by Sara Portman
“Reacquainted? I was never acquainted with him in the first place.” Emma exhaled slowly and reminded herself of the ladies’ good intentions. “Please, I know you are only concerned for my happiness,” she began, but she was interrupted by…
Silence.
The music stopped, but that phenomenon alone would not have been sufficient to give her pause. No, the entire ballroom stopped. The crowded room was startlingly silent, conversations and dances utterly frozen. It was as though the candlelight stopped twinkling and the potted ferns stopped growing.
Everyone looked.
She followed their eyes and released a small gasp before she could prevent it.
He strode into the room with nothing more than a sweeping glance for its occupants and still the silence reigned.
Emma watched with the others. He was there—all in one piece, looking every bit the duke.
Chapter Two
John Brantwood, Seventh Duke of Worley, walked directly into the crush at the Fairhaven ball and scanned the room, pointedly ignoring how the entire populace stared at him as though he were about to give a speech. He had some notion he’d become the favored subject of gossip, but the lack of subtlety unnerved him. He would be more comfortable once the gawking stares reverted to surreptitious glances made over shoulders and peeks from over top of lemonade glasses. Four years away now seemed like twenty. His life in Boston had been a modest one and it felt deuced awkward to be strolling into the ballroom as though he were the duke. Christ. He was the duke. And his damned valet had him tied up so tight in his clothes, he thought he might start pulling at his cravat and fidgeting like a child in church.
He didn’t, of course. Nothing that occurred in his time away could undo the years of training and experience that preceded it. He adopted the bored mien expected for his position and sauntered into the room because he belonged there—even though he didn’t quite feel that he did.
He had a higher purpose for appearing at one of the most heavily attended events of the season. He needed a wife—as quickly as he could arrange it. He could rely on his rank and fortune to ensure his suit was well received; it was simply a matter of selection. He’d been back in England for more than a month and he could no longer afford to delay.
Where is that damned Brydges?
He’d recruited his long-time friend Hugh Brydges as a reluctant coconspirator to aid in his plan, and he scanned the faces to find him. The whole room seemed to be waiting and watching, but he finally noticed an irreverent smirk that differentiated itself from the crowd.
The smirk and its owner sauntered over without any regard for the rapt attention of the gathered revelers.
“You’ve cleaned up well, Your Grace,” Hugh said with an exaggerated examination of John’s appearance. “Death agrees with you, it would seem.”
John watched Brydges drop his chin to acknowledge a couple who’d maneuvered themselves near enough to overhear. Brydges didn’t engage them in conversation and they moved reluctantly past. He turned back.
“You know I’ll never get used to calling you Worley instead of Brantwood.”
“Call me whatever you like. You always have.” The last thing John needed was his oldest friend your-gracing him all the time.
Brydges nodded.
Hugh Brydges was one of the first people John contacted upon his return to England. He was the only friend in England who knew the truth of John’s whereabouts during the past four years, and he diligently kept John informed of the duke’s lies, his declining health, and eventually, his death. Brydges was the only man John counted as a truly loyal friend. Most thought him a shallow, unserious person, but John knew better. At school, Brydges had been popular company for his biting wit and rebellious spirit. Few other than John had noticed the quiet determination with which Brydges had addressed his studies.
As such, John was not surprised when Brydges’s teasing demeanor abruptly sobered and his friend faced him with a dissecting look, mouth drawn in a grim line and eyes probing. “You’re as determined as ever, then?” Brydges asked.
“I am.”
“Does this sister of yours understand you’re falling on your sword for her? Are you certain she deserves it?”
John’s chin rose. Deserve it? Did Charlotte deserve to be robbed of her father, of her home, of her place? No, she did not. If John could do something—anything—to return even a fraction of what had been taken from Charlotte, how could he possibly consider inaction?
“It is the very least she deserves,” he said quietly, but with all the strength of his resolve. His determination alone wouldn’t accomplish it, though. Charlotte had lived in America for most of her life. He would need every social advantage to quell the inevitable rumors and questions regarding her legitimacy. Selecting a duchess—the right duchess—to aid in this cause was imperative. “You’ll not change my mind, so register your complaints and be done, Brydges. I’ll expect you to be in top form this evening.”
Brydges’s grave expression disappeared as quickly as it had come, and he looked out over the sea of revelers with an amused smile. “On the contrary, I have no complaints.”
John took in the same view of dark jackets and pastel gowns and released a burdened sigh before casting a doubtful glance at his companion. “You’re amenable then to an evening among eligible young ladies and their mothers? Even a third son might find himself snared if he is not careful.”
Brydges was the son of an earl, but with two older brothers and nephews aplenty, he had no obligation to produce heirs. And while other third sons lamented the unlucky fortune of their birth order and sought to woo heiresses, Brydges had convinced his father to use the funds that would have purchased a military commission as capital to begin a stud operation instead. It was flourishing nicely, providing Brydges the happy freedom of bachelorhood for as long as he so chose.
