The Marriage Bargain

by Diane Perkins

  When they happened upon Reuben, his mouth dropped open. “Emma, I am astonished! I never expected you to be here.” He, too, perused her as the other gentlemen had done. “And in such finery!”

  Lady Vellamy, showing no interest in the vicar, turned to chat with some other people nearby, and Reuben took the opportunity to step closer to Emma in what she felt was an excess of familiarity. “Are you well enough to be out and about after your injury and the long journey?”

  It was more of a scold than concern. “Most certainly. You are acquainted with Lady Vellamy?” Emma asked, pulling the lady back into her conversation.

  “Indeed.” He gave a fawning smile. “How are you, my lady?”

  Before she could answer, the first dance was announced, a country dance, and couples began to take their places in the line.

  Reuben turned to Emma. “Would you honor me with this dance, Emma, my dear?”

  “I have not danced in three years, Reuben. I must watch first.”

  His mouth drooped in disappointment. “As you wish.”

  Lady Vellamy had again been drawn away. Though Emma felt a pang of guilt for turning down Reuben, she dreaded more to be left standing alone.

  “But stay with me,” she said to him. “I would be grateful for your company.”

  He brightened. “Shall I find you a chair and get some refreshment?”

  “No, just stand with me until Lady Vellamy comes back.”

  As the dancers moved up and down the line in graceful symmetry, Reuben continued to make stabs at conversation. Emma answered in monosyllables, unable to keep her eyes off the doorway where new arrivals entered the room.

  The set had not yet been completed when Reuben suddenly said, “Bless me!”

  “What is it?” Emma’s heart jumped.

  Reuben chewed on his lip. “My father signals me. I must attend him.”

  Emma glanced at Mr. Keenan. The man quickly looked away.

  “I dare not refuse him,” Reuben fretted. “But I would not be so ungentlemanly as to leave you alone.”

  Emma did not wish to take the chance that Keenan would come over to where she stood with Reuben. “I see my mother. I shall join her.”

  “Capital idea,” muttered Reuben, still looking distressed. He gave a quick bow. “Best I go.”

  Her mother was laughing gaily with a foreign-looking gentleman with many medals and decorations on his chest. Emma started toward her, taking care not to interfere with the dancers. She had to step aside and wait for a space to move, when, through the couples performing their figures, she saw two tall young gentlemen enter the room.

  Spence and Blakewell.

  Spence looked splendid in formal attire, a dark blue coat, under which a blue patterned waistcoat could be seen. His breeches and stockings were as snowy white as his elegantly tied neckcloth.

  At the sight of him her senses flared as strongly as if she stared at him across a bed. She averted her gaze, not wanting to feel this breathlessness, not wanting him to affect her so much.

  But she could not keep her eyes away from him, so she peeked through the dancers, watching him nod at something Blake said, watching him enter the room, watching him greet people familiar to him. His ease and grace set him off from all the other men, though she wished she could think otherwise.

  The music stopped and the dancers left the floor, ladies on the gentlemen’s arms. It was like a curtain opening with Emma left onstage.

  Spence turned his head and saw her.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Emma.

  At first he thought she was an illusion, his eyes playing tricks on him, turning some other lady into a vision of her, the one who lived in his thoughts. But she returned his gaze and there was no mistake.

  Emma.

  The room blurred and all he could see was Emma, looking resplendent in a dusty green gown, her hair a tousle of curls. She stood alone, no part of any group, and something tender ached inside him.

  He crossed the room, barely hearing Blake’s “Spence?” Not one more moment could keep him away from her.

  As he neared her, he saw her breath quicken, her color heighten. A bit closer revealed the glitter of anger in her eyes.

  “Emma.”

  “Spence,” she countered as if facing him en garde. “I see you are enjoying London’s entertainments.”

  “What are you doing here, Emma?” He could not even attend to her sarcasm, nor her anger. “By God, you were so ill—” All he could picture was her pale face against the pillow of her bed the last he had seen her, and the surgeon’s statement that she should remain there.

