She blinked. It looked more like a letter, but was too far away to read. ‘Who sent that?’
‘Caro. For dinner. Tonight. I had actually accepted for myself some days ago. This is the revised edition to include you. And—’ he smiled into her eyes ‘—before you dismiss me as completely frivolous, I promise you we’ll see about compensating Adams whether he likes it or not.’
Apparently her husband could read minds. As she went upstairs to change, Emma reflected that might not always be convenient.
* * *
Waiting in the entrance hall for Emma, Hunt wished they didn’t have to go out. He could quite see his sister’s point about the importance of Emma being seen as soon as possible by society. Her letter commanding him to bring Emma to dine had been nothing if not blunt.
We must move quickly to make it clear that your choice of bride, however unexpected, has the Family’s approval. We cannot allow gossip to take hold.
He had not moved in society for the past thirty years without understanding how it worked—the best defence against unwanted gossip was to create the gossip you did want. Taking Emma to dinner at Caro’s for her first appearance in society was an opportunity he couldn’t let slip. The little fact that the eager bridegroom would have preferred taking his bride to bed early and making a detailed and lengthy apology for the wedding night was not a sufficient excuse for declining Caro’s invitation. Even if he did, he wouldn’t put it past Caro or Letty to show up on his doorstep tomorrow to bring him to a sense of his iniquity. Nor would they hesitate to blame Emma.
Quite apart from that, going out tonight would take Emma’s mind off the business of her house burning down. He didn’t want her worrying that she had been somehow responsible or that she and the children might have died had they not moved out. Every time he thought about it, his gut churned. Thank God he’d insisted they come with him that night! Otherwise...he flinched away from the dreadful image of the destroyed house, the knowledge that they would have been lucky to get out if they’d been there.
Light footsteps sounded on the upper landing and his heart stuttered as Emma came down the steps towards him, glowing in cherry silk and the pearls he had given her. His breath and brain seized. The dark curls were piled high and plumes that matched the dress nodded gracefully. There wasn’t enough air left in the world. All he could think about was peeling her out of the gown to discover what she was wearing underneath it, then dispensing with that and sliding his fingers into the glossy sable curls, scattering hairpins and plumes to perdition... He cursed Caro and her dinner party. Since when did a man have to take his bride out for dinner less than forty-eight hours after marrying her?
Emma descended the last few steps. ‘Will I do?’
He could only nod as he took the cloak folded over her arm and slipped it around her shoulders. He had not until now been aware of just how scandalously low women’s gowns were being worn. Now that he couldn’t actually see the creamy upper breasts over that excuse for a bodice, he might find a few intelligent remarks to make. Except of course that she couldn’t wear a cloak during dinner and, as a newly married husband, he’d be seated beside her. Which might be easier than sitting opposite...except he’d be watching the bastards who were seated opposite, and—
‘You don’t like it.’
He could have kicked himself, seeing the worried frown on her face. ‘Yes, I do like it. Very much.’ He steeled himself. ‘I’m just thinking about how much every other man present is going to like it as well.’
‘Oh.’ She flushed. ‘You don’t think—’
‘No. I don’t,’ he said, with a rueful smile. ‘Most of my thinking apparatus just leaked out of my ears. Stop worrying, Emma. You look beautiful and elegant. Did you look in on Georgie? How is she?’
Emma bit her lip. ‘She’s asleep. Bessie said they woke her for supper, but she didn’t want any.’
Hunt cocked his head to one side. ‘Are you worried about her?’ He didn’t have to ask. He could see that she was.
‘A...a little. She is probably just tired, but she does get dreadful colds. Like...like Peter did. And she was sniffling this morning, so—’
‘Bentham.’
‘My lord?’
‘If Mistress Hull is concerned about Miss Georgie, send a footman around to Lady Caroline’s immediately.’
‘Hunt—’
‘Certainly, my lord.’
Hunt offered Emma his arm and escorted her out to the waiting carriage.
‘Hunt, I can’t possibly tell your sister that—’
‘I can.’ Hunt handed her up into the carriage. He might have to forgo an early night with his new bride, but he refused to subject Emma to an evening of worrying about the child just to allay society’s curiosity.
* * *
Lady Caroline stared at Hunt in outrage. ‘You said what?’ She kept her voice low. ‘That you were to be summoned in the middle of dinner? Really! If you cannot manage your wife better than—’
‘Caro.’ Hunt spoke very quietly. ‘Emma is worried about the child. I have tried to set her mind at ease. That is all.’
Caro gave a disdainful sniff. ‘I see. Well, I hope Bentham knows his place better than to actually send such an unnecessary message. It would be most disruptive.’ She fluttered her fan. ‘However, I am pleased to see that dear Emma is suitably dressed this evening. I offered my advice the other day, but she appeared to think it unnecessary.’
