A Kiss for the Marquess (Wedding Trouble, #5)

by Blythe, Bianca

  Miss Braunschweig exclaimed at the beauty of various buildings. Hugh was accustomed to debutantes who scoffed at the city in balls, comparing it negatively to Paris, whether they’d visited the French capital or not. Disliking something seemed by some to be a sign of sophistication. He’d been present at too many conversations where various things that others enjoyed were declared banal or pathetic.

  Miss Braunschweig didn’t speak like that.

  She didn’t put people down in an effort to show superior taste. Her life was clearly interesting, but she seemed to prefer not to speak about it. Instead, she favored for some unfathomable reason to recite the good qualities of Miss Margaret Carberry of the Border Country, a region resembled a further away Northumberland, with the same rocky wall abandoned by the Romans as the sole thing to marvel at.

  Personally, Hugh was not inclined to marvel at rocks at all. The fact the wall still existed spoke more to an absence of ideas for other building projects for the locals to use the rocks on. Emma’s enthusiasm was difficult to resist. She might not clap her hands, but even in the light of the lantern swinging from the hack, it was difficult to not notice that her eyes were sparkling.

  “Would you like me to cross the bridge?” the driver asked.

  Hugh glanced at Miss Braunschweig. “No, we’ll take a shore boat. We may as well get the full experience.”

  Somehow over the years he’d forgotten London was beautiful. He’d mourned he hadn’t spent his youth tramping about French and Spanish battlefields.

  He hadn’t fought the French like some of his friends. He’d been the heir, and there hadn’t been any spares. Bonaparte had seemed safely ensconced on the Mediterranean when Hugh had left university, and by the time Bonaparte had escaped and was gathering his army anew, Hugh had been in London, solving problems in Parliament.

  Perhaps he should have realized just how special it was to be in this city.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE PLAN HAD NOT BEEN to see London with Lord Metcalfe.

  The plan had been to distract herself from thinking about the marquess.

  Seeing London, the most magnificent city in the world, had been an obvious choice. Emma had been alone often enough in Brighton, and London must just be a larger version of it.

  Yet, when she exited Lord Metcalfe’s home, things seemed...different.

  The bright, leafy street with its views of matching townhouses all bearing regal facades, had been replaced with a darker street. The lamplights’ feeble flames seemed more effective at revealing the occasional vagabond than at highlighting beauty.

  No doubt Lord Metcalfe had been utterly correct: this was no place for her.

  Except...

  She might parade about in fine dresses and well-kept hair, but wasn’t she simply a more successful version of the thieves who scurried about on these streets?

  Lord Metcalfe was taking care of all her needs during the house party, giving her food and a place to stay.

  She swallowed hard, as if the action might force the guilt away.

  Lord Metcalfe turned to her sharply. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Perhaps this isn’t the best idea,” she admitted.

  For some reason, the statement impelled him to grin. “I’m glad you haven’t lost all reason.”

  “So, we should go back?”

  He shook his head. “No. We’re going to see London. Sensibleness has its merits, but so does the pursuit of pleasure.”

  “You’re not what I expected,” she admitted.

  “I don’t think I’m what I expected either,” he said. “But perhaps that’s a good thing.”

  The words seemed heavy with meaning, and Emma was silent.

  The hack whisked them through the streets, and soon, a gap appeared, where there were no more buildings.

  The Thames.

  Excitement coursed through Emma, and for a moment she forgot her position was unideal. For a moment, the only thing she thought of was London.

  She’d heard of Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens even when she lived in the Austrian Empire. Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens was a place anyone could enjoy, provided they had the requisite shillings.

  The driver slowed and Lord Metcalfe assisted her from the hack. They stepped onto the embankment and stared at the Thames.

  The Thames had seemed pleasant before, but now it was magical. Shore boats flitted from one side to the other, lit up by lanterns. In the distance was Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. Hundreds of lanterns lit up the gardens and music wafted toward them.

