“How thoughtful!” Lord Sheridan piped in, smiling upon the new couple with great pride. The proud fathers could not stop congratulating themselves on their scheming. This union was a boon for both them and their children.
“Let us depart then. We may miss the Prince if we do not hurry.”
That tidbit brightened up Emma. “Will he really be there? I have read about him in the scandal sheets, but I have not seen him in person yet. He was not at court when I got presented.
Emma settled her hand on the arm offered to her. He led her from the house to his waiting phaeton.
“He is certainly a sight one must see. As you know his wife, Princess Caroline, is out of the country.
“Oh yes, what a great mess it all is!” She said with a laugh.
Lord Hartwell felt disconcerted over her easy acceptance over his insult. She asked no questions and did not grate his nerves with pious words over the danger of the drink. He found her silence to be much more affecting to his conscience than tears or shouts. Disappointment lingered, rushing over him like a wave.
The Marquess helped Emma into the phaeton, being sure to point out the hot bricks to her. She sighed in happiness when she sat her already chilled feet upon them. She settled back against the furs, relishing the comfort they provided.
“How has your day been thus far?” he inquired with the sincerest hope this simple question would entertain her a launch a tirade of trivialities. It always worked with Caroline and any other ladies of the ton. During the countless musicales, routs, and the like, the ability to make small talk was paramount. A lady’s ability to prattle endlessly about her new bonnet or ribbons was astounding. Emma, however, simply shrugged her shoulders as if this life held no joy.
When she was a child, Emma would regale Thomas with every single facet of her day: the books she read, the kitten she petted, the biscuits she devoured. All such mundane details of a girl’s day. Emma told of her exploits with great gusto as if she were a conquistador.
“Oh, it was good enough. Helena and Lettice called upon me and we had tea. I learned my aunt should be helping me with my wedding trousseau.” She added the last part delicately. It was unheard of that an aunt should be called in when a mother was alive and well.
Lord Hartwell pulled on the reins, drawing the phaeton to a stop. He tipped his hat to the group of ladies waiting to cross the street. They giggled merrily and rushed across calling thanks over their shoulders.
He cleared his throat, tempted to ask for more details. A good part of him said to simply ignore it and continue on with the ride in silence. He was intrigued by her words and a very small part of him was yelling very loudly, demanding he ask for her elaboration.
“Your aunt? Why not your mother or even your sister?”
“They are otherwise engaged.”
“Surely they can find time for you,” he said.
“They are not the type to do so when I am involved,” she answered honestly. “It is no matter to me for I have my aunt who has always been of great help to me.”
“I see,” Thomas answered. Though he really did not understand it at all and he did not have anything better to say. Emma chuckled at his lame reply.
She turned her face to him and accused, “I do not think you do, Lord Hartwell.”
“Then explain,” he offered. She shook her head and licked her lip, a feeble attempt to warm them against the biting wind.
“I do not believe it is good ton to speak of my family in a negative manner, my lord. Especially to you and about my sister. You are bound to be biased and find me to be a shrew for speaking against her.”
The phaeton turned into Hyde Park, home of Rotten Row. Eligible men sat perched on horseback, leaning down to converse with walking ladies. There was a flurry of excitement in the air, that of new gossip. Emma was sure it was in regards to Lord Hartwell and her. Her assumptions proved to be correct. Everyone they passed could not help but lapse into furtive whispers and some even pointed in a most undignified manner.
Well, that was certainly not good ton. Emma smoothed her long skirt and glanced sidelong at Thomas. The line of his mouth was firm and quivering as if he was smothering some heated words. Emma coughed and informed him in a stern voice that was peppered with nonchalance, “I know you do not want to be married, Lord Hartwell.” She paused and waved happily to an acquaintance she had not spoken to in years.
“To be honest, I feel the same. I know you to be a good man, but it has never once been my dream to have Caroline’s rejects. I hope that, aside from the manner of our betrothal, we shall live in relative contentment.”
