The Marchioness’ Buried Secret (Historical Regency Romance)

by Ella Edon

  “My lady!” Sally said rushing to help her. Emma was more embarrassed than hurt. She stood and brushed away her skirts, reaching up to make sure her pins were still intact. “We did not see you there.”

  “Oh, I must have tripped.” She looked back at the bucket. Thankfully it was empty. “I just came down to…um…see if there was anything about to eat? I’m afraid I slept through the morning meal.”

  Cook jumped up from her seat at the long table that served as a counter for the cooking.

  “Of course, my lady, I can find you some bread and cheese. Will that keep you until tea?”

  “Yes, that would be lovely,” Emma said her embarrassment fading. “Cook, may I ask you a question?” The cook’s eyes grew wide, as she looked back and forth between Emma and Sally. Emma knew both women thought she heard their conversation. Sally quickly excused herself, mumbling about a hearth that needed her attention.

  “What can I do for you, my lady?”

  “Did you mean what you said earlier, that I would be lucky to make such a fine match as Lord Henry?” Emma watched as Cook stumbled a bit. She did not want to have been caught eavesdropping, but as it was obvious that was what she had been doing, she thought it easier to have the answer directly from the servant.

  “Uh…my lady, I meant no disrespect—“Cook began.

  “It’s no bother,” Emma said, interrupting gently. “I would like to know. You see, I am struggling with the decision. And an opinion that is not my father’s would be most welcome. Does Lord Henry have a reputation?”

  “If I may be so frank, my lady.”

  “Please, Cook, do,” Emma replied.

  “I have heard nothing but the highest regard for his lordship,” the cook replied. “I do believe he would make you a good husband.” The older woman handed Emma a plate with bread and cheese. Emma sat at the long table and began to quietly eat. Maybe Cook was right. Women of her station rarely chose their own husbands. Marrying for love was a foolish notion for young girls not yet in their stays. It was not a realistic option for the daughter of an Earl. Perhaps she should not be so harsh in her opinion of Blackmoor. Perhaps he had grown into a fine man.

  * * *

  As Henry rode up to Elesmere Manor, he could not help but smile. How many lazy summer afternoons had he spent as a boy reading in the expansive library that the Earl of Elesmere gave him free reign of? It was much better appointed than the library at Drysdale Hall. Henry loved that the old Earl kept his books in perfect alphabetical order, organized by subject. The library in his father’s house had no order whatsoever, which had always made the skin on his arms crawl. It made it impossible to enjoy reading. No, Henry much preferred the library at Elesmere Manor. He wondered if he would have any leave to enjoy a book or two before the wedding.

  He then thought about Lady Emma. Would she be agreeable to the match their fathers had arranged for them? If he thought for a moment his father would not turn to the scandal sheets and ruin the girl, he would have fought harder against it. Did she also object? How had time changed her? He knew her mother had died a few years back, leaving her with the responsibilities of the household. The girl he remembered loved running about in her stockinged feet and being out of doors. She liked to chastise him for preferring to stay inside where there was no threat of disorder or chaos and where he could be left to his own devices. Time had not changed him all that much. Only now at nearly thirty he understood more than ever about duty to one’s family and responsibility. Would Lady Emma feel the same?

  He looked back at his father’s carriage. The Earl preferring to ride in relative comfort from town was hidden behind the heavy velvet curtains. Henry could not endure the hours long ride trapped inside the soft, dark interior with the man. He was still beyond angry at not having a say in his own marriage, and to Lady Emma no less. What would possess both of their fathers to be so hard as to sentence them to a life-long match of animosity at worst, indifference at best?

  Henry shook his head. Perhaps the money motivator was strong for Elesmere, but Henry should not have to question his own father’s motives. The elder Earl only cared for political standing and reputation. The happiness of his only son was not ranked among his concerns nor would he preoccupy himself with Lady Emma’s happiness. No, they were both simply a means to an end for his father.

  “Why did you stop?” His father peered out of the side window of his carriage as it slowed to meet up with Henry.

  “I was just reflecting on the beauty of the Manse,” Henry replied keeping his tone flat.

  “We do not have time for your frivolity,” the Earl replied. “Elesmere and Lady Emma are waiting for us.”

  Henry would have laughed if his mood were better. He had been accused of many things, but frivolity was not one of them. He nudged his horse into movement and took off toward the manse.

  Might as well get this over with.

  Henry and his father were greeted as they expected by liveried footmen, and the housekeeper. In town Henry would have expected a butler to greet them at the door but as it was, the Elesmere housekeeper Mrs. Farmer, was a fixture of the country house, and Henry remembered her fondly from his youth.

  “Why my lord, if I may be so bold, you appear to have grown into a fine young man,” Mrs. Farmer said giving Henry a deep curtsy. He nodded and gave the woman a smile.

  “Well, that was a horrendous trip. What room will we meet with Elesmere in?” The Earl came barreling in before Henry had a chance to comment or thank the old woman.

  “Yes, your grace,” Mrs. Farmer said. “Allow me to show you to the red drawing room.”

  “You?” the Earl asked. “Is there no butler in this house?”

  “Father, you know that in country homes there is typically no butler,” Henry said under his breath.

  “Nonsense, we have a butler at Drysdale Hall!”

  Henry fought the urge to roll his eyes at his father’s bombast. This was far from their first visit to the manse. When he was young they came quite frequently, when they were not in town, and Elesmere and his family frequently visited Drysdale Hall.

  He knew his father was simply lording his wealth and status over Elesmere. The poor man wasn’t even in the foyer to hear it. It was bordering on cruel.

  “Father, let us follow Mrs. Farmer into the drawing room and await our hosts,” Henry said sensing the housekeeper was uncomfortable.

  “Very well,” Drysdale replied. “Show us the way, woman.”

  Chapter Four

  “Darling, they will be here soon, surely you can sit and stop pacing.”

  “Father, I shall pace if I wish.” Emma shot her father a dangerous look. She was willing to do her duty and save him his debts, but she was in no mood to be told how she should move or sit.

  “Of course, Emma, but you are making me quite dizzy,” her father said.

  “Am I? Perhaps you would prefer I retire to my rooms. As you, Lord Henry and the Earl have made all these life decisions for me, do I really need to be present at all?”

  She knew she was getting close to insolent with her father, and she took a deep breath. Her conversation earlier with Cook should have helped to put her mind at ease, but no matter how she tried Emma could not stop thinking about the last time she had seen Lord Henry. They had been youths, she younger than him. They had argued, over what she did not quite recall, but the feeling of him being pompous and arrogant never left her. What if once they married he was still that way, or worse? What if he was a violent sort. She only knew that he spent most of his time in town, eschewing life in the country. What if he was a spend thrift, or frequented brothels. There was no end to the scenarios her mind played out that caused her worry for the future of her marriage. So, if she decided to pace the room as a means to work that out, she certainly did not think her father should take his leave to stop her.

  “You absolutely need to be here darling,” her father said, moving over to pour himself a brandy. Emma supposed it was appropriate as it was three in the
afternoon.

  The drawing room door opened, and before Mrs. Farmer could make an announcement for their visitors, the Earl of Drysdale came striding in. He did not spare her a glance at all before going to her father.

  “Elesmere, my good fellow, how are you?” he said. Whatever was said next was lost to Emma as she locked eyes with the man who came in behind the Earl.

  The man standing in the doorway was in no way the Lord Henry Blackmoor of her memory. The lanky, thin, bespectacled boy of her youth had been replaced with a tall, broad-shouldered, stern looking man with a face that could make a lesser lady swoon. His blue eyes were the color of a deep lake on a warm summer’s day. They sat wide on strong cheekbones. He was not soft and pale like other gentlemen of his age, men who were no doubt used to a life of lazy leisure, but rather Lord Henry had the look of man who was used to work or exercise. His skin was tan yet not overly bronzed. His jet-black hair was a bit too long to be fashionable yet somehow made him look alluring and dangerous. Emma found it a bit harder to take a good breath in his presence.

  “Lady Emma.” He walked toward her and gave a deep bow. “I trust the years have treated you well.”

  “Blackmoor,” she replied giving him a slight curtsy. “Yes, they have indeed.” It was best not to greet him too warmly.

  Remember, she thought. He is still the same insufferable boy of our youth. She couldn’t let his dashing looks and demeanor fool her.

  “Ahh look Elesmere, the two of them are already hitting it off,” Drysdale said. Emma could not help but notice Blackmoor glared at him.

  “Yes, it appears they are,” her father replied, not even having the decency to appear sheepish for what he had done. Rather, with his old friend in the room, her father seemed pleased as punch with her predicament.

  “So, I have acquired the special license as promised. The vicar in Dunberry has agreed to perform the service tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow,” both she and Blackmoor said in unison. She looked at him and cocked an eyebrow hoping for some kind of expression or confirmation. Could it be possible that he was not thrilled by their fathers’ maneuvering either? But Blackmoor’s face remained impassive.

  “Of course, tomorrow,” Drysdale continued, directing his answer to Emma. “The Season starts in less than two weeks, and you will want time to adjust to your household in Mayfair."

  “No one said I was to move to town,” Emma protested.

  “Emma, darling, you will be his lordship’s wife, and with the passing of Her grace, you would be expected to be the family’s hostess. But not in Mayfair. In the larger town. London.” Her father shot her a warning glance.

  Emma's eyes widened. London? That was away from her home. Too far away.

  Do not be contrary, he said with his eyes.

  “My apologies, your Grace,” she said, coolly. “I am not yet used to the idea of being a wife or living in town.”

  “No need for apologies, my dear” Drysdale said, moving toward Blackmoor and clapping his son on the back, Emma thought perhaps harder than necessary. “You will be an excellent hostess this Season. You shall be the belle of the ton. Isn’t that right, Henry?”

  “Of course,” Blackmoor agreed and gave his father a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “It is close to four o’clock, perhaps we should ring for tea?”

  “Tea?” Emma looked at the men around her as if they all had three heads, saving her most curious glance for Blackmoor, Lord Henry, she supposed she should think of him - now that they were to be married.

  “Yes, tea,” Blackmoor choked out. “It is customary to eat around four is it not?” How could he even be thinking of something as normal as tea when around them the world appears to have gone mad? They would be married on the morrow. Less than twenty-four hours hence; it was insanity.

  * * *

  Henry held his hands stiffly at his sides and fought the urge to clench his fists. He had absolutely no control over the room, and when his father announced that they would be married the following day, he felt the earth shift below his feet in a way that he had not experienced since he was a boy of sixteen. It was madness. He spent all his available energy to keep his breath even, lest the spinning happen. He would do anything to avoid that.

  “Yes, yes, tea,” Elesmere said and moved to the bell pull to call Mrs. Farmer. The woman appeared moments later already bringing in the teapot, saucers and a tray bearing a selection of cakes and treats. Henry was able to release the breath he had been holding. There was still some normalcy left in the world after all.

  As his father and Earl Elesmere spoke of common friends and the goings on at their club in town, Henry focused his attention on Lady Emma. She poured the tea with deft expertise, but Henry did not care for that at all. Instead he was enraptured by the look of her. Her golden blonde hair had lost all the unruliness he remembered in her youth. It was done in a simple but classic style; the only betrayal was a single strand that repeatedly fell over her eye. Henry resisted the urge to tuck the errant curl back into place. He imagined it was as soft as the most delicate silk.

  She looked at him now and while her lips were moving, but he could only focus on her eyes. They were a fiery amber. He had never seen such a color. Henry had known Lady Emma his whole life. How was it then in the last ten years of not seeing her, her eyes had become such a brilliant color? Had they always been so magnificent? How was it that her body had gone from gangly tom-boy to curved and soft in all the right places? He could not stop himself from staring at her, and he had an incredible urge to ask her to go somewhere with him, alone. Anywhere really as long as it was as far away from their fathers and other people as possible. He found he very much wanted to know more about Lady Emma.

  Henry felt something twinge in his lower abdomen, just enough of a warmth to make him increasingly uncomfortable.

  “My lord, perhaps you did not hear me?” she asked, calling Henry's attention.

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Emma.” He faked a cough into his hand to cover his inattention, or rather, his intense attention.

  “One lump or two, my lord?” She was holding a sugar cube in a small pair of silver tongs over a delicate porcelain teacup and looking at him expectantly.

  “Um, yes, two would be quite perfect, thank you.”

  She obliged by adding the two lumps and passed him the tea. Their fingers met for the briefest of moments and even through the fine silk of her kid-gloves Henry felt a shock of warmth radiate from her onto him. He pulled away quickly, the hot tea barely staying within its cup.

  “Er… thank you, my lady,” he managed before turning away to stare at the painting above the hearth. Perhaps the cold English countryside would help to dull the obvious heat he was feeling.

  Get it together, Henry. It will do no good lusting after your soon-to-be wife. It simply isn’t done, he thought with a silent groan.

  “So, Drysdale, did you happen to bring the funds that we discussed?” Elesmere asked. He may have been talking the whole time as far as Henry realized, distracted as he was. He looked at Emma and swore he saw just the slightest flinch at her father’s mention of money.

  “Worry not, Elesmere, I have my solicitor drawing up the drafts as we speak,” his father replied. “But nothing changes hands until these two young ones say their vows.”

  “Really, father, we should not be discussing this in front of Lady—”

  “No, they should not, my lord,” Lady Emma interjected. “But since my future is to be sold at market for the price of a good brood mare, perhaps we shall allow an exception?”

  “My dear,” her father replied. “I hope you do not think me crass. I was merely keeping our affairs in order. There seemed no better time. What with the wedding to take place, as his Grace stated, in the morning.”

  “Of course, father, forgive me,” Emma said. “It seems I am feeling a bit off. Perhaps over tired from all of the day’s excitement. Will you gentlemen excuse me?”

  “Yes, yes,” her father said,
waving his hand dismissively. No doubt relieved that any challenge to their arrangement would not be made if Emma were in another room. She turned to stalked out of the parlor, without sparing the other two men a second glance. But, before she made it to the door, she turned and gave Henry the briefest of curtsies.

  This time he did not mistake the look of cool anger in her gaze. He would have been a fool to miss it. It seemed he may have been right in his assumption that his blushing bride was no more eager for their arrangement that he was himself. He nodded in return, and she quickly disappeared beyond the parlor door, taking the remaining light out of the room with her.

  He turned and looked at the two older Lords’s who had returned to their conversation as if Lady Emma had never been there. She was a mere commodity.