spitfire that Emma used to be. Though, it seemed, Duke Kellaway had certainly kept her in his mind.
Thomas shook his head in surprise. His father's hope was coming true after all. At least he would be happy with this union.
Nathaniel had departed while his friend was daydreaming. He was sure to see him tonight or before that in Hyde Park. The fashionable were often in Hyde Park and this included the slew of bachelors still searching for appropriate wives. With his friend gone, Lord Hartwell called for another drink. He truly had not had many and it eased his mind about his meeting with his fiancée.
“Oh, to have to visit the home that also houses my love...” he murmured as a servant hurriedly appeared with a fresh glass. Thomas accepted it absent-mindedly.
“To Emma,” he said raising his glass in a solo toast.
In the London home of the Earl of Sheridan, Lady Emma Wren sat down to tea. In the back parlour with its airy lavender walls, Emma broke the news carefully to Miss Helena Mallory and Miss Lettice Devine. She poured them each a cup a tea and they reacted as only they could.
Lettice's eyes were shining with thoughts of true love. That was the only way Lord Hartwell would ever rebuke Caroline in favour of Emma. He must have fallen in love with her during their fated dance. To Helena though, she was repulsed at the sacrifice her friend was making. He may be handsome as the devil, but arranged marriages rarely provided any level of contentment for those involved.
“This is magical,” Lettice crooned, hands clasped together in awe at this beautiful miracle. This love was true. Her prayers had been answered. Helena, however, remained unconvinced. She found the idea of love as believable as unicorns. Love was simply not their lot in life. They were brood mares to their husbands and fathers. These protestations did not stop the sweaty palms that plagued her whenever she was around a certain blond earl.
“This is absurd,” she countered, eyes narrowing at her cup of tea. “Did you put sugar in this?”
Emma shook her head. That would have been a disaster. Helena hated sweetness, preferring spicy flavours that numbed her lips. Last time Emma had absently put sugar in her tea, the redhead had made quite a dramatic show of herself. Most took Helena to be a fun-loving, rambunctious debutante, but there was a stoic quality to her personality. It displayed itself readily as she remained firmly against any nonsense such as true love.
Emma nibbled on a biscuit. She would have loved to devour all the tiny desserts presented on the tray. Her current mood was that of despair only to be quenched by food. Gaining pounds before her wedding would not help entreat her husband to her. But, she could not let these treats go to waste. She raised her shoulders, a helpless action.
“It is rather soon, I must admit.” She glanced towards the door of the parlour and leaned forward towards her friends. “Caroline is not happy at all. She will not talk to me, neither will my mother. Because of this, my father's sister, Aunt Lucille, will be taking me to outfit me for my marriage. She will be arriving from Italy soon. I do hope you two can come along as well.”
“Of course we will,” Helena replied. She looked over to Lettice for her to agree. Instead, the blonde's hands were shaking as she slammed the delicate teacup on the tray.
“The females in your immediate family are utterly ridiculous!” The outburst was so unlike the normally complacent girl that it drew the complete and undivided attention of Emma and Helena. She crossed her arms beneath her chest and scowled, the expression disrupting her pale beauty. “They need to learn to be gracious and accept defeat when it confronts them,” she said, her voice suddenly low. It is bad manners to disparage them in their own home.
“On the other hand, your Aunt Lucille is a lovely woman and will be of the utmost help to you. Though unmarried, I am sure she will offer you great advice instead of neglecting you due to her own pitiful sense of pride.” She drew a breath and continued.
“If only your sister had been more mindful of how she appeared to whom really mattered in the ton: our parents. Then perhaps she would be married as we speak with a baby boy and a man discreetly on the side. Your mother could be out visiting her dearest daughter and you would have been able to come out as the belle of the ball as you had hoped.” She reached for her cup and took a long gulp to calm her nerves and then sat it down quietly.
Helena looked to Emma, their faces similar masks of surprise. Lydia reached up her hand to smooth her shiny hair and smiled at Emma sincerely.
“My dear, I do believe that Lord Hartwell must have seen something in you that made him leave your sister. That is love at first sight in its truest form,” she told her earnestly. Emma shook her head in frank denial.
“That is hardly the case, I am afraid. My mother does not allow such romantic notions in me and set me quite straight on the nature of our union.” She straightened her posture, hoping it would instill her with some reserve. “His father, the Duke, believes we make a lovely couple. He saw us dance at my ball and was moved and so he decided to have us wed. He has always been quite fond of me. He even procured a special license. Though my mother pressed Caroline on him, he held tenaciously to his belief that I would make a better bride for Lord Hartwell than her.” She laughed suddenly. The ton would certainly eat this story up. She, Lady Emma Wren, is betrothed the morning after her coming out ball. Surely the gossip rags would try to come up with some scintillating reasons for this.