His stiff shoulders relaxed and a small smile tweaked his lips. Lord Hartwell tipped his hat to a schoolmate from Eton before speaking to Emma.
“We are partners for life. I am quite amenable to it as long as you do not rail against me as you used to when we were children.”
Emma gasped. How impertinent! She had matured so much since then too.
“Why, Lord Hartwell, I just--!” She sputtered and huffed, annoyed that her childhood transgressions would come back to haunt her. Her spirit soared at the knowledge that he did remember their times together. Even if it was in a somewhat negative light. It was better than no memories at all. Perhaps they would become great friends again. She could survive with that. Friendship was better than animosity though it was a far cry from love. Who in the ton could expect love from a marriage where fortunes and titles were involved? It was simply not done. That was bad taste. One got married to enrich their fortunes and spend the rest of their days ignoring one another.
It was all a rather cynical business, but the institution of marriage had not suffered. People still got married like clockwork since the Church had deemed it a requirement to be respectable.
Emma peeked at her fiancé, admiring his handsome profile. Could she happily look at this for years to come? The quirk of his lips as he tried to hide a smile; the way his curls fell across his forehead like the image of a Greek hero upon the fragment of a vase; his straight back and intelligent eyes. It would not be difficult, she decided. In fact, it would be the easiest thing she had ever done in her life. That truth worried her most of all.
Chapter Three
Lady Lucille Wren, spinster aunt to Caroline and Emma and sister to Lord Sheridan, arrived in London without fanfare. Her summons was unsurprising. She knew when the day came her brother would call upon her to help Emma with her wedding plans. Lucille knew all too well of her sister-in-law's vain and hapless nature. That was the misfortune of being sister to a brother married to a shrew. She bit back more harmful words reminding herself that she was still a lady, whether she had married or not.
Many would call her an ape-leader, which perhaps was not far from the truth. Her life had been far from the drudgery of being a companion to an elderly woman or a governess to ungrateful children. As the product of an indulgent father and loving mother, she had grown up to be spirited and independent. Those qualities were very much frowned upon in society. They were the same that got her in trouble.
With her feisty nature, Lucille had risked no time at all falling in love with an unsuitable rake. One could call him a fortune hunter and the declaration would not be untrue. Though he was of an old family, he had wasted no time in gambling away the small fortune left to him upon his father’s death. Once he found himself wallowing in debt, he decided it would do well to attend Almack’s, turn a leg, and meet young debutantes with considerable dowries.
Lucille, coddled too much, had only seen beauty and love in him. At that point, her brother was her guardian. He could not bear to marry his sister off to such a man. But then their brother died.
Lucille felt her heart catch in her throat. She left the country and left it all behind. She had not looked back at those events in years. Being in London revived their old memories.
It was the first time she had stepped upon English soil in five years. The rakes and bucks she knew as a girl were married with their own broods of ch
ildren. It was much colder up here than in sunny Italy. But the nip in the air was refreshing and nostalgic. It was lucky that she was traveling in Paris when she received a letter from her brother. It meant a shorter trip to London instead of having to trek from Southern Europe.
Having arrived in Dover that morning, Lucille was now riding through the streets on London. She politely refused her brother’s offer of staying with the family. She found that her rented lodgings could be used for wedding planning and fittings, far from the prying eyes of her sister-in-law.
As the carriage pulled to a stop, Lucille leaned forward to look outside at her new lodgings. Lord Sheridan had picked them in a fashionable part of Mayfair, much to her annoyance. Lucille had hoped to avoid any unwanted run-ins with the ton. The carriage shook as the footmen unloaded her trunks. They dropped to the ground with a thud. Lucille silently praised that she had not packed anything fragile.
With a gloved hand, she pushed the door open, too impatient to wait for assistance. Lucille elegantly stepped out, shoes clicking on the pavement. She admired the clean architecture of the newer homes. Rented lodgings did not hold ghosts of times long gone. Everywhere she was reminded of her youth. Those follies caused by her head-strong ways. Those days and nights of unbridled merriment that ultimately resulted in despair.
