“I thought you always knew the answer the first time,” Emma said.
Is that a smile?
Hugh glowered.
Emma wasn’t supposed to be smiling now.
“You scared me,” Hugh said sternly.
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” he growled.
At least... He attempted to growl and glower and glare and do all the things that might absolutely convince her to never do anything that might harm herself again.
The only emotion he felt though was relief.
She was fine, and in his arms. He smoothed her damp hair with his hand. Her face glistened, and her teeth chattered.
“We’re going back,” he said. “You need a bath. The Thames is not known for its cleanliness.”
She gave him a worried glance and nodded.
He threw her over his shoulder and marched toward the row of hacks. A hack would cross the bridge faster than a shore boat at this time.
The music continued to play, but this time he didn’t listen to the singers’ whimsical words. This time he focused solely on Emma.
Miss Braunschweig. He tried to correct himself in his mind, but the name was too long and unwieldy.
Somehow, she’d become simply Emma during their time together.
And she was safe.
He hurried all the same. It wouldn’t do for her to get sick.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LORD METCALFE HAULED her from the hack, swung Emma over his shoulder, and marched toward the townhouse.
“Put me down,” Emma ordered.
“Nonsense.”
Emma added a kick. Kicking a marquess was certainly unladylike, but now was a time for exceptions.
“I’m not having you walk,” Lord Metcalfe declared. “Who knows what strain that would put on you?”
Emma rolled her eyes. The process still worked, even when upside down, though she had a distinct preference for doing it when her object could see her.
“Some people could view us from their bedrooms,” Emma said, using her sternest voice.
Lord Metcalfe hesitated.
Good.
Stopping was a step in the process of putting her down and putting her down was certainly a far more respectable way to enter a home than pressed over his shoulder.
Still, she wasn’t entirely ready to not be held by him, despite the vast advancements in respectability that would entail.
Because once that would happen, he would usher her off to bathe, and pretend to never have seen her. Perhaps he would hint mysteriously of a ghost who haunted this street who had a propensity to carry a young lady over his shoulder, in case anybody had seen them.
Men always seemed to believe in the gullibility of women. No doubt the marquess, for all his strengths, would be no different.
For some reason though, Lord Metcalfe never lowered Emma to the tilestones, and her gaze remained distinctly upside down.
Instead he plodded down some steps, even though Emma hadn’t remembered going up any.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh...” he murmured. “We’re entering via the servant’s entrance. Less likely for you to be seen.”
“Right.”
“Not that it would matter if anyone did see you,” Lord Metcalfe added.
“Why not?” Emma straightened her shoulders, even if the marquess couldn’t observe them from this precise angle.
Had Lord Metcalfe declared her so uncultured, given her confessed ignorance of London, that he thought her reputation one not worth protecting?
“I’ll tell you later,” Lord Metcalfe promised.
“Not now?” Emma asked, conscious her blood rushed through her at a faster rate.
Perhaps this had been the marquess’s intention all along: keep her alert after her accidental dipping.
“Later,” the marquess said infuriatingly.
His tone seemed to have an edge of humor to it, and Emma wished she could see him so she could give him her best glower.
The marquess stopped, and for a moment Emma thought he’d decided to put her down after all, but instead she heard rapping, followed by footsteps padding.
Emma’s cheeks warmed, and then the door swung open.
“Lord Metcalfe?” Confusion was evident in the person’s voice, and Emma’s cheeks warmed further, settling into their newfound role of hot brick replacement. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Pardon me, Your Lordship.”
“Please do not worry, Mrs. Abrams,” the marquess said. “I’m sorry to wake you. Please prepare this woman a bath. She had a tumble into the Thames.”
“Oh, dearie me. Poor thing. Which room would you like the bath to be brought to?”
Lord Metcalfe hesitated. “Better not wake her friend. Just bring it to my library.”
“Are you certain?” Mrs. Abrams asked.
“Yes,” Lord Metcalfe said curtly. “It’s not my bedroom. Not entirely improper.”
“Of course, my lord,” Mrs. Abrams said. “I’ll have it brought to you right away.”
“Thank you,” Lord Metcalfe said. “I appreciate it. Please apologize to the maids for me.”
Emma was quiet during the exchange.
Her heart thudded, conscious of the rules that she and the marquess were breaking.
She’d still felt energized during the hack journey, distracted by the bright lights of the city and the memories of Vauxhall.
Now, she felt more conscious of the cold. Her attire was drenched, and water dripped onto the kitchen tiles. No perfumer would ever use the Thames’s scent for inspiration.
Lord Metcalfe lifted her, this time cradling her in both his arms, evidently sufficiently confident in his valet’s ability to clean stains from the dirtied water.
Perhaps he planned to simply toss the attire away.
Her heart beat more rapidly, even though she was being carried, and even though her heart should be thoroughly pleased at the sudden rest.
