by Ella Edon
She then recalled the last time she had seen him, Lord Blackmoor. So long ago now an then she remembered that he had annoyed her.
She shuddered as the memory came rushing back to her. No. Not him.
“I won’t do it,” she said pouring herself what she thought might be just enough brandy to make their conversation more palatable. “You can’t mean to sell me off to the highest bidder as if I were chattel. And to Lord Henry Blackmoor of all people. I refuse.”
“I’m afraid you cannot refuse my dear. The paperwork is signed, and the money has changed hands. As we speak the Earl is in London using his influence to secure a special license.”
“A special license? Why must this rush if it has to happen at all?”
“The Earl is eager to see his only son secured and married—"
“And you needed the funds,” she finished. Her father moved toward her and took the brandy from her hand finishing the drink in one swallow.
Emma opened her mouth, willing an argument that would sway her father to come out, but there was nothing. He was in dire straits and she was the solution. She would have to marry the one man in England she swore she would never. If she were not so upset, she was sure she would find a divine humor in their situation.
“So that is it then,” she said. “It has been decided and I have no say?”
“You and Blackmoor will be married at the end of the week. It is your duty, daughter, and I’m sure you will make the best of it.”
Chapter Two
Blackmoor Townhouse, Mayfair, England 1813
If there was anything that Lord Henry Blackmoor, the Marquess of Dunberry, despised above all else, it was a lack of discipline and order. He kept his life and his home in town in perfect functioning order, with his servants chosen specifically based on their reputations and ability to keep his home in the exact order and position he preferred. His valet, Cecil, while a little more outspoken and jolly than Henry would prefer, Cecil understood Henry wanted his dress to be impeccable, and for him to execute his position flawlessly. Henry often thought Cecil Agar may be the single best valet in all of England.
His cook, Mrs. Treacher, understood dinner was always to be served precisely at eight, it was to be five courses, and pudding was only served on holiday occasions. His butler, Charleston, understood that guests were only to be admitted during fashionable hours, with the proper card and announcement. Everything in his life was planned, ordered, and that was exactly how he liked it.
Shaking off the rain as he came in from a meeting with his solicitor to go over an investment that his good friend Westfield recommended, Henry pulled off his Beaver hat and his long blue great coat.
“Charleston, how goes the afternoon?” He looked at his watch, as Charleston took the offered items. Three p.m., exactly one hour until tea. Henry was peckish, but not so much that he could not wait until the proper tea time.
“Very good, sir,” Charleston replied. “Except your father is here, my lord, waiting for you in the study.”
He gave his butler a quizzical look.
In the study? Charleston knew that Henry always received guests in the main parlor.
“Yes, sir, I tried to move him into the parlor, but His Grace insisted he would be more comfortable in your study.”
Henry nodded, as much as it perturbed him, he understood there was no way the butler could argue with the Earl. He made his way toward the study, wondering what in the world could draw his father away from his country estate to Mayfair. Surely, he was not on his way to London already. Parliament was not scheduled to begin for another two weeks, therefore the Season, as it was called, was not yet in full swing. Knowing his father’s desire to see and be seen, he would have expected to see him at the beginning of April - and not a moment earlier.
“And to what, pray tell, do I owe this honor father?” Seeing his father sitting at his desk, going through his ledgers, without any notice of him, was unsettling to say the least.
“Ahh, Blackmoor, I thought you would be back just before tea. Shall we have that man of yours bring refreshment?” His father made no move to stand, and Henry knew he would be sitting in one of the fine leather chairs that faced his desk rather than behind the mahogany himself. He ran a hand through his jet-black hair in frustration.
“Tea is served at four, father. Charleston will bring it then and not a moment before.”
“Always so punctual,” his father replied, shaking his head.
Henry had to bite his tongue to hold back sharp words for the man. Instead he simply nodded. There was no room for spontaneity in his life, and that was how he preferred it.
His parents were the exact opposite. Growing up at the country manse was a nightmare for Henry of never-ending excess. There were hunting parties, soirees, country balls, with endless guests and overindulgence. His mother loved sherry, claret and brandy and was never one to stop at overindulgence. His father enjoyed his port, cigars, and political maneuvering with other peers of the realm. There was never a quiet space or moment for Henry to pursue his own interests or passions. He was frequently paraded out on display, as the heir to the Earldom.
He had had enough of that life as a child. Now, at nearly thirty, he was in charge of how he lived his life and there was no way he would allow chaos to rule. Except as the heir, and without a legitimate younger brother to act as the spare, his father was still very much in control of Henry. He was able to forget most of time as he stayed in town. But, seeing his father sitting at his desk, confident in his own authority, served as a sobering reminder.
“Why are you here, father? Parliament does not sit for another two weeks. Surely you don’t have business in town before Season. Most of the ton is still quite ensconced in the country.”
“Actually, I’m not here for Parliament,” Drysdale replied. “I am here for you.” His father smiled in a way that made Henry scowl.
“For me? Whatever for?” There was something in his father’s eyes, an emotion Henry could not name, and he did not trust it, not one bit.
“My boy, it’s high time you married—” He held up a hand to stop Henry before he had an opportunity to object. “Before you say a single word, you need to understand we are in a politically precarious position. Loringham is in position to oppose every bill I put before the House of Lords this session, and with that fresh new young wife of his, he is sure to be the most sought after invitation of Season. And, with your mother gone, God rest her soul, and no one to host, you have a duty to secure a match not only for the success of our family line, but for the success of your future position as the Earl of Drysdale. And if all goes well, the Duke of Drysdale."
“So, what is it you propose, My Lord? That I spend the Season sorting through the new, young debutantes to select a proper bride?” Henry let out a long breath. He hated when his father spoke of honor and duty.
“No, no, no, my boy,” his father laughed. “We don’t have time for you to make the rounds among the young beauties and wallflowers. You need to be wed before the Season begins.”
Before the Season? That was less than two weeks. What on earth was his father thinking? He knew he would have to marry eventually. Still he was shocked by the urgency of his father’s pronouncement.
“Father there is no way. Why the devil are you in such a sudden rush?”
“Rush? It is well past time. I have let you dally in town long enough, not that you have used it to your advantage. You spend all of your time with that boring and overly studious Baron Westfield, the two of you playing with your trains. It’s a waste.”
“It’s not a waste father. And we don’t play. If Westfield’s inventor friend from America is right, the development of his new, more efficient steam engine will change travel as we know it throughout England. There can be much money to be made by getting in on the investment early.”
“Yes, yes, but you are rarely at White’s and I have it on good authority that you have not visited the theater, or the actresses of Covent Garden, not once the whole of t
his year? You are not living for enjoyment at all. So, it is indeed a waste. The ton is not interested in steam engines. There is no influence in that. You need a wife, and a life, one that makes our friends and rivals envious.”
Henry rolled his eyes. Of course, his father’s idea of success would be based in gambling, and pleasure palaces. It wasn’t that Henry didn’t enjoy the finer pleasures, it was just that he saw securing the future of his legacy, as well as the benefits to England as a whole, as a much more important priority. He had no need of his father’s club, or the theater.
“Father, clearly we see things differently. If you don’t want me to meet a potential bride during the season, what is it exactly that you have in mind?”
“I have already secured a match,” his father said, smiling broadly in a manner Henry thought would be best suited on a cat that had caught a mouse - and was thrilled with the idea of toying with it before he made it his dinner. “A completely charming girl, you are lucky you have a father like me who knows what is best for you, at least in a wife. She is lovely, blond and fair, a true English rose. She has not been out in society, and so a marriage would certainly set the ton’s tongues wagging, thus securing an invite to any event. The two of you would be the talk of London.”
“And who is this paragon of a bride, father?”
Henry searched his brain but could not fathom where his father would have found such a girl. He feared that any woman his father thought of as a perfect match would be the worst kind of match for him.
“Why, who else, but our dear, Lady Emma Thornton the Earl of Elesmere’s beautiful, unwed, and accomplished daughter.”
Henry thought he must have misheard.
“Lady Emma Thornton? Surely you jest—” Henry tried to keep his tone even as he got up and paced the room. It would do no good for him to lose his temper with his father, but surely the old man was daft. “You mean to have me marry someone who I’ve known my whole life to be nothing but a flighty, vapid, girl? How is that anything close to a good match?”. An image of Lady Emma the last time he saw her flashed through his mind. A gangly sort of girl, who did not like to take direction and who had no respect at all for order. They would not suit at all. Clearly his father could see that. Besides he had not even been in the same room as Lady Emma in almost ten years. They had never spoken as adults, not danced, nor taken walks in the gardens. He would be marrying a complete stranger.
“I do not jest! And you will marry the Thornton chit. She is perfect for our purposes, and there is no need to discuss this further!”
Henry flinched. His father’s forceful tone put him on edge. He rarely heard his father issue an edict, but this was different. He had to come up with a way not to marry the Thornton girl. Yet, Henry was not accustomed to shirking his responsibilities.
Perhaps she will refuse me? Yes, surely the girl had not desired to be forced into a marriage, even if it was to a Marquess who was heir to an earldom?
“And what if Lady Emma says no?”
“She will not say no,” the Earl said, clasping his hands in front of himself and gently clapping them together, reminding Henry very much of one of the villains in the horribly dramatic gothic novels Cecil was forever reading and laying about. Not that Henry read the dreadful things, much anyway. “It was the Earl who came to me. It seems my good friend had lost a great deal of money, all of it in fact, and needed some assistance. That was when I caught a glimpse of Lady Emma and my plan…er… idea, yes, my idea began to take shape. You are in want of an accomplished wife, and she is an accomplished lady in need of a husband.”
“So, you bought her? Bloody hell, father.” This time Henry did not even try to keep the shock from his tone. His father had bought him a bride, unbelievable.
“Henry, really, such language. I did not buy her. I merely helped a friend out of an untenable situation, and he offered to make an advantageous match by way of thanking me.”
“This is really the edge of reason, father. I cannot be party to…to whatever it is you are planning.”
“I have already secured a special license,” the Earl replied. “Think of Lady Emma, should you refuse to do your duty and marry her the scandal sheets would find out about the license and she will be ruined. You know our society is much harsher on women, and it will be thought that she did something to earn your disfavor. You will marry her. You must marry her. We will ride to the manse first thing in the morning.”
As if on cue the clock in the corner of Henry’s study chimed the four o’clock hour and Charleston entered the room carrying a tray laden with afternoon tea. Henry could not move, nor could he muster the strength to say another word.
His father was right, it was too late. If he refused to marry Lady Emma he did not doubt the Earl would release the information about the special license to the scandal sheets himself, as a means of punishment for Henry’s defiance. He could not allow the girl to be ruined. He would do his duty and ride out for the country after tea as his father commanded.
He looked over at his loyal butler and nodded his thanks for the tea.
“Charleston, please tell Cecil to prepare a valise. We are leaving for the country at first light.”
Henry could have sworn he saw the old butler’s eyebrows raise in question, but as quick as the look arrived it was gone, and Charleston was once again the very face of propriety.
“Yes, my lord,” he said as he nodded and left the room. Henry turned to his father. Wishing there were any way he could avoid the trap the old man had set.
“I will marry the girl, but mark my words, it will be under duress,” he said.
“My boy, by the end of the Season you will be thanking me for making such a fortuitous match,” his father replied. “Now, I’m famished, let’s eat.”
Henry found that despite the hour, his appetite had left him completely.
Chapter Three
“It is late my lady, you must awake for the day.” Emma’s maid Sally Brooks was happily dancing around the room, opening curtains, allowing the sun access to her bed chamber. “Today his grace and his lordship will arrive. You will see your husband.”
Emma groaned, squinting and rolling over to cover her face with a pillow, avoiding the angry shaft of light that broke through her bed curtains. Why was everyone excited about Emma’s upcoming nuptials? It was decidedly not a joyous occasion. She only reluctantly agreed to her father’s scheme out of duty to her family. She was absolutely not looking forward to the rest of her life as Henry Blackmoor’s wife, Countess in waiting or not. It was going to be a disaster.
“I am awake, Sally,” she said. “You need not keep up with your incessant cheerfulness.”
“Yes, of course, my lady. Will you need help with your dressing?” Sally looked stricken as she bowed. Emma immediately regretted her harsh words.
“Yes, Sally, that would be lovely.” Emma softened her tone. After all it was not Sally’s fault she found herself in this situation. It was her father’s. She reminded herself to keep her harsh tones directed where they were deserved in the future.
When Emma was dressed, and her golden blonde hair was pinned in a simple chignon, she decided Sally was right, there was no point in hiding from the day. Her stomach gave an angry rumble. It was too late to break her fast with a morning meal, but hopefully Cook would have something light left in the kitchens that she could eat.
Maybe there would be at least a sausage left, she thought as she headed toward the kitchens. She came up short at the doors as the usual clatter of pots, pans, and busy servants was punctuated by conversation that was clearly about her. She knew it was bad manners to eavesdrop, but she could not help it. What did the servants really think?
“I don’t think she wants to marry at all,” Emma heard Sally say in hushed tones as she approached the kitchen.
“Pish, posh,” Cook replied, dismissing Sally’s words. “She would be a Countess.”
“Yes, but that Lord Blackmoor was a stern sort,” Sally reminded the cook
. “Remember when he was a boy and came to visit. Had to have his bedchamber and his food just so. Particular.”
“It matters not what type of boy he was,” Cook replied. “He is a man now, and heir to one of the oldest and most respected Earldom in England. I have not heard a bad thing spoken about him in the Village. He is respected much more so than his father the Earl. Lady Emma would do well to try and find a better match.”
Is that what most people would think? That if she were not pleased with the match she was only being a selfish chit? That Emma would not be able to find a better match than Henry Blackmoor?
She wrapped an arm around her stomach, suddenly losing her appetite. Rather than let the servants know she had been listening, she turned and headed toward her sitting room. She could always call for tea once the Earl and Lord Henry arrived. She needed to gather her wits about her somehow. It was her bad luck however that as she turned, she tripped over a bucket she had not seen, and tumbled, loudly, into the kitchen.