Shortly before her sojourn in France, they reveled in lopping off the heads of the aristocracy. Some escaped with their lives but lost their fortunes. To many, it may have been better to die than to be destitute. The English did not look too fondly upon the refugees of a country that had supported the colonists in their revolution.
It was 1796 when Lucille arrived in Paris. The country was in a process of recovery after beheading their monarchs and unleashing a terror upon the populace. They had reached a time of relative peace with the formation of the Directoire. In only a handful of years, Napoleon would seize control.
France was in perpetual war, within itself and outside its borders. She had known and lost many dear friends in the campaigns. The wealthy in England did not know the heartache of those who lost their kin and dear friends in battlefields across Europe. The memories still ached.
“Not today,” Lucille muttered. She did not need more ghosts haunting her. Not all of those dear friends lost in a senseless grab for power.
“Lady Emma...? What are you doing here?” The voice belonged to a long-legged man who was bounding down the street towards here. Once he was in closer view of Lucille, he stopped short. “Oh, I am sorry. I have mistaken you for someone else.”
Lucille tucked a few stray curls behind her ear and smiled kindly. “It is no matter. Mistakes happen.”
The man's cheeks flushed. He was not yet a grown man. There was innocence to his features that told Lucille he had not known hardship in his life. He probably dawdled about, spending his days at the gentleman's clubs and his nights at the countless soirees in London homes. The life of the ton was one of leisure. They did not have the problems of the people on the Continent who had been ravaged by war at Napoleon's hands for years.
“Are you newly arrived in London?” He asked, looking at the footmen who were carrying her trunks into the house.
“From France, yes. I am here to help my niece with her wedding.”
“Niece?” He repeated. “Are you, perhaps, Lady Lucille Wren?”
“Why yes, I am,” she replied. “How do you know my name? I have not been in England for many years.”
“Lady Emma Wren, your niece, is my betrothed.” He paused and shook his head. “I have forgotten my manners. I am Thomas Blake, Marquess of Hartwell.”
“Ah, my soon-to-be nephew. How delightful it is to meet you at last. I met you once or twice before I left for the Continent. But you would not remember, you were still a baby.”
“That is out of the realm of my memories. Is Lady Emma aware of your arrival?” It had been two weeks since their engagement. Every single time Thomas saw his fiancée she would mention how excited she was that her aunt was coming to stay. Her eyes would light up in genuine delight.
“Not so. My preparations were rushed in coming here, so I had no time to dispatch a letter to her. I plan on sending a note to my brother once I am settled.”
“It is up to me to keep this a secret then.”
“If you would not mind. I should like some time before I am ensconced into London Society again.”
“Understandable.”
Lucille watched the young man carefully. He fiddled with the collar of his coat. He appeared to be considering some matter. There was a grin growing on his lips as if he had just thought of the single most brilliant idea ever.
“I have a proposition for you and it concerns your niece...”
“Do go on. I am listening.” She waited, listening to his suggestion. Lord Hartwell was very pleased with the plan he was concocting and Lucille herself was amused at the prospect. She was also glad that Lord Sheridan secured such a kind man for Emma's hand in marriage. Though Emma's note to her was full of regret at being given her sister's leftovers, the man himself seemed resigned and even elated with his soon-to-be bride.
“What a grand idea! I would be happy to do so.”
“Wonderful! I must take my leave now, Lady Wren, but I will call upon you at a later time.” He bowed to Lucille in parting, before carrying on his way. He passed by a pair of ladies and tipped his hat to them. They giggled away, whispering behind gloved hands. Their whispers grew louder as they reached Lucille.
“What a fine figure of a man!” The taller one gushed to her friend. She was built like a beanpole, all this height and no figure to show for it. Her friend was short and barely looked out of the school-room though she could have been Lucille's age. It was hard to tell.