  “Thank you for your touching concern.” Her lip curled. “I am quite recovered.”

  He shook his head, unable to comprehend. “Emma, I . . .” he began, wanting to explain.

  Her eyes flared and he realized he could not speak with her here, not without creating a scene, something she would detest.

  He took a breath. “Where are you staying?”

  She glared. “Where are you staying, Spence?”

  “Stephen’s Hotel.” He tossed off his answer quickly, his concern focused on her. “Did you bring Mr. Hale with you? Or Tolley? Or your maid?”

  Before she could answer, he noticed people casting curious glances their way. The music had started again, a waltz, and couples were taking their positions.

  “Dance with me.” He extended his hand.

  She hesitated, but with a tiny shrug, put her hand in his.

  He brought her onto the dance floor and put his hand at her waist. She rested hers on his arm. Holding her, inhaling the lavender scent of her, awakened memories of lovemaking, of savoring her silky skin next to his. Almost forgetting to move, he forced himself to attend to the three-quarter time, and to lead them into the dance.

  “Do you wish me to answer your questions?” Her expression was like a cannon about to be fired.

  He had forgotten his questions, distracted by her eyes, perfectly matched to the color of her dress, and the feel of her in his arms as they twirled to the music.

  She answered in clipped tones. “I am a guest in my mother’s house, no servants accompanied me, and your cousin was good enough to transport me.”

  Spence winced, dismayed his foolish cousin would transport Emma so soon after her injury. He peered at her. She was pale and tiny lines of pain etched the corners of her mouth.

  “But why, Emma? My letter—”

  She laughed. “Your letter. Now that was edifying.” Her voice and eyes became steely. “I came to London to hold you to our bargain.”

  “But I wrote you I would return.”

  Her brows knit, then rose. “Indeed?” she said sarcastically. “I read only that you ‘could not stay.’”

  His insides sank in dismay. She did not receive his London letter. She knew only that he had deserted her—again.

  They circled the floor, twirling in time to the music, the other dancers a blur. In spite of the tension between them, they moved as one.

  “Emma, I fear I cannot explain to you—”

  She cut him off. “I fear that as well. How can you explain why you broke your word to me?” She missed a step. Spence tightened his hold, clutching her against him for an instant to keep them both from tripping. When they recovered their balance and their rhythm, a tinge of color touched her cheeks.

  “I—”

  “—Do not even try to concoct a story now. I have more to say to you than can be said on a dance floor.”

  He accepted her anger. All he could do was fight to get beyond it. “Let us find a room here where we can talk.”

  She shot more daggers with her eyes. “Certainly not. I have been the object of curiosity ever since I stepped in this house. I will not cause more talk by disappearing with you.”

  He closed his eyes, realizing he was putting his need to throw himself on her mercy ahead of what her desires would be.

  “Tell me what I must do, Emma,” he murmured.

  He thought he
saw her countenance fleetingly soften, but she answered him in a frosty voice. “You may call upon me at my mother’s townhouse tomorrow. I beg you to come early. Eleven o’clock?”

  He nodded, trying to meet her eyes to show his sincerity. “I shall be there, Emma.”

  They completed the dance in silence. And when it was over, he conveyed her to her mother, who was seated in a chair next to her friend Lady Vellamy, whom Spence remembered from their wedding. The two ladies looked as if they’d just won a bundle backing Cavendish’s Nectar at the Newmarket Races.

  “Good evening, Lady Holgrove. Lady Vellamy.” He bowed and Emma released her hand from his arm.

  “Good evening, sir,” Lady Holgrove chirped.

  “Do you like our surprise?” Lady Vellamy asked with a grin.

  He directed his gaze at Emma. “I like it very well.”

  Emma turned away from him and made as if to straighten her skirt.

  “I did not think Emma well enough for such a trip,” he added.

  Her mother looked puzzled. “Oh? Were you ill, dear?”