“I do not know Lord Hartwell's feelings on this, but I imagine he is far from pleased. I am sure he intended on marrying my sister. He has been courting her for some time. It is odd to me that he would not have offered for her sooner. In any case, he is to call upon me for us to drive in Hyde Park today.” She buried her face in her hands.
“This is absolutely dreadful.” Ever the one to stress easily, Emma hated this current predicament of hers.
“It seems there is simply no way out of this,” observed Helena. “Your father, no matter how apathetic he may seem, will not let this marriage get away. Not only is it good
for you, but also they are also good friends. I do not know why you are so surprised at this. Either Caroline or you were always going to marry Lord Hartwell. I am sure your fathers have been planning this for years.”
If Emma was being honest, she had surmised at a young age that her father was intent on joining his house with that of Duke Kellaway. She had always found Lord Hartwell handsome and dreamy in the way that young girls muse about a Prince Charming. He had all the brilliant qualities that assured Emma he would proudly rescue a maiden from a dragon. He could probably rescue them both at the same time. But he was reserved for someone who would match his brightness and beauty. That had always meant Caroline in her childish mind.
“Your best option is to appear like the smitten blushing bride and hope he appears like a doting fiancé. With any luck, the ton will move on with their lives to the next great scandal. You two can sort out your differences later when you retire to the country after the Season ends.” Her serious tone was quite a departure from her boisterous laughs and hare-brained schemes. But that was just like Helena. She could be counted on to take emotions out of any discussion. This trait was lost on Emma, the worrywart, and Lettice, the dreamer.
“Oh, you two,” Emma smiled gratefully at them. They were always supportive, albeit in different ways. “I shall have you over all the time once I am married.”
“We shall be most happy to stay at the home of a future Duchess,” agreed Helena. She enjoyed visiting different country manors to see the architecture, especially the grand expanse that was sure to be a Duke’s ancestral home.
“I may just be your live-in governess if this marriage market does not bode well for me,” Lettice considered carefully. To her, all the men of the ton were just oh so boring with their horse talk and their clubs. She wanted a man with passion. The sort that burned in the eyes of the men who attended her church. Those men were warriors, desperately spreading the truth of God. Alas, they were the closest to pirates a lady could find anymore. If only she had been alive to walk the streets with the English conquerors of old who colonized new lands and saved the souls of the helpless savages.
“I would be happy to have you,” assured Emma.
“Have you thought more of the wedding? Shall it be in London and invite the whole ton or shall it be in the country and invite a select group of friends?”
“I have not given it much thought. It is really too sudden for me to even imagine. I have yet to even see Lord Hartwell.” Emma turned her eyes to the clock along the far wall. It was nearly one o’clock. Soon she would have to dress for her outing.
A knock sounded on the parlour door and Emma let out a sigh. That was bound to be Mary, efficient as always. She believed that Emma needed to look her absolute best, not just for Lord Hartwell but for the ton as well. During the fashionable hour, everyone of marriageable age would be out, hoping to catch the fancy of a suitor.
“Come in.”
The door pushed open and Mary appeared in the doorway. She dipped into a curtsy to the seated ladies.
“Lady Emma, it is t--”
“Oh, I know. It is time for me to being my toilette for my fiancé to call upon me. Let me bid farewell to them and then I shall meet you in my room.”
Wordlessly, but with a small smile, Mary curtsied again and backed out of the room.
“I suppose it is that time. Will you be riding in Hyde Park today?”
Lettice and Helena looked at one another. They normally did not visit Hyde Park often during the Fashionable Hour. Yet, the scandal of this betrothal would set many tongues wagging, which interested them. Ton gossip was ever entertaining especially when it starred Emma.
“I fear that I cannot,” Lettice apologized. “I must attend a meeting at my church.” She did not miss the furtive glance shared between Lettice and Emma. It was not uncommon for a well-born lady to visit church. But the Devine clan belonged to a church many would readily describe as fanatical. Lettice had always been fervently religious. This church seemed to heighten it in bizarre ways. Emma hoped daily that Lettice did not prescribe any truth to the hate they spewed. There were moments when Lettice's perfect lips pulled into a sneer at the sight of one she deemed unmentionable.
“Perhaps Lord Hedgeton can escort me? I will get my footman to send him a note.” Helena considered this thoughtfully, moving to stand. “He normally goes driving so it should not be too much hassle.”
“Wonderful! I hope to see you then, Helena.” Emma followed her guests out to the main hall. “Do have fun at church,” she said to Lydia. Upon bidding them goodbye, Lewis, the butler, closed the door behind them. They left arm-in-arm chattering quietly.
Emma let out a breath and turned to the staircase at her back. Her current greatest issue would be deciding what to wear. What colour would suit her best on her drive? Perhaps her Pomona green pelisse would be good on such a chilly day. But where was her bonnet? She lost it ages ago.
“Or the cerulean blue pelisse?” Emma mumbled reaching the door to her chamber. “Yes, that will do well.” She pushed open her door to find Mary busily running around her chamber laying out the items into which she would be changing. The cerulean blue pelisse was already draped across her bed, a pair of dark brown boots tossed atop it.
Emma nodded and steeled herself for this ordeal. She was indulging in her dramatic nature. She had known Thomas her entire life, but now he felt more akin to a stranger to her.
At exactly half past two, Lord Hartwell rang the bell at the Earl of Sheridan's home. He had done this assorted times before but for Caroline. Today and until they wed, he would call upon Lady Emma Wren. He was sure this drive would be a bore. They would not have to speak much. Such is the glory of the Fashionable Hour. There were so many people and so many innocuous conversations. One did not even need to speak with whom they escorted.
To his surprise and heartache, a freshly washed Caroline answered the door. She had conspicuously donned one of her best gowns. A gasp escaped her pink lips, her bright blue eyes perfectly innocent and wide.
Thomas felt his heart skip at the vision of his dearest love. Her rich, musky scent floated over him, enveloping his soul. He cleared his throat and bowed courteously. His mind searched for some words or phrase to appease a heart as broken as his own. He came up empty.
“My lovely Caro,” he began softly. But that sweet angel shut her eyes against him, his use of her nickname now too painful to behold. Thomas' lips set into a grim line, his great growing heavy with the hurt he was causing his beloved.
“Lady Wren,” interrupted a commanding voice. A girl, wearing an apron over her dress and a cap over her russet hair, appeared behind Caroline. Her brown eyes directed a disappointed gaze at Caroline. “You are not a servant, but a lady. You are not to answer the door. Especially when you are not properly attired and it is your sister's betrothed,” she admonished. Caroline turned on her heel and shot the maid a cutting glare.
She was prepared to retort, fists clenched at the maid's intrusion. Then Lord Sheridan bounded into the main hall, looking upon the scene with trepidation.
“Well, there you are, Thomas! How are you doing this day? Overjoyed I see at marrying my little Emma.” He chuckled, patting his shoulder. Lord Sheridan looked over to Caroline, taking in her visible anger without surprise. “My dear girl, why do you not go and ready yourself for the arrival of Lord Harvey. He shall be he soon enough.”
Caroline stalked up the stairs, stopping once to toss one heartbroken glance behind her. Thomas clenched the brim of his top hat, distressed at this change in events. Caroline was going to be driven by that rakehell Lord Harvey? What had the world come to?
Emma passed her sister on the stairs, mouth twisting into a grimace at the dramatics. She looked quite fetching in her carriage dress. Then again, Lord Hartwell thought, Emma always looked immaculate, her clothing matching perfectly. Today it was some shade of dark brown and a dusty-looking blue. Thomas was not good at recalling the specific names for colours. A vague comment of �
��Nice pink dress” usually did the trick. Unless the lady was keen on insisting that it was salmon, not pink. Such trivialities were of little concern to him.
“There she is!” Lord Sheridan announced happily. He had been in a grand mood since the betrothal announcement this morning. He was much more attentive exuberant while Lady Sheridan had taken to her bed indefinitely.
“Good afternoon, father,” she greeted, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. Lord Sheridan visibly melted at her affection. Emma then turned to Thomas waiting. He immediately swept into an elegant bow.
“Lady Emma, good afternoon. She dipped into a perfect curtsy.
“How are you faring this chilly day, Lord Hartwell?” Emma asked, leaning forward slightly to inspect his face. She sniffed precariously at the air and drew back. Good lord, she thought, he had been drinking before he arrived. Was the thought of her so very terrible?
“I am quite well though I could be warmer. But could not we all?” He said with some trepidation. What a fool he was. Having downed a few glasses of claret, he should have realized he would smell of it. Though he was not foxed by any means, this was a great insult to his future bride. He should have at the very least freshened up at home before coming here. Instead, Thomas had driven over from White's.
“But when summer comes we shall be sick unto death of the heat. I do hope your phaeton will not freeze me to death.”
“Never fear, I have hot bricks to warm your feet and some furs if it gets particularly cold.”
Colors of a Lady Page 3