She was conscious of the marquess’s broad shoulders. She didn’t want to look up, lest she forget staring at someone’s face was improper. It would be too easy to get lost in the man’s eyes, and too easy to marvel openly at the pleasant composition of his chiseled features. It didn’t matter that the candlelight flickering from the servant’s candlestick was dim.
Emma glanced at her surroundings. Lord Metcalfe carried her up the stairs from the kitchen. He strode gently, as if not wanting to rouse any servant or guest. When he came to the landing, she looked in the direction of the grand staircase, with its rod-iron banister twisted into elaborate curls by some talented blacksmith, but instead Lord Metcalfe marched straight ahead.
The servant opened a door, and they entered the library.
Emma had visited the library at Lord Metcalfe’s estate, and she expected to see large portraits of Lord Metcalfe’s ancestors looking over some globes brought over from Holland.
This library was different.
For one thing, the desk was covered with papers.
In fact, some of the floor was similarly adorned.
Emma blinked.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” Lord Metcalfe apologized. “This is where I do most of my work for Parliament.”
Emma had always suspected members of the House of Lords didn’t do very much except warn people of the importance of keeping grain prices at certain levels and vote down attempts to give money to the poor. Evidently, he did much more.
The marquess lowered her down onto the floor, clearly not caring he’d placed her on an expensive looking rug.
The servant lit some of the candles in the room.
“Thank you,” Lord Metcalfe said. “Could you please help the maids bring up the bath?”
“Yes, my lord.” The servant bowed and then exited the room.
Emma and Lord Metcalfe were alone.
“Now, how do you feel?” Lord Metcalfe asked.
“F-fine,” Emma said, attempting for her teeth to not chatter.
&nb
sp; Lord Metcalfe widened his eyes. “Blankets! You need a blanket.”
He grabbed a cashmere throw and wrapped her inside it. It was soft and sumptuous and utterly improper in her condition.
“I’ll ruin it,” she warned.
“Oh?” Lord Metcalfe wrapped it more snugly around her. “If it keeps you from being cold, then it will have done a good job. Mostly it’s just there for decor.”
“Thank you for everything,” Emma said. “You told me that we shouldn’t go, and you were correct. I-I’m sorry.”
“Nonsense,” Lord Metcalfe said. “You told me the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens was worth seeing, and you were absolutely correct. Now, would you like me to bring Mrs. Carberry?”
Emma shook her head rapidly. “I would prefer you not to.”
The words were said casually enough, but there was a strained sound to her voice that made him think that she was not being entirely nonchalant.
“I wouldn’t want to wake her,” she added. “Beauty sleep and all that.”
“Naturally,” he said, but he looked at her a moment more. “What exactly is your relationship with Miss Carberry and her mother?”
“I’m friends with Miss Carberry,” Emma said at once. “She is a dear, sweet woman.”
“So you’ve said before,” he said. “The thing is, the Duke of Jevington is my very best friend, but I would hardly go around listing his good qualities.”
“Oh?” Emma asked, tilting her head in the direction of the ceiling.
As far as ceilings went, the ceiling of his library was not particularly interesting. It was not paneled, and unlike at his estate, nobody had decided to paint the ceiling in an effort for it to rival the celestial heavens.
There was certainly no reason for her to stare at the darkly lit ceiling.
He wanted to quiz her further, but something sounded in the hallway.
He turned his head as the door opened.
Two maids appeared, carrying a bath.
“Beggin’ your pardon,” one of the maids said.
“Oh, yes of course,” Lord Metcalfe said. “Please set it in the corner.”
The maids nodded and soon filled it.
“I’ll let you have some privacy,” Lord Metcalfe said, and he went to the adjoining room. “Please let me know if you need me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
HUGH STRODE TO THE adjoining room, even though it seemed absurd to sit in the drawing room now. The furniture was overly formal, meant to be imposing.
Hugh never visited the drawing room normally. He only went there after his butler ushered him in after some particularly aggressive matchmaking mama might appear, determined to call on him.
Normally he used the library to see any guests: Jasper to drag him to Hades’ Lair, or one of the MPs who had something of importance to discuss.
He should have brought some books with him. He sighed.
It would make sense for him to go to bed.
But what if Emma needed him? The woman had almost drowned. The least he could do was to remain within hearing distance.
Hugh was not thinking about Emma bathing.
Absolutely not.
He was not pondering her body beneath the soapy water of his tub.
He was not thinking about slick curves, and he was certainly not thinking of how her breasts might look, freed from their constraints.
And yet... The only vision in his mind was on how Emma’s body might appear.
Would the peaks of her breasts be tawny or rosy?
He frowned.
Such pondering was distinctly ungentlemanly. Now was a time better for books and reading, and though the library might be filled with the very best selection of that material, he was not going to encroach upon Emma’s bathing.
It didn’t matter if he’d already decided that she was the woman for him.
He hadn’t told her that yet.
His heart swelled, thinking of the wondrous fact that love in fact did exist.