  “No, Mother.” Emma darted a glance to Spence before taking the seat next to Lady Vellamy.

  “What did he mean then?”

  Emma flashed Spence a warning look, which he interpreted as a request to keep his mouth shut. “I do not know, Mother,” she replied. “Thank you for the dance, my lord.”

  “Emma—” he began, but she averted her gaze and he knew she wished him to leave.

  “I will come beg another dance,” he said to her.

  She replied with an uninterested look.

  He bowed to all three ladies and walked away.

  Blake, who was lurking nearby, grabbed him almost immediately and dragged him to a quiet corner. “Emma is here? What is this, Spence?”

  “She is furious at me, Blake, and rightfully so,” he said with gloom. “She did not receive my letter.”

  “Oh, dear.” frowned Blake. “This is a coil. What is her purpose in coming here? I thought she was ill.”

  “She is ill, I fear.” He avoided the other part of Blake’s question. His arrangement with Emma was a matter even too private for the Ternion.

  Blake did not press him. “I must keep moving. I am dodging my mother, but I will certainly give my regards to your wife.”

  “Do so.” Spence rubbed his brow. “Forgive me, Blake. I will see you directly.” Spence walked out of the room and ducked into the library nearby, dark except for the glow of a fireplace. He closed the door and placed his hand on his brow, trying to quiet the tumult of emotions inside.

  “I take it you have seen your wife.” His uncle’s voice came from a wingchair in the corner. Spence looked over to see him hold a glass of wine to his lips. “I take it you were as ill-prepared to see her as I.”

  Spence crossed over to him. “I was indeed, sir.”

  His uncle signaled him to sit, but Spence shook his head.

  His uncle shrugged. “Reuben tells me she stays at her mother’s house. Why is she here, Spence?”

  Spence hesitated a moment before answering, weighing how prudent it was to talk with his uncle about Emma.“I will call upon her tomorrow. Perhaps she will tell me.”

  “Do you plan to leave her at her mother’s house?” his uncle asked.

  Spence kept his expression steady, although he felt anything but steady inside.

  “I had not considered the matter.”

  “It will cause talk if she stays there and you at your hotel. The room in there is already buzzing with speculaton.” His uncle stared into his glass of wine before looking back at Spence. “You should relocate to the townhouse.”

  He did not wish to tell his uncle he planned to take her back to Kellworth right away. “I would not displace you, sir.”

  His uncle responded, “You ought to take residence. I can have your rooms ready with a moment’s notice.”

  Spence regarded the man. If he had more time, perhaps he could uncover the truth of his uncle’s involvement with Ruddock. But Emma came first.

  “I shall think on it,” he prevaricated.

  “Your wife.” His uncle’s voice turned low. “The last person I expected . . .”

  His uncle fell silent and Spence took his leave. He returned to the rooms where the festivities continued, in time to see Blake escort Emma to the dance floor. He could not help but watch her. When the supper was announced, he attended her, fixing her plate and bringing her a glass of champagne, but she had little to say to him. He later asked her for one other dance, another waltz, but they danced in silence. When Ladies Vellamy and Holgrove decided to quit the ball, he accompanied Emma to their carriage.

  “I will call upon you tomorrow,” he said, but she barely looked at him.

  Emma slept fitfully that night, her dreams of Spence waking her, and the disorder of her feelings about him keeping her awake.

  She’d thought her anger would protect her from her senses, but he affected her as always. She wanted to hate him—did hate him—for not loving her enough to stay with her, but all it took was a glimpse of him and her body forgot.

  Lady Vellamy arrived early for breakfast so that she and Emma’s mother could supervise her toilette. Lady Vellamy chose a morning dress of palest blush and Lady Holgrove’s maid dressed Emma’s hair in a simple knot atop her head. A light touch of rouge put some needed color in her otherwise pale face.

  The ladies pronounced her ravishing and were nearly giddy with excitement that her husband would see her in such fine looks. Her mother assured her she would finally make a real conquest of him and come into all the deserved privileges of her rank.