“What a shame he is marry Lord Sheridan's younger daughter. She is pretty, no doubt, but she lacks in excitement, do you not think so?”
“Perhaps they were childhood sweethearts. He had to get married eventually, right? And we are far too old for him.”
“What a pity. One of us should have snagged His Grace while we still could. Oh, those were the days though, weren't they?”
The two sighed in mutual nostalgia. It left Lucille just as nostalgic, her mind floating back to the happy days of dances and flirting. Perhaps she had even exchanged pleasantries with that pair. It was wholly possible though Duke Kellaway was married by the time she had come out. His wife was a pretty woman and the daughter of a viscount. It was not the best match for him, but he was a terribly wealthy duke. There was little anyone could say to him at that time save the King.
Lucille did not enjoy nostalgia but it came in waves. All it did was remind her of the choices she had made in her life. Some were good and yet others were bad. She did not regret any of them however. That was life, was it not? One could not dwell on the mistakes and expect to live happily.
Lady Wren looked up and down the street. There was no one there. Yet she felt that peculiar prickle as if some person was studying her. But, the area was deserted save her servants. Lucille smoothed her pelisse and hurried up the stairs into her lodgings.
Emma’s feet ached desperately. She curtsied shakily to her latest dance partner. She had never danced so much in her life! It had been a few weeks since she was taken off the marriage market through her betrothal. But this seemed to incite the bucks even more for she had never been more popular. She had naturally danced with Lord Hartwell at the beginning and then he had claimed every second dance after that. She was exhausted and the air in Almack’s was suffocating.
She spotted Lettice standing near the refreshments, sipping on some watery lemonade. Her pale blue eyes were watching the dancers closely as if searching for a smile or a touch that would indicate a secret entendre. The frown on her face showed that noting as such had yet transpired.
Helena was absent, presumably off chatting with Nathaniel. She may have denied it with her every breath, but Helena was hopelessly in love with Lord Hedgeton. Some nights, when Helena and Lettic
e visited her in the country, the three would pilfer some wine from the cellar and drink merrily together. They would stay up late into the night, whispering their dreams into the night air and laughing until their bellies hurt. It was then that Helena gushed, her cheeks red, how green his eyes were, like sparkling jewels in the ivory marble that was his face. A sultan would want to take his eyes to embed in his gilded palaces, she insisted. Emma had commented that it would be a truly gruesome event. Helena simply stuck out her tongue and continued listing off his wonderful attributes. It was quite a list. Even Lettice had grown annoyed with the ridiculousness of it all, imploring Helena to stop.
In any case, when the Season was concerned, Helena was bound to be where Nathaniel was. He always accepted her company and had even called upon her a few times with her brother’s permission. Helena’s father had passed away two years ago, leaving a wealthy widow and a twenty year old viscount. Her brother, however, was far more conservative than the former Lord Mallory had ever been. Even so, a marriage to an earl would be great for his own social standing and Helena’s future. As far as the ton knew, Lord Hedgeton had not yet offered for her hand.
Emma wished to gossip with Lettice, but the pain in her feet dictated she should seek a chair instead. She spotted an empty settee near a group of hardened debutantes. Her lip raised in a sneer upon seeing the glossy brown hair of Lady Lavinia Worthing, a particular thorn in her side. She disliked Emma immensely and the dislike had transformed into hate once Emma’s betrothal to Lord Hartwell was announced.
She had her own designs on him. But what girl did not? Not only did he have the greatest inheritance and the oldest title, but also he was good-looking without tending towards foolishness or conceit. There were many wealthy men who were far too enamored of themselves to seek out wives. It would be a slight to their estimable looks. So to Lady Worthing, Emma was the worst kind of debutante. Due to her family connection she easily became betrothed without even having to do all the rounds of a regular season. Most of the young ladies were torn between annoyance and amazement at her quick rise to popularity.
Colors of a Lady Page 4