He’d known people could care about others and grow sick at the thought that they might be harmed. He’d also known some women seemed more attractive to him than others, and he’d supposed when poets discussed love that they were simply exaggerating this fact.
But now he knew that they had been correct.
Love absolutely did exist, in all its glory.
Emma had shown him a new London. She was different from other women he’d met, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life spending time with her.
No more noises drifted in from the library. The maids must have decided to empty the bathwater tomorrow.
Hugh knocked and waited.
Finally, he pushed open the door to investigate.
And there she was.
Emma.
She wore a robe. Evidently, she’d just left her bath.
“Forgive me,” Hugh said.
He hadn’t expected to see her.
“I didn’t hear anyone,” he said apologetically.
“I sent the maids away,” Emma explained. “They can use their sleep.”
“Oh.” Hugh blinked. “That is thoughtful of you.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been so much trouble,” she said.
“You haven’t been,” Hugh said. “Not at all.”
But Emma’s face appeared so miserable, and Hugh rushed toward her. It seemed suddenly absolutely vital to reassure her.
“This evening was a delight,” he said.
“I thought you were in bed,” Emma said. “I should have finished sooner.”
“Nonsense,” Hugh said.
“I’ll–er–see myself out.” Emma inched toward the door, and his heart leapt in protest, and he soon found himself approaching her.
The hem of her robe brushed against the furniture, and he felt a strange surge of jealousy with his sideboard he’d never anticipated experiencing, despite the latter’s immaculate carving.
“I had a good time tonight,” she said. “Thank you.”
“I did too,” he said solemnly. “I’ve never seen anyone appreciate London so much.”
She gave him a sad smile. “I think Miss Carberry is quite fond of the city.”
“Why do you keep bringing up Miss Carberry’s good qualities?”
Her sooty black lashes fluttered up. For a moment she hesitated, and it was enough to cause his eyebrows to narrow and for him to close the distance between them.
“Tell me,” he growled.
She raised her chin. “Miss Carberry has many venerable qualities.”
“Is that so?”
“She’s highly intelligent and kind.”
“I’m not looking for a governess, my dear.”
“And she’s beautiful,” Emma hurried to say.
“Is she you?”
Emma blinked.
Hugh took her into his arms. “I have no interest in Miss Carberry. I only have an interest in you.”
Emma squirmed. “Perhaps you should reconsider. I saw your score sheet, and Miss Carberry meets all your expectations. She might not be titled, but you’re already a marquess. Two titles are hardly necessary.”
“That is an opinion not shared by most writers of scandal sheets.”
“Their opinions are generally not lauded.”
“I’m going to tell you something, and you’re going to listen carefully.”
She nodded.
“The competition is over,” he said.
She inhaled, and her body stiffened in his arms.
“I have found my future marchioness,” he said slowly, because the wide-eyed look she was sending him made him worry she was not actually comprehending him. “And that future marchioness is...you.”
This time she swallowed hard, and he resisted the impulse to brush his fingers against her throat.
“Lord Metcalfe,” she murmured.
“Hugh.”
“But you’re–”
His eyes softened. “We’ve reached the point of informality.”
“Hugh,”
she murmured, as if testing the word in her mouth.
Hugh kissed her. Fire blazed through him and sweat prickled his body.
Emma’s body felt warm.
Evidently, she was experiencing the same heatwave he was.
“Sweetheart. Emma.”
“Yes?” her voice squeaked.
“I’m going to announce it when we return to the castle.”
She shook her head hastily. “You can’t do that. The house party isn’t supposed to end yet. The competition isn’t over.”
There was something frantic about the rhythm of her words, and he scrutinized her. “I would almost think you didn’t desire to marry me.”
She was silent.
“You’re still shaken from tonight,” he said. “Unless...”
A horrible thought occurred to him. No other woman knew him as well as she did. Was it possible her knowledge of him had compelled her to change her mind?
He frowned.
He had called the festivity a house party, but he’d thought he’d left sufficient hints to the various guardians of the women whom he wanted to consider that he was looking for a wife that it was an open secret. If not, Jasper would have certainly made that clear.
It had been so much of an open secret Matchmaking for Wallflowers had even written an article about it, giving the event an aura of scandal he did not appreciate.
After all, scandal was not something he courted. With the exception of his grandfather, he came from a long line of Marquesses of Metcalfe who had acted with utter respectability.
Emma was wrong if she thought he wouldn’t be a good husband to her.
“This house party really was meant for me to find a wife,” he began. “It was not simply to surround myself with women of–er–beauty.”
“I know.”
“And perhaps it did start in a competitive manner, but–”
“It’s not that,” she said quickly. “You were being efficient.”
She smiled, and he smiled back, and everything should have been wonderful.
He assessed her. “May I kiss you again?”
Her eyes widened. “K-kiss me?”
He nodded solemnly. “Someone told me once that kissing is a good way to determine whether a match is good.”
A Kiss for the Marquess (Wedding Trouble, #5) Page 16