Hunt simply looked at his sister with raised brows. Had Caro really thought that Emma was incapable of dressing well without the benefit of her advice? ‘I have every faith in Emma’s taste. However, she went out with Lucy Cambourne today. I gave her carte blanche to spend whatever was necessary.’
Caro fluttered her fan. ‘Is that connection wise? I mean, there were whispers last year about—’
‘Since Cambourne is a close friend I am delighted that my Marchioness should be friendly with his Countess. On the other hand—’ Hunt’s glance flickered to where Emma was undergoing a baptism of fire in a circle headed by her erstwhile mother-in-law, the Duchess of Keswick. His mouth thinned. ‘Was that necessary, Caro?’
She followed his gaze. ‘What? Oh, the dear Duchess? Of course it was! I was fortunate that they were able to attend at short notice. Lady Keswick is extremely influential and she is very much upset to have been denied her grandchildren, you know. I cannot imagine why you are supporting Emma in this folly. So much easier if—’
‘Caro? Mind your own business.’ With Caroline it was necessary to go straight to the point. With the most charming smile he could muster he strolled away. A glance at Emma showed that she was managing the Duchess well enough, listening with pretty deference, keeping a polite smile in place as the Duchess held forth...
‘Odd of Huntercombe to countenance such an arrangement. And after I had gone to such trouble finding a governess. Now, of course, I have no need of the creature, so it was all for naught.’
Hunt blinked. Had the Duchess, certain of Keswick’s gaining custody of the children, already engaged a governess?
‘Not at all, ma’am.’ A touch of chill in Emma’s tone, there. ‘If you care to give the governess my direction, I shall be happy to interview her.’
Hunt had the impression that the Duchess’s guns had been well and truly spiked with that suggestion. It sounded as though Keswick and his Duchess were passing off the attempt to grab the children as a well-meaning favour to Emma on the assumption that he would not wish to take on the responsibility for another man’s children.
Satisfied that Emma could hold her own, Hunt strolled over to join his brother-in-law, Lord Fortescue.
Fort greeted him with a smile and offered a glass of wine. ‘A toast to your bride, Hunt.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Must say, she’s a great deal livelier than Amelia. Can’t imagine what Letty and Caro were thinking!’
Chapter
Fifteen
Hunt handed Emma up into the carriage at the end of the evening and she sat back against the squabs with a sigh. ‘Letty is going to drive out with me tomorrow.’
He laughed and reached for her hand. ‘Don’t if you’d rather not.’
She turned her head and smiled. ‘No. It’s very kind of her, you know. I had simply forgotten what it is like.’
‘Forgotten?’
‘How careful one needs to be in society.’ A wry smile curved her mouth. ‘What with the Duchess trying to persuade me that it was only proper that the children ought to be with her while you and I enjoy a short period of seclusion and everyone wishing to know if I will recognise Mrs Fox—I was very circumspect about that. I had no idea what you might think, but I believe she is a friend of Lucy’s, so—’
Hunt grimaced. ‘Fox is Cambourne’s godfather. Fox and I are friends, although we disagree on nearly everything political. And Elizabeth—’ His old friend Fox, member of the Commons, had shocked society last year by announcing that he had married his long-time mistress, the courtesan Elizabeth Armistead, seven years earlier. ‘I am fond of Elizabeth, myself.’
‘Would I like her?’
Heresy to suggest that a well-bred, virtuous woman would like Elizabeth, but—‘I think so, yes.’
‘Were you ever—?’ She broke off. He didn’t need to look to know she had probably turned scarlet. He knew what she had been going to ask: Had he and Elizabeth ever been lovers?
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Would you prefer that I did not—?’
He shook his head. ‘No. That would be utterly hypocritical, unless I also told you not to recognise several high-ranking ladies you will be hard put to ignore.’ Now he did look at her. Her expression was quizzical. Honesty. It was vital in any marriage and he was offering Emma so little of himself, he could at least give her that. ‘I haven’t been a monk for the past five years, Emma. But Elizabeth was long ago. Before I met Anne.’ A laugh escaped him. ‘Before Elizabeth met and fell in love with Fox for that matter. After that, there was never anyone else for her.’
Her fingers tightened in his. ‘Or for you after Anne?’
‘Or for me. Until—’ He really didn’t want to talk about this, but honesty was a hard taskmaster. ‘After a few years, well, I won’t make excuses, but I needed, wanted—’ Lord, how did you talk about this to your wife?
‘A woman?’
He let out a rueful laugh. ‘Yes. I want to say they weren’t important, but that belittles them.’
‘I think I understand,’ she said softly.