  The only privilege Emma wanted was to produce the heir—or a daughter—any baby to love.

  Spence arrived promptly, but her mother insisted she keep him waiting.

  “Shall we receive him with her, Phoebe?” her mother asked, clapping her hands in excitement.

  “I beg you would not,” Emma piped up. “I must see him alone, without interruptions.”

  Her mother gave a moue of disappointment, but Lady Vellamy said, “Oh, let them be private, Agatha.”

  Spence waited for her in the drawing room. She opened the door to see him staring out the window onto Hartford Street.

  He turned. “Emma.” He crossed the room to her with his hands extended, but, rather than clasp them, she wrapped her arms across her chest.

  Spence regarded her. “You are still pale, Emma. Are you feeling ill?”

  Her pallor probably disappeared because she felt her face flush. “I am perfectly well. Say your piece, Spence.”

  She wanted to sustain her anger toward him, to not be seduced by his tall good looks or his spoken solicitude.

  His eyes looked remarkably tormented. “I do not know what to say.”

  She glared at him. “Begin by telling me why you left.”

  He swung away from her and walked to the window to stare outside. He turned back. “I beg you to listen to the whole of what I say.”

  She gave an acquiescing nod.

  “Will you sit?” he asked.

  “No,” she said.

  He bowed his head for a moment, then lifted his eyes to hers. “I panicked,” he said. “I ran from Kellworth because I had nearly killed you in the exact place I killed my brother, in nearly the same manner.” His gaze seemed to bore into her. “I know it defies understanding, Emma, but that is the reason. I had the notion you would die like Stephen, like my parents, if I stayed one more minute at your side.”

  She felt the tug of sincerity in his little speech, so seductive. She swept it away with a ruthless vow to remain rational and leveled a skeptical glare at him. “You left me because you feared I would die?”

  His gaze remained steady. “I knew you were not seriously injured. Mr. Price said so.”

  She laughed dryly. “So you left because you knew I would not die?”

  He glanced away, his lips stretched into a grim line. When he looked back, his eyes looked bleak. “I left because
I panicked.”

  She turned away, walking over to a small table and fiddling with a porcelain figure of an Arcadian maiden.

  He continued to explain. “As soon as I arrived in London, I realized my folly. I dispatched a letter to you immediately, saying I would return. I planned to return to Kellworth today.”

  “A letter I did not receive,” she scoffed. “Another missing letter.”

  Her anger flared. Dare she believe anything this man told her? Each word strengthened the notion that all he told her, even the purported embezzlement, had been a lie.

  She swung back to him. “Give me one reason I should believe any of this!”

  He bowed his head. “I can think of no reason you should believe me, Emma.” His voice was so low, she could barely hear him, yet it plucked a chord inside her that threatened to unleash the very emotions she fought to control.

  His eyes rose to pierce her again. “I have wronged you from the beginning, Emma. Married you and left you and told myself I was acting the gallant. I told myself I must go fight for my country and my king, when all I really wanted was to escape Kellworth. Then what did I do? Trapped you there and near starved you as well”—his eyes filled with what looked like remorse—“You are right. There is no reason you should believe me.”

  In spite of her resolve, she was shaken, almost feeling his pain resonating inside her.

  She shook her head. She simply must not allow herself to fall under his spell.

  “I am pleased we agree on something.” Her voice came out churlish, but she hated the sound of it.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out some papers, handing them to her. “I was able to accomplish one useful task while here.”

  She stared at the words “Bank of England.” The papers seemed to document a large sum of money in her name. She gasped at the amount and shot a glance at Spence.

  “Part of our bargain.” He gave a wan smile. “Financial security for you.”

  She stared back at the figures, not able to believe that there had ever been that much money in his fortune. What sort of man would give his wife such a sum? She shook her head. It was inconceivable. A wife’s money belonged to her husband, did it not? This might be all a hum, an effort to fool her again.