  “It’s wonderful,” Emma breathed.

  Lord Metcalfe smirked. “Wait until you actually go inside.”

  The marquess marched toward a shore boat, and Emma followed him. He then gestured for her to board, perhaps remembering Emma was attired like a man and chivalry might be suspicious.

  She removed her gaze from the rower, lest he become mistrustful.

  There were many other things to view besides the rower. The inky black water glimmered under the lanterns. Some stars were visible above. All around them were merrymakers traveling in boats. Some of the boats were large, and the passengers’ laughter flitted toward them.

  After a short while, they reached the opposite embankment. They exited the shore boat and made their way to a ticket office.

  Lord Metcalfe pressed some money into the ticketman’s hand, and then gestured to her.

  Emma hurried after him, avoiding eye contact with the ticketman.

  She hadn’t expected there to be quite so many lights.

  It was dark outside, and thought the marquess’s streets had been lit, the light had remained dim. Emma had felt comfortable in her attire, safe in the knowledge there would be no reason for anyone to assume she was anything but a young man.

  The light was brighter here. Hundreds of lanterns illuminated the formal gardens. Instrumental music played, and they strode toward it. A few brightly clad women leaned on hedges, as if more to showcase their curves in an effort to seduce the men who might pay for their company, than as a desire for arboreal support.

  “That’s the part you want to stay away from,” Lord Metcalfe whispered.

  “Oh.” Emma hurried past.

  Discussing such manners with the marquess felt impossibly wicked.

  “That’s why you’re protecting me,” she said.

  He grinned. “Indeed.”

  “When was the last time you came here?” she asked.

  He hesitated. “I suppose I’ve only been here once.”

  She jerked her head toward him. “Once?”

  He nodded and gave her an embarrassed smile. “After university. I should have come back, but I was busy. The Duke of Jevington comes here often.”

  “Hopefully not tonight,” she said.

  “Hopefully not.”

  “He’s probably sleeping, like the other guests.”

  Lord Metcalfe laughed. “The duke is not a huge proponent of sleeping.”

  She tilted her head toward him. “You truly are quite different from each other.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “Why are you so eager to marry?”

  “My father was married by the time he was my age,” Lord Metcalfe admitted. “I’m behind.”

  He gave a tight smile. “But you must understand. What of your parents? Your father was a baron, after all.”

  She felt her skin pale. “Er–yes.”

  “Well?”

  She looked down and tucked a loose strand of ear behind her ear. “My parents died long ago. I’ve been mostly alone. My brother desired to come here. He was–er–inspired after the Congress of Vienna.”

  “It must have been strange.”

  “Oh, indeed.” She gave a nervous laugh, hopeful something else would draw his attention.

  This wasn’t the first time she’d lied to someone about her past. She’d been repeating the lie for so long, at times she almost believed herself that her father truly had been a baron, and that Bertrand and she h
ad truly come to England after the Napoleonic Wars.

  This time though, it felt worse.

  The marquess had shared true things about himself. He’d been vulnerable.

  She bit her lip.

  Lady Letitia had spoken about returning to the Austrian Empire. Perhaps Emma might travel with her. Perhaps she should return to her home, and not spend her life repeating the lies that her brother had told her to tell others.

  She glanced at the marquess.

  His presence was so calm, so comforting.

  “Beechmont!” A male voice hollered behind them, and Lord Metcalfe stiffened.

  “Let’s keep walking,” he said.

  “Beechmont! I see you!” The voice was elegant and polished–no doubt it belonged to one of his friends.

  “I’m going to speak with that person,” the marquess whispered. “Do you think you can occupy yourself for a while? He’ll be suspicious if I bring you.”

  “Naturally,” Emma said. “I’ll just be by the embankment. There’s less light there.”

  “Good, good.” The marquess nodded. “I’ll be back soon.”

  And then the marquess left, and Emma was alone. She strode toward the embankment. There were other women there, though none of them were by themselves.

  AND OF COURSE, I’M not dressed like a woman.

  Her heart clenched, but she kept her chin high. This was fine. After all, she’d been planning to come here alone all along.

  She was beginning to see that had been a foolish idea.

  She focused instead on the Thames, hoping Lord Metcalfe would return soon.

  “You’re a pretty boy,” a man declared.

  Emma stiffened.

  The man approached.

  She might have become accustomed to the scent of alcohol, but surely no man was supposed to smell as much of alcohol as this man did. He seemed to have bathed in ale, though the man probably eschewed bathing as a distraction from drinking.

  She moved to the edge of the riverbank, stepping away from the lanterns. The water rippled and lapped beside her as shore boats continued their journey.

  The man plodded away from her, and tension eased from her shoulders.

  Laughter sounded near. Two men strolled toward her, and she stepped nearer the embankment so they might pass.

  “Wonderful place, this. I can see why the duchess recommended it,” one of the men said in a broad Yorkshire accent that made Emma gaze at him despite herself.

  The man was tiny with white hair and a slight stoop. His companion lacked any white hair and had a figure that would make him a suitable candidate for any mercenary position.

  The men seemed unlikely acquaintances of duchesses.

  “Oh, yes, Nicholas,” his companion agreed. This man was large and rugged, and he wouldn’t have looked out of place in the worst part of town.

  Emma hastily stepped out of his way.

  “Nicholas,” the bulky man said. “Do you suppose that’s a...girl?”

  “A girl?” Nicholas stopped walking and squinted toward her.

  “A girl,” the man said. “A real woman.”

  “I don’t think so,” Nicholas said. “Women don’t dress in trousers.”

  “But this ain’t Yorkshire,” the bulky man said. “Perhaps they do.”

  Emma’s heartbeat quickened. She’d bound her breasts, but perhaps that had not been sufficient disguise.

  Where is Lord Metcalfe?

  The man’s gaze fell to her chest and the slight curve, and he smirked.

  Emma shivered.

  This wasn’t the first time she’d felt that inevitable discomfort when a strange man rolled his gaze over her body, perusing it, as if she were a Grecian vase and he were an auctioneer calculating a starting bid.

  But this time was more dangerous.

  “You’re wearing the wrong clothes, duckie,” the man declared in a cheerful northern accent. “Reckon this is the big city.”

  “What’s a pretty lady like you doing here?” The man leered and stepped closer to her.

  Oh, no.

  Emma stepped away from him and stumbled against a rock.

  “Duckie?” For some reason, the man’s words seemed to come like a question, even though Emma was certain she couldn’t be doing anything improper.

  And then the world toppled. The sky tipped before her, and she vaguely noted the stars, their light weakened in the city.

  Then it occurred to her that she wasn’t supposed to see the sky.

  Not in this direction.

  Not devoid of any buildings.

  I’m falling.

  She thrashed her hands, striving to catch hold of the riverbank. Unfortunately, she was falling backwards, and nobody had gifted her wings.

  The next moment was damp and horrible, and the moment after that was damper and more horrible. She was vaguely aware of people shouting and yelling.

  She shut her eyes and fought to keep her head above water.

  She hadn’t swum since she was a little girl, and she hadn’t excelled at it then.

  HUGH WAS IN NO MOOD to make conversation.

  After his friend had expressed wonder he was actually at the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, Hugh made some excuses so he could depart.

  Even if he wasn’t worried about Miss Braunschweig’s safety, he would far rather spend time with her.

  Hugh strode toward the embankment.

  The orchestra had moved to a new song, and Hugh’s heart swelled.

  This was why people came to events like these. How odd he’d only visited once before. The sky was as splendid as any design someone could concoct for the indoors. Families strode between couples. Groups of giggling chits huddled in some corners, while some men had started an impromptu game of ball.

  Miss Braunschweig stood near the edge of the Thames. Some men approached her, and Hugh quickened his pace.