‘Do you?’ He raised her gloved hand to his lips. He knew women had the same needs, but society was not as accepting of a woman’s supposed sins as it was of a man’s. A man could bed as many widows as he liked and be accounted a devil of a fine fellow. But let the merest whisper of gossip sully a widow’s skirts and she was accounted ‘fair game’. ‘I will tell you this—when Gerald died last year and I realised that I had to marry again, I broke off the affair in which I was engaged. Since then I have not...that is, I thought it would not be fair to, well, to anyone.’
‘You have been celibate? Until—’
‘Yes.’ Would she understand what he was telling her? That he would be faithful? This was not something they had discussed and fidelity was not necessarily expected in a marriage in their circles, but he did not know how to be anything else but faithful. Yet he had not stipulated it. If she did not choose to reciprocate...
There was a short silence and then Emma’s hand tightened in his. ‘Thank you, Hunt. I...thank you.’
Another silence followed, yet it did not feel uncomfortable. It was an easy silence, the silence of friends who have said all that was needful for complete understanding on a subject.
* * *
Emma glanced sideways at Hunt in the darkness of the carriage. Her hand remained in his, resting on the seat between them in the companionable silence. He was leaning back against the squabs, his eyes closed, yet she did not feel ignored. He was not being distant. Simply quiet.
It did not surprise her that eventually there had been other women for Hunt. But, her heart shook, the moment he knew he would have to marry again he had broken off a liaison. Not simply because he was actively looking for a wife and felt he owed his as-yet-unknown bride something, but because he had thought it would not be fair to the woman he had been involved with.
Oddly enough, that touched her more deeply than his implied faithfulness to herself. That and his refusal to say that the women he had been involved with in the past few years had not been important. He had not simply used them for a physical release, which most men considered a God-given right and despised them at the same time. He had given them respect. And he refused to be hypocritical about the notorious Elizabeth Armistead.
As the carriage drew up to the curb before Huntercombe House she wondered how she was supposed not to fall in love with a man whose code of honour was only equalled by his sheer kindness.
His eyes opened and he smiled at her, that smile that left her breathless and threatened to steal her heart. He leaned towards her and his mouth brushed over hers in aching promise.
‘I’ve been thinking about that apology,’ he murmured. ‘Refining it.’
Her breath caught and his mouth drifted down, found the racing beat in her throat. Inside her everything melted. ‘Hunt—’
He sat up as the door opened. ‘Soon.’ His voice, deep and soft, held a world of promise.
The footman let down the steps and Hunt got out to hand her down. His gloved hand closed about hers, firm and possessive.
Bentham greeted them in the hall. ‘Good evening, my lord. My lady.’ He bowed deeply to Emma. ‘Mistress Hull would appreciate it if you could go straight up to the nursery, my lady. She is concerned about Miss Georgie.’
Emma’s stomach turned to icy lead. ‘Concerned?’
Hunt, stripping off his gloves to hand to the footman, turned and stared. ‘I believe I left instructions that a message was to be sent if there was any reason for concern, Bentham.’
Emma was already running up the stairs, Bentham’s response floated after her.
‘Your pardon, my lord. I sent Robert around. He came back saying that he had given his message. I’ve no reason to doubt him.’
Dimly she heard Hunt asking to speak to Robert immediately, but she kept going. All that mattered was Georgie.
* * *
Emma stared down at Georgie in fear. The child’s face was flushed and damp and she tossed restlessly in her sleep. This morning the sniffle had been slight, the cough not too worrisome. Nor had the child had a fever.
‘How long has she been like this, Bessie?’
‘Getting worse all evening, my lady.’ The maid twisted her hands together. ‘Mrs Bentham came up and between us we got Miss Georgie to take some willow-bark tea with honey. But—’ The woman’s eyes were huge. ‘She was that upset you weren’t here. She got off to sleep an hour ago. Wondered if we should give her a little laudanum, but Mrs Bentham thought better not without your say so and she drifted off in the end.’
Emma nodded. Somehow the message had gone astray. And Georgie, her baby, sick and fretting for her. ‘Never mind. I’m here now.’
‘Mama?’
Emma looked down, summoning a smile. ‘Yes, sweetheart. Feeling better?’
‘No. Can you stay a bit?’
‘Of course.’ She sat down and took the small, hot hand in hers. She should never have left the child this afternoon or this evening. Memory reared up. Peter coming home feeling low with a slight cough and a sore throat. Ten days later—she forced the memory back, tamped down the fear.
‘Shall I read to you?’
‘Yes.’ A fit of coughing racked the child. When it eased and Georgie was breathing more easily, she leaned against Emma’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry
I was so naughty, Mama. Is Uncle Hunt very cross?’
Emