by Sara Portman
“The duchess has arrived,” he announced. “She will see to whatever is left to be done. The housekeeper will show you to a room.”
He found his study and shut himself up in it. He would have his manhunt, but first he would have a drink.
* * *
Four ladies stared at the recently slammed parlor door, then glanced at each other in awkward uncertainty.
“Well,” Emma said, rising from her seat, “We have made good progress. We should reconvene in a few days.”
“Yes. Of course,” Aunt Agatha said, already reaching for her shawl.
“We shall leave you to your family, now that they have arrived,” Lady Markwood said.
Emma smiled at them. We shall leave you to your scowling duke, more like. She didn’t blame any of them for fleeing. She didn’t really want to speak to him herself. “Thank you, truly, for your help,” she said, squeezing each woman’s hand in turn. “Your support is a great comfort to me.”
She accompanied them to the front hall and wished them good day again. “Don’t forget,” she reminded them as they departed, “if you have any new stories, please jot them down.”
Then they were gone and there was nothing left to do but see him. She considered a walk to clear her head, but knew she was only unnecessarily delaying the conversation. She’d been impulsive to run off. He was rightfully angry with her. Once she had reached London and thought to send a letter, it was too late. The family had intended to leave for London in the next few days anyway. By the time she was able to get a letter to Brantmoor, explaining that she’d gone ahead early, they would be traveling themselves.
Emma rapped lightly on the study door.
“Come.”
She hesitated before pushing the door open, but immediately chided herself for her timidity. What was there to fear? That he would not love her? That was already the case. She turned the knob and walked into the study.
He was seated at his desk, with his chair turned to the side, facing the window rather than the desktop. He had no papers in front of him, no quills at the ready. He only stared out the window. He continued to do so for a very long, quiet moment then he turned to look at her over his shoulder. The look was so cold, she felt the chill from it run through the length of her spine. Angry, perhaps, had been an underestimation on her part.
“Why are you here?” he demanded.
“This is my home.”
His glare tightened and Emma chose not to test his limits. She revised her response.
“I came to begin preparations for Charlotte’s come out. There is much to be done.”
“You left without word. What need was there to run off in secret?” His words were not the plaintive request of a loved one, but the harsh accusation of a prejudiced inquisitor.
“I apologize for my impulsive departure. It was inconsiderate of me.”
One eyebrow rose. “Inconsiderate?” He rose and bore down on her with more malice than she’d ever seen possess him. “My wife was missing. The entire household was concerned for your safety,” he bit out. “It was a great deal more than inconsiderate.”
He stared at her, waiting for an explanation. She could see he wanted to know why. How could she tell him? How could she explain she’d run away from her broken heart? How could she explain that she couldn’t forget how he’d found a way to sail to Boston in the middle of a war. How he’d sacrificed his comforts and the only life he’d known to rush to his sister’s aid. How could she explain that she was weakly and sinfully jealous of the love and protectiveness he gave to Charlotte, because she wanted those things for herself?
She could not, so she told him, “It was wrong of me. I regret causing needless worry for any member of the household. And I am very sorry.”
He stared, unyielding, down into her face as she gave her apology. Then he stepped away and turned his back to her as he spoke. “Imagine my dismay,” he said, his voice menacingly low, “upon realizing my wife had not been seen all morning, racing to Beadwell to find you, and fearing the worst when you were not there.”
Racing to Beadwell? He raced to Beadwell? For her? Emma’s heart lifted, despite his scowling expression. The ride from Brantmoor to Beadwell was not so long—hardly a voyage across the sea—but still, it warmed Emma’s heart. He had sprung into action for her. Because he feared she was in danger.
Because he cared.
“Imagine my dismay,” he repeated, “when I learned the truth.”
“The truth?” she asked. “What truth?”
“Oh yes. Let’s discuss some of that, shall we?” His cruel tone bit through her. She stepped back in response, but he continued without even looking at her. “When I was questioning the innkeeper about Pritchard, for fear that you had met with some foul play, he made certain to thank me for vouching for your gardener, thus saving him from facing charges with the magistrate. I was confused, considering I know no gardeners and have not been asked to vouch for the good character of anyone in years.”
Relief bubbled through Emma. “Oh, he meant Simon,” she hastened to explain.
“Yes, I gathered,” John drawled. “It was convenient, how quickly you acquiesced to our engagement after this Simon was accused.”
Emma bit her lip. It did sound rather mercenary, didn’t it? Of course it was no more so than his purpose for marrying. “What does it matter? Your reasons for agreeing to the marriage were no less practical than mine.”
He turned, eyes flashing with anger. His fist slammed onto the desk. “It matters if my duchess is consorting with the village gardener so openly that the innkeeper would comment to me regarding your ‘tender heart’ for the man!”
Emma stared. Consorting? “Wait, John, you misunderstand.”
His expression became frighteningly calm and cold. “I’m sure you have some perfectly plausible explanation that I am entirely uninterested in hearing.”
“But I do!” She nearly laughed aloud. God, was it true? Was he jealous—for her?
“Let’s have it then,” he snapped.
She did laugh then. She must appear maniacal. Her husband was berating her—accusing her of infidelity—yet the relief and hope she felt far surpassed any affront she might take with his surly demeanor or even offense at his lack of trust.
He cared.
“It is quite good,” she assured him, when her laughter had only brought a darker scowl to his face. “I do have a tender heart for Simon, because he is a boy. He is only thirteen. He is the smithy’s son and his mother died years ago. Mrs. Brown and I—we take care of him, and when I have need of him, he works in my garden.”
“Thirteen?” John asked sharply. He stepped directly in front of her.
“Yes.”
“A mere boy?”
Relief bubbled through her. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.” He cared a great deal. He cared enough to be possessive and—jealous. Oh God, was it wicked that she wanted this man to feel possessive of her, even more than she wanted him to feel worried or protective? Anything was better than the indifference of which she had been so certain.
“A boy.” He spat it. He speared fingers through his hair, sending tidy locks into dishevel. “A damned boy.”
“Yes.” She lay a hand on his arm and beamed up at him. “It was all a misunderstanding.”
He pulled his arm away from her touch as though she had struck him. Why was he acting this way? This was good. His suspicions were wrong. And he cared.
More than cared.
He possessed. Her.
Emma’s heart soared. Hope bloomed within her and sent dancing light to all her limbs.
“I’m so sorry I worried you,” she said, unable to prevent the joyful smile as she gazed up at him. “I never realized you would be frightened for me. I am so dreadfully sorry.”
He stepped away to the desk. He placed his hand upon it and looked down at the hand. “Charlotte is upstairs. I’m sure you two have much to accomplish. I must contact my men regarding Pritchard. I will keep you apprised of
all developments regarding Charlotte henceforth.”
Emma didn’t move. She should go. She had, after all, been summarily dismissed. But why? Didn’t he understand? She waited a moment in silence. Surely, he had something more to say.
Only he did not. He said nothing, and it was clear to her she was the one who did not understand.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Emma and Charlotte had a herculean feat to accomplish in just five days’ time. This distraction made it easier for Emma to bear her husband’s avoidance. She tried not to think of it, instead declaring that their limited time dictated abandonment of all but the most imperative training for Charlotte’s debut ball—dancing, dresses, and basic comportment. Their days consisted of dance lessons each morning followed by outings in the afternoon, for Charlotte needed not only dresses, but undergarments, hats, gloves, and a complete wardrobe of shoes. Emma spent each evening closeted with the housekeeper and butler of Worley House, planning every last detail of the event, while Charlotte was given time to herself.
Two days before Charlotte’s debut ball the ladies attended a final gown fitting at the shop of Madame Desmarais. The dressmaker had proven most graciously willing to forgive Charlotte’s prior poor behavior in light of the liberty with which the duchess accumulated purchases and the haste with which the duke’s steward settled the charges on her account.
On this particular afternoon, the ladies were ushered to a private room where Charlotte donned the nearly completed creation.
“Oh, Madame Desmarais, you were so very wise,” Aunt Agatha gasped when she saw Charlotte in the gown. Most of the other fabrics the ladies had chosen for Charlotte were shades of blue or lavender that brought out her stunning eyes. On their first visit, Madame Desmarais had looked at Charlotte’s mass of raven hair and sapphire eyes and announced she had the perfect vision.
She had proceeded to show the ladies a bolt of rich satin in such a muted dusty rose, that nearly blended with the skin. All three ladies had attempted to tactfully suggest to Madame Desmarais that perhaps the color was too drab. The countess pointed out that most women would not find their complexion flattered by the shade they’d been shown. But Madame Desmarais had been insistent.
And she had clearly been correct. Emma could not believe how effectively the dress transformed Charlotte from a lovely young girl into an elegant, exotic-looking woman. While Emma’s brown hair and golden brown eyes would have been washed out by the bare rose color, Charlotte’s rich, dark locks and sparklingly blue eyes were strikingly bold in contrast to the pale fabric.
In her creative genius, the dressmaker had not accented the dress with any color that would have lessened the effect, but rather heightened the contrast between the pale dress and Charlotte’s dark coloring by trimming it with handmade Venetian lace dyed midnight black. The lace began at the lower left corner of gown’s raised waistline and spread like a creeping, tentacled vine across her chest and over her right shoulder. The lace angled across Charlotte’s back in meandering scrolls and wound its way down the left side of the long skirt.
“It is absolutely stunning,” Emma announced. “You look sophisticated and mysterious in this gown. You will be declared an incomparable.”
Charlotte was completely engaged in spinning in front of the mirror and admiring her reflection in the dress. “I do look mysterious, don’t I?”
Emma laughed, pleased with Charlotte’s growing enthusiasm. “You certainly do.”
One of the shop girls bustled into the room and whispered to Madame Desmarais, who smiled at the ladies. “I must see to another matter. I will leave you to admire the beautiful Lady Charlotte for a little while longer and return in just a moment.”
“Of course,” Emma responded. Charlotte seemed perfectly content gazing at the reflection of her new self.
The seamstress left and soon her loud greeting of another customer filtered to them in their privacy. Emma’s face pinched as she recognized the voice that responded. Lady Wolfe. Emma caught her aunt’s eye and they both looked at Charlotte, who remained enraptured with her appearance and none the wiser that the Queen of Gossips had just entered their midst.
“Ah the lovely Georgiana,” they heard Madame Desmarais gush. “I do love to dress such a beautiful young lady.”
“She is not as young as when you first dressed her,” came Lady Wolfe’s curt reply. “I will not have her in a third season without a serious suitor. Her dresses must get her noticed.”
“Certainement.” The dressmaker’s lilting voice sailed past the awkwardness of Lady Wolfe’s harsh comment. “No one will fail to notice you in my next creation, darling. You may be sure of it.”
“I…I don’t think I would be comfortable in anything too bold,” Georgiana’s soft voice declared.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” snapped her mother. “If you were willing to be bold, you’d be married to the Duke of Worley now, instead of that ridiculous upstart he rejected years ago.”
That comment drew Charlotte’s attention. Her eyes shot to Emma’s in the mirror.
Emma went to Charlotte’s side. “It’s no matter,” she said quietly. “There will always be unkind people. Why don’t we get you out of this dress?”
Emma began unfastening Charlotte’s new dress. She could only imagine the depth of poor Georgiana’s embarrassment. She hoped for the girl’s sake the shop was otherwise empty.
