The Reunion

by Sara Portman

  After a pause, she said, “I still think you’d do better to consider Miss Wolfe. Her connections are very good and you’d gain an ally among the most determined gossips.” She had recovered her matter-of-fact tone, but he believed the color on her cheeks was a bit brighter than it had been a few minutes before.

  “You refer to her mother. You are proposing that dragon of the drawing room as a social champion for my sister.”

  “Georgiana is a steady, pleasant girl. You would not be unhappy with her, I think.”

  He was not chiefly concerned with his own happiness.

  Or was he?

  Brydges was correct on one point. Marriage was a long business. Miss Georgiana Wolfe seemed to be a quiet, sweet girl who would take interest in whatever she had been instructed. John had no plans for love, but he’d prefer the companionship of a woman who knew her own mind.

  He looked at Lady Emmaline. “The picture of Lady Wolfe is not a high recommendation for Miss Wolfe herself,” he pointed out.

  She gave a slight shrug. “If you wish respectability and social clout for your sister, she’s better able to provide it than I am, as your scandalously rejected fiancée.”

  “Ah, but if we married, you wouldn’t be rejected. Your reputation would be restored when I honor the engagement and reveal that my intentions to do so never wavered.”

  She released an exasperated huff. “No one will believe that.”

  “People will choose to believe it—because you’ll be a duchess.”

  She did not dispute his prediction. “I still don’t understand why you don’t simply choose another. If not Miss Wolfe, then someone else.”

  “Even if I disregard my increasing conviction that you are better suited than any other, seeking out and courting another fiancée would require precious time I cannot afford. Consider, Lady Emmaline, that I seek respectability for my sister. If I must marry, the most respectable choice is to marry the woman to whom I am already affianced.”

  She leaned her head back and stared directly up at him. “Should I be gratified then that you finally find me convenient?”

  She was determined to take exception with him, even when he applied the most reasonable logic to their circumstance. “You make it sound as though I have been guilty of reckless whim. I assure you, that is not the case. My decision to marry has been carefully considered and you cannot deny that we shall each achieve our purpose from the arrangement. You do have to marry someday, Lady Emmaline. In choosing to honor this betrothal you can secure not only your future, but the future of a girl who would otherwise be robbed of hers.”

  “If this arrangement is so mutually beneficial, Your Grace, then why do I feel such a pawn in your stratagems? Perhaps I desire a marriage that is not so mercenary.”

  John nearly groaned in frustration. She was debating in circles. She had already as good as conceded she was considering marriage to an old man for whom she harbored no great affection. How was that arrangement any less mercenary than this? He stepped closer and clasped both of her arms below the shoulder as though in the next breath he might pull her into an embrace. “Would you believe me if I declared a great passion for you and insisted I would have no other?”

  He watched the brilliant spots of color take residence on her cheeks, but she was not cowed. She glared bravely back at him. “No. I would not. I, for one, am fully aware you have not been pining for me these past four years.”

  He lowered his hands but did not retreat. “It’s true. I’ve not been pining for you all these years. I think you would not have me flatter you with false declarations.”

  She did not answer, but her chin rose defiantly and he was oddly tempted to trace a finger along that firmly set jaw. “I do like you, Emmaline,” he said, keeping his hands firmly at his sides. “I very much like what I have come to know of you so far. I admire your inability to be cowed by society. By me. Your strength is rarer than you realize.” He met her gaze with honesty in his own. “And appealing.”

  They stood mere inches apart for an expectant breath of a moment while John waited to see how she would respond.

  For some reason he could not name, he was disappointed when she simply stepped away, gave him the briefest of polite smiles, and suggested, “Shall we continue our walk?”

  John glanced to where Miss Wolfe still stood chatting with her friends. “We have lost our chaperone, but perhaps that matters not, as we are engaged to be married.”

  Her hand was limp as he reached out to take it and lay it on his arm, but her response was not so compliant. “I don’t even recall agreeing to a walk in the park. I am quite sure I haven’t agreed to this engagement.”