Still, he grinned at John as though he were perfectly content to be plunk in the middle of one of the biggest marriage mart events of the season. “I wasn’t looking forward to the job, but since I’ve been freed of the burden, I’ve no complaints now.”
John cast his friend a quizzical look. “How so? Have you assigned your duties to another?” He planned to rely on Brydges to make introductions and discretely remind him of those acquaintances he should recall. He’d forgotten much and the great number of marriages and deaths among the gentry made his remaining memories unreliable.
Brydges faced the crush as he spoke, doling out nods and waves to those who openly stared in their direction. “I’ve been recruited to find you a fiancée. Since you already have one, I find I am without employment after all.”
Already had one? “What do you mean?”
“Don’t scowl. They’re curious enough already.”
“Explain yourself,” John demanded.
Brydges finally showed mercy for John and faced him. “You’re engaged.” He stood back to take in the reaction to this revelation.
“What?” Of course he was not engaged. He was also not in the mood for games.
“You have a fiancée.”
John shook his head as if that could somehow un-muddle his brain. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, Brydges. I am in London to acquire a fiancée.”
Brydges affected a superior pose. “I was a bit surprised myself, you’ll understand, but I have been here no more than half an hour and have been duly informed by four separate individuals that you are already engaged.”
The gossips were just as rampant—and as poorly informed—as he remembered. “It’s a ridiculous rumor. I’ve been in virtual isolation at Brantmoor this entire month. I’ve been in London for less than six hours. How the hell could I have gotten myself engaged?”
“I didn’t say you are newly engaged. Rather, you are still engaged. To Lady Emmaline Shaw, apparently.”
“What the devil?”
“It would seem she never married. And you, according to gossip, are not dead. Your betrothal is intact.” Even as Brydges teased hi
m with this revelation and grinned broadly for their curious audience, his sharp eyes watched for John’s reaction.
It was not a happy one.
“Preposterous.” Even dead, his father was imposing his irrational will. John had plans to mend what his father had broken and those plans required a wife, but not the awkward, mumbling child his father had chosen. She’d been unsettlingly quiet, just staring at him with owlish eyes and clinging to her mother’s side. Regrettably, he’d taken his anger at his father out on the girl, which was unfair. All in all, it had been an unpleasant encounter.
“How is it possible she remains unmarried after four years? And how is it possible you didn’t know this?”
Brydges shrugged. “I didn’t investigate the girl. But I understand she isn’t out in society much. It seems everyone forgot about her.”
John looked askance at his companion. “If everyone forgot about her, why have they chosen to remember her now?”
Brydges’s brows arched mockingly. “I should think the answer to that question quite obvious.”
John found little humor in his friend’s antics while the weight of this new complication settled coldly and tightly around his shoulders. The thought of marrying a girl who was scared to death of him was unappealing, but more importantly, he hadn’t the luxury of marrying a frightened mouse even if he wished it. To accomplish what he wanted for Charlotte, the next Duchess of Worley would need the kind of strength Lady Emmaline Shaw simply did not possess.
He carefully blanked his expression so others would not see the extent of his frustration. “She won’t do. The contract will have to be dissolved—quickly. I won’t waste time.”
He needed someone who could perform as a hostess and make social connections—one who would not shrink from hurtful gossip or social slights but could, instead, rise above the petty cruelties society could levy. Charlotte needed a champion—but not her. The Prince Regent himself would suffer from such a champion.
John spied their hostess charging toward them. He turned his frustration on Hugh. “Why didn’t you warn me of this before?”
“How the hell should I have known? I don’t make a habit of frequenting parties full of hopeful young ladies and scheming mothers.” He said it even as he offered a charming smile to the swiftly approaching Duchess of Fairhaven and the husband she dragged behind her.
John’s brow arched. “No?”
“Unlike you, I am not on a bride hunt,” Brydges muttered through his false grin. “Don’t think I’ll be reformed, either, simply because I’m willing to aid you in your ill-advised quest.”
John lowered his own voice as he responded. “It never occurred to me you would. I have no other choice.”
Brydges cast John a droll look. “There’s always another choice,” he whispered vehemently before turning the full force of his charm on their hostess.
* * *
Barely an hour passed before John felt suffocated by the crowd, clothing, and inane conversations. Having fled outdoors, he stood on the patio and breathed deeply.
He grimaced, belatedly remembering fresh air was no more available out of doors in London than indoors. He was impatient to be done with his task and remove himself to Brantmoor, but he feared his plans may have been a bit ambitious. The effort it had required to play the duke as expected—to somehow be charming and superior—exhausted him. How had he not noticed before how extensive and trivial the rules of behavior were? If he, who had been brought up to the life, found it unfamiliar and stifling after only four years away, how would Charlotte find it?
Damn. He must go back in there. She must have a mentor.
The past betrothal was an unexpected obstacle. Several of the mothers with whom he’d conversed had subtly probed as to the status of any prior commitments. The few who’d been impertinent enough to mention the lady directly had taken pleasure in informing him of her present status as a near-hermit. Frustratingly, he was entirely at the mercy of Lady Emmaline Shaw. If he had only himself to consider, he would break the engagement and damn the consequences, but he had to think of Charlotte and her smooth introduction into society.