“It’s for the best anyway, I say,” Lady Wolfe continued eventually, completely contradicting her prior criticism. “I wouldn’t want a respectable daughter of mine charged with launching Charlotte Brantwood into society. I have heard from a reliable source that she isn’t even his sister. She is his Spanish mistress and he has brought her to England right under his new duchess’s nose. Scandalous.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened at this latest slander. The flush rose quickly from her chest to her hairline and her eyes narrowed. “Who is that woman?” she hissed.
“Lady Wolfe. She is a ridiculous gossip,” Emma said quietly, aiding Charlotte in stepping out of the dress. “Those who prefer to be unkind will repeat the things she says, but most among the ton know she is considerably more mean spirited than she is well informed.”
“My, well…” The dressmaker’s voice faltered. “I certainly know nothing about all of that, but I do know dresses, and we shall have you in lovelier gowns than you could possibly have imagined. Why don’t you come with me into my private office?” she suggested conspiratorially. “I have drawings there of some new designs I’ve been working on. I think we can find something entirely original for Georgiana.”
The offer to have her daughter at the cutting edge of fashion was enough to tempt Lady Wolfe into the shop’s back office. When Madame Desmarais returned to the private dressing room in which Emma and her family waited, the dressmaker looked positively stricken. “Your Grace, I do so sincerely apologize…”
“There is no need,” Emma said, with a dismissive wave. “You are not responsible for the poor behavior of your customers, Madame. We are overwhelmingly pleased with all you’ve prepared for us, particularly this latest gown for Lady Charlotte. I have decided she must have it for her debut ball. Will it be ready in time?”
Madame Desmarais clasped her hands together. “Absolument! Oh, I am so glad. She will be stunning,” the seamstress said, with a beaming smile toward Charlotte. “Très belle.”
The seamstress shuffled off again and Charlotte gazed mournfully down at the dress, now lying draped across the shop’s table. “Emma,” she said uncertainly.
Emma stilled. It was the first time Charlotte had ever called her by name. “Yes, Charlotte?”
Charlotte’s playful joy was gone. “Are you certain this is the right dress for my debut?” She ran one hand over the trail of black lace down the gown’s side. “This dress is beautiful, but I look so different in it. We all agreed. Given what I’ll be facing, I think we should choose one of the other gowns. One of the plainer gowns that would never be described as exotic
or mysterious.”
“Oh, Charlotte, you are wrong. This dress is exactly what you need. Tomorrow afternoon Aunt Agatha will bring her friends for tea and we shall discuss the whole thing. I’m not the least concerned about Lady Wolfe. She will be more help than harm. Just wait.”
* * *
Emma found an opportunity to address one of the final, more important details of Charlotte’s debut when she shared a few moments with Mr. Brydges in the drawing room while awaiting John and Charlotte for dinner.
“We are just a few short days away. Such an important day for us all,” Emma commented to open the conversation as she seated herself on the sofa. “I am so proud of Charlotte’s progress. She has a lovely way about her when she dances. She will draw attention, I am certain.”
“She will draw attention if she stands in the corner,” was his droll reply. “Given the stories that are circulating.”
“Charlotte should have no trouble finding a bevy of suitors,” Emma continued, ignoring his reference to the gossips. “I believe Mr. Greystoke is still in need of a wife,” she offered casually.
Mr. Brydges charged forward in his seat. “That’s preposterous. He’s ancient.”
Emma feigned indignation at the voracity of his response. “I don’t see how it’s so preposterous. He was, after all, considered a perfectly acceptable suitor for me. I should think he would be so for Charlotte as well.”
“He’s not good enough. She’s…she’s the daughter of a duke, for one thing.”
Emma’s expression remained placid as she digested the voracity of his response. “I am the daughter of an earl. Besides, even though she is the daughter of a duke, you must allow her background is not entirely conventional. She was raised in America, after all.”
“In Boston, for God’s sake, not by a pack of wolves.”
She continued without regard to his darkening expression. “And as we’ve discussed, there are the inevitable rumors of her legitimacy.”