  “We are already betrothed. It’s already been agreed to.” He tilted his head toward hers and spoke softly. “Contractually agreed to.”

  Her expression was a warning and he smiled at the vehemence of it. “Rest assured, I do not abduct and enslave women, Lady Emmaline. I am convinced we should be married, but I well understand my challenge is to convince you of the wisdom of it. You will not accept my ring today, but I am determined to prevail.”

  Her expression shifted to wary suspicion.

  “I give you fair warning,” he said cheerfully. “My will is as strong as yours.”

  Chapter Six

  Emma wanted nothing more that evening than a few quiet hours reading alone in her room. There were several reasons she longed for that unattainable isolation, not the least of which was the rain that buffeted her uncle’s carriage as it rocked and bounced through the slick and puddled streets of London on its way to the residence of Lord and Lady Spitzer for their famed end-of-season ball. The carriage provided a cocoon of relative shelter, but the dampness penetrated and the sounds of the storm cut off any attempts at conversation.

  It was just as well.

  Emma had done all the talking she could tolerate over the past several days. Her disturbing conversation with the duke had been followed by a probing conversation with Lady Wolfe. She’d since had more than one troubling discussion with her aunt. The interactions had each been equally frustrating, as Emma had failed to make her point in any of them. The duke still considered himself engaged; Lady Wolfe still considered herself an authority on the subject of Emma’s future prospects; and Aunt Agatha still believed seeing this betrothal through to fruition meant the difference between success and failure in her duty to Emma’s parents.

  In all honesty, her failures influencing Aunt Agatha and Lady Wolfe were minor annoyances compared to her apprehensions about the duke. He was too sure of himself. He had called her by her given name. Twice. He had called her Emmaline—not Emma, as her family did, but stripped of her courtesy title and spoken in his deep baritone, it was too familiar, too intimate. She didn’t like it.

  She didn’t like that he had touched her either. She like even less that his touch had elicited an unexpected response. To her mind, his ability to interfere with her rational thinking justified a new level of wariness where he was concerned. When he’d clasped her shoulders and threatened to declare a great passion, he’d done so only to make his point. Stupidly, she’d been affected anyway.

  She attributed the magnitude of its effect to the foreign nature of the sensation. Surely, if she’d invested the time most other young ladies did in chasing after gentlemen, she’d have encountered countless men she found appealing in appearance. Unfortunately, she was not accustomed to having the direct attention of a man such as the duke, or to the feelings that attention aroused. She was disappointed to think the first real hints of attraction she’d experienced were inspired by him. And now her curiosity had been piqued, which she saw as a personal failing.

  In order to avoid Worley altogether, she had proposed declining the invitation to the Spitzer event, but her aunt insisted a late withdrawal would cause more speculation than an appearance. Beyond that, Mr. Greystoke was to be in attendance and she owed him some explanation or apology for her present predicament. Though he’d never directly addressed her wit
h a proposal of marriage, his purpose in London was clear and his particular attention to Emma had been unmistakable.

  The fact was, whether she wanted to marry Worley or not, she was currently engaged to the overbearing duke and, therefore, an ineligible match for Mr. Greystoke.

  In truth, she didn’t know if she ever could have married him, kind and admirable though he was. She’d never been fully resigned to the idea. Neither did she want to marry the duke, but the feelings he had inspired with a simple touch on her arm and a whisper of breath on her neck left her thinking of attraction and desire—thoughts that had no business occupying the mind of an almost spinster with no prospects other than a fatherly old man.

  Emma stared out the window at unfocused scenes of London while her thoughts settled on an important consideration.

  In considering Mr. Greystoke, even half heartedly, hadn’t Emma accepted she could no longer hope for a match built upon a great shared affection? Common sense had dictated she consider Mr. Greystoke and now common sense probably required she consider the duke as well. It vexed her that the duke was correct in that point.

  Still, she couldn’t quite bring herself to truly consider either alternative.

  She wanted to live at the cottage. She’d healed there. She felt whole there. Perhaps she could have given up life at the cottage for the opportunity for true affection and a family of her own—but not to raise another woman’s children with a man she didn’t love. And not to become the duchess of a man she barely knew.

  She could not marry Mr. Greystoke and so she must speak with him. She would not marry the duke and so she vowed to stay well clear of him. She knew what she had to do, but still her mood was black. She rather thought the heavens agreed with her, for they’d done everything in their power to create an ill night for going out.

  * * *

  Emma’s first thought upon entering Lord and Lady Spitzer’s London residence was that it was not as grand as the Fairhaven’s and, if they refused to limit their guest list, they should have considered renting the assembly rooms rather than attempting to squeeze so many into the rooms of their town house. The event was already a crush. The din was assaulting, contributed to in no small part by the shouted greetings of Lord Spitzer’s nearly deaf mother as she stood with her son and his wife to greet arriving guests.

  “So nice of you to come, my dear.” The diminutive woman shouted up from underneath a feather-adorned turban, making Emma feel particularly tall. “I was very fond of your mother, you know. Tragic, what happened.”

  “Yes, it was. Thank you for your kind words.”

  “I beg your pardon, dear?” The lady rose on her toes toward Emma, nearly skewering her with the feather.

  “Yes, it was,” Emma shouted back. “Thank you for your kindness.”

  The elderly woman nodded and turned to bark at the next newcomer.

  Relieved to move on, Emma followed her aunt and uncle in greeting Lord and Lady Spitzer. Her relief was short-lived, however, when the first party they encountered upon entering the main salon was a group of ladies over which Lady Wolfe held court.

  “Lady Ridgely.” She greeted Aunt Agatha with a simpering nod. “Why I was just commenting to some of the ladies what a lovely time my Georgiana had walking with the duke in the park while I visited you this week. She was so delighted to have received his particular attention.”

  “I’m pleased she enjoyed it.” Aunt Agatha would never have pointed out Lady Wolfe’s poor memory of recent events, but Emma was tempted.

  “How do you do, Lady Emmaline?” Lady Wolfe finally addressed her, though she didn’t appear to enjoy it and did not wait for a response. “It may interest you that I noted Mr. Greystoke’s attendance this evening.”

  Emma was not surprised by Lady Wolfe’s less-than-subtle implication that girls such as her daughter were meant for men like the duke while Emma, whose social standing had been so reduced by her scandalous rejection and disinterest in society, should be grateful for the attention of Mr. Greystoke.

  Because she could not disagree, she took offense not for herself but for Mr. Greystoke, who was an honorable gentleman. “I shall be happy to share his company, thank you.”

  It was a well-timed reminder of the need to seek the gentleman out.

  In the end, however, there proved no need, for Mr. Greystoke found Emma and her aunt soon after their quick departure from the company of the unpleasant Lady Wolfe. He strode purposefully toward them, his smile open and genuine, and Emma was assaulted by waves of guilt for what she had come to do.

  He was slight in stature, by no stretch an intimidating man. Still, the streaks of gray in his hair and his reserved manner lent him an elegant dignity that defied the inexpensive cut of his clothing. Emma thought of the sum he must have invested in even modest clothing and accommodations to participate in a London season. Now the season was nearly over and he’d wasted most of it courting a woman who could not marry him.

  He gave a slight bow upon reaching the ladies. “Lady Ridgley. Lady Emmaline. You are both lovely, as always.”

  Aunt Agatha’s smile was genuine. “And you are as gracious as always. It is a pleasure to see you, Mr. Greystoke.”

  He turned to Emma.

  “Good evening, Mr. Greystoke,” she said, oddly glad the moment had come and would soon be done. “We are always glad for your company, as you must be aware.”

  He appeared pleased at her comment and her guilt swelled.

  If only she knew how to begin. How does one break an understanding that was never explicitly discussed?

  Emma glanced at her aunt, who nodded encouragingly. Unfortunately, Emma did not need encouragement—she needed words. She turned an overly bright smile toward Mr. Greystoke. “I was hoping, actually, that we might have an opportunity to speak together. You may know…that is, you may have heard…”

  She realized she was wringing her hands and slowly placed them at her sides. Her eyes fell to address him somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. “You see, four years ago I was engaged. To the Duke of Worley. Well, he wasn’t the duke then, but he is now. And we all believed he had died, but he clearly didn’t. And so now you see…well, I thought because you and I had become particular friends I should be the one to inform you that, well….”

  Mr. Greystoke reached out and laid his hand on Emma’s arm to halt her speech.

  She obeyed, relieved to adopt silence and await his reaction.

  “There is no need to explain, Lady Emmaline. I understand the situation completely.”

  At his words, a good portion of the tension lodged between Emma’s neck and shoulders fell away.

  “Your betrothed, the duke, called on me this afternoon.”

  “He what?” All of the tension in her shoulders returned anew. She gave her head a slight shake. “He called on you? Today?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Greystoke nodded as though the news should be welcome.

  Of all the arrogant things for that man to do. He had warned her, hadn’t he? She should have guessed he would not limit his attempts at persuasion to direct conversation. Mr. Greystoke had slowly and respectfully courted her for weeks. He did not deserve to be rudely warned off his course merely because it conflicted with the grand plans of a duke. She exhaled in an unsuccessful attempt to release her frustration and retain her composure.

  “Mr. Greystoke,” she began, speaking in a slow and measured tone meant to calm her own rising ire as much as his, “please allow me to sincerely apologize for the high-handed manner in which I’m sure His Grace chose to inform you of our prior betrothal. It was entirely arranged by our parents. Everyone believed he’d died, otherwise I never—”

  “There is no need for an apology, I assure you,” Mr. Greystoke interjected, a benign curve bending his lips. She could not find the merest hint of indignation in his manner, despite its clear provocation. “You could not have foreseen this,” he said reassuringly, “and the duke was quite gracious. I rather felt as though he were asking my permission.”


  “Your permission?” She couldn’t seem to stop herself from repeating his words.

  “Yes, in a way he did. He explained about the prior contract between your parents, but said he also knew that you and I…well, that I had courted you.” He cleared his throat. “He insisted that if I truly believed in your strong affection toward me, he would step aside and graciously allow you to withdraw from the engagement so that we could marry.”

  Emma swallowed. The duke had offered to step aside? To allow her to marry Mr. Greystoke? She stared at Mr. Greystoke, his contented smile and purposeful approach taking on new meaning. Could one’s breath halt even as one’s pulse quickened? She swallowed heavily. Had the duke stepped aside? Had this man actually asked it of him? Had she just moved from one trap to another without any awareness that her future was being arranged without her consent or consultation?

  “I told him, of course, that we got on amicably, but I did not imagine you were, well…in love…with me.” He coughed again. Then he grinned as though he found the entire thing amusing. “Can you imagine a man such as myself competing with a wealthy duke for a lady’s affections?”

  Sweet air filled her lungs again. Of course a humble, unassuming man such as Mr. Greystoke would not have asked the duke to step aside. Emma decided she was not entirely comfortable with the magnitude of her panic, nor the significance of her relief upon hearing that the duke had not yielded her hand to Mr. Greystoke.

  Aunt Agatha filled the hole left by Emma’s long silence. “You have been very gracious to accept that my niece and her betrothed must honor the commitment made by their parents.”

  “Of course they must.” He gave a befuddled chuckle. “I never expected to be called upon by a duke, I can tell you—definitely not one who would treat me with the respect and deference I received from your fiancé, Lady Emmaline. He truly seemed willing to walk away at my word, though I would not have asked it of him.” Bemused, he shook his head.