  Miss Braunschweig stepped back, toward the water, and Hugh’s heart clenched.

  And then she fell.

  The moment could not have been long.

  “Emma!” he yelled.

  Later he told himself he yelled her name out of efficiency. After all, Emma, though not a name that would be known for any brevity, did lack the syllables that “Miss Braunschweig” possessed.

  “Help her!” he shouted at the onlookers as he ran toward Miss Braunschweig.

  It occurred to him he could be more helpful if Vauxhall Garden was not nearly as popular as it was. Though he’d been proud of it earlier, happy to boast to Emma about the splendors of London, and happy to see her eyes sparkle, he’d be able to run a great deal faster if there weren’t quite so many people between them.

  He wove as quickly as he could, and even gave some people some ungentlemanly shoves to hasten his approach.

  But Emma might be underwater.

  Did she swim?

  His heart clenched.

  It thudded.

  It twisted.

  And still he ran.

  He needed to reach her.

  What if something happened to her?

  He quickened his speed, until finally he reached the Thames.

  She couldn’t be harmed.

  She mustn’t be.

  Jasper had been correct: this whole event had been madness. Once he’d met Miss Braunschweig, he’d known that she was it for him.

  It didn’t matter she was nothing how he’d envisioned his future wife. She was bold, where most women were timid. She was beautiful, despite her propensity to dress in absurd fashions that did not flatter her.

  He didn’t need to marvel at her watercolors, and he did not need to be impressed at her musical performances. He could take a jaunt to his Painting Gallery if he ever felt the urge to view art, and he played the piano just fine, should he ever find the urge to hear a Mozart sonata.

  He needed someone who could make him laugh, someone who showed him how special this world was right now. If she occasionally pressed her slipper over his toe when dancing, then his valet could
buy shoe polish with greater frequency.

  But now Emma had fallen into the bloody Thames, and he needed her to be fine.

  A crowd had formed on the embankment, and he couldn’t see her.

  Prayers were something Hugh reserved for Sundays and holidays, but now they rang through his mind.

  Please. Please. Please.

  And then he was there, gazing into the water.

  “Emma! Emma!”

  He peered at the water, but it seemed overly calm.

  He didn’t see Emma.

  Shouldn’t she be flaring about?

  “Emma!” He knelt by the water, and then jerked his head toward the onlookers. “Someone fell.”

  “I’m here,” a thin voice said.

  Her voice.

  “You’re alive!” he said, moving toward the voice.

  She stepped forward.

  “We had to ‘aul her out,” a man declared cheerfully. “Didn’t expect to have to do a sea rescue here, but we did.”

  “Thank you,” Hugh said. “I’m very grateful.”

  “First time in London too,” one of the men declared.

  “We’re ‘ere to see the Duchess of Alfriston,” one of the men declared. “We ‘elped ‘er dig up some Roman ruins.”

  Hugh blinked. He’d heard about the Duchess of Alfriston. She was, by all accounts, a marvelous woman who was dedicated to her love of archeology.

  He turned toward Emma. “You’re fine? You’re truly well?”

  “J-just embarrassed. And–er–grateful for being rescued.”

  “Think nothing of it,” one of the men said. “Normally we search about for Roman bones in the dirt. Nice to find some bones with some living flesh attached to it.”

  “And this ain’t the muddy Dales,” the other man proclaimed.

  “Rather,” Hugh said. “We’re terribly grateful, but we must get going.”

  “Oh, yes,” the man with the white hair said. “Better take care of ‘er. The Thames ain’t for swimming.”

  “Thank you again,” Emma squeaked, as Hugh led her away.

  “You were not supposed to get wet,” Hugh grumbled.

  “I’m sorry.” Emma’s teeth chattered.

  “Don’t speak,” Hugh ordered. He hesitated and touched her skin. Was she cold? Might she faint? Fainting would be horrendous. “On second thought, perhaps you better talk.”