Even if his fiancée were to cooperate and withdraw from the engagement herself, could he even find a woman meeting his requirements in the fortnight he’d allowed? If the ladies he’d met over the past hour were the most intelligent among this year’s crop of marriageable beauties, this year’s crop was a sad lot indeed. True, several among them were remarkably lovely, but not one seemed able to speak about anything more complex than the last party she attended and whether or not Miss So-and-so played the pianoforte pleasingly. One girl had simply stared mutely at him in an encounter uncomfortably similar to one he’d had four years earlier.
Allowing himself just a few more moments of respite before returning to his tiresome project, John lifted his gaze to the night sky, seeking a glimpse of the stars. Often over the past four years, he and Charlotte had looked up into the night, finding a comforting sense of order and inevitability in the vastness of the sky and the clarity of the stars.
Tonight there was only darkness, the stars hidden by the veil of the city’s polluted air.
* * *
Emma smiled politely at Lady Hawthorne, completely unaware of what the woman had just said. Her mind, it seemed, was as determined as her eyes to involuntarily chase the duke as he made a circuit of the room and seemed bent on gaining an introduction to every attractive young miss in attendance. Not that it mattered to Emma, of course, but it was cuttingly rude for him to have ignored her all evening when the matter of their unresolved engagement was the current topic of conversation among no less than half of the assembled revelers.
Emma’s frustration with him grew. And the more it grew, the more she found herself searching the room to discover whose company was so important that it kept him from showing her what she deemed basic consideration.
The frustration his behavior triggered was truly irrational. She should be relieved to know her briefly held fears regarding their prior engagement were baseless. He clearly considered himself uncommitted, which was precisely what she’d hoped.
Emma shook her head. His social agenda was no concern of hers. She excused herself from the present conversation, of which she recalled little, and headed off to find her aunt. Surely she had stayed long enough at this miserable event to appease Aunt Agatha and could be allowed to leave. As she moved among the crowd, she kept her head down and refused to seek out the location of the duke. She was feeling quite proud of herself until she collided with another person and realized perhaps she should have at least been looking in front of her.
Which she did immediately, only to wish she had not.
She squared her shoulders, refusing to be intimidated by the Duke of Worley, or her recently renewed status as his rejected fiancée. “My apologies, Your Grace,” she managed with some confidence. “I was distracted.”
For a brief moment, his blue eyes studied her. Then he fell easily into the careless charm he’d no doubt been applying to all the ladies that evening. “How unkind of you,” he chastised with a grin, “to imply someone else could have been so much more distracting to your attention.”
Four years away may have improved his disposition, but clearly not his opinion of her.
“How unkind of you, Your Grace, to assume my own thoughts could not be interesting enough to distract my attention.” She tilted her head to the side as she looked up at him. “Of course, I must allow that you know me very little. And if your opinion of me has been at all predicated on the average intellect of the company you’ve kept this evening, your assumption, though flawed, is at least understandable. I’m sure you’ve been apprised of the current rage in bonnets and the relative abilities of several young ladies on the pianoforte, have you not?”
His startled laugh drew the attention of those in the room who weren’t already watching him. To his credit, he did not bother denying it. His eyes danced with laughter as he smiled warmly at her. He leaned cl
oser in the manner of old friends sharing a confidence. “Even dukes feel the weight of their responsibilities, you know. You might say we feel it more keenly than others.”
His time away had not improved his manners. What gall to speak so callously of his intentions without even acknowledging to her the need to resolve their prior commitment. She could scarcely believe it.
She seethed with it, but managed to control her tone. “How admirable of you then to attack them with such voracity, Your Grace. You mustn’t allow me to keep you from your noble crusade. My aunt will be looking for me.”
“I’ll take you to her,” he offered, reaching for her arm. “It is the least I can do after nearly injuring you in a collision.”
“Nonsense,” she insisted, evading his reach. “The collision was my fault. And I can see my aunt from here. I am perfectly able to reach her without an escort.”
His smile was contrite, though the mirth still shone in his eyes. “I’ve complete trust in your capabilities, madam. Could I perhaps have the pleasure of escorting you to your aunt?”
With a glance to note the audience they’d collected, Emma acquiesced. He was hours late in acknowledging her presence, but she supposed she was better served in cooperation. She allowed him to take her arm and lifted her chin in battered dignity as they walked in the direction of her aunt.
Emma glanced up at the duke, her mind calculating. If she could suggest a few moments of private discussion chaperoned by Aunt Agatha, they could conceivably have this whole mess resolved before everyone retired for the evening. She was formulating the words to propose just such a thing when he spoke first.
“I am ashamed to admit you have the advantage of me, madam. If I am to lead you to your aunt, I must learn who you are to ascertain which of these good ladies she might be.”
Aunt Agatha’s arrival at Emma’s side was timely, for she was able to grip the woman’s arm for support as she drew back and stared up at the duke. “You mean to say you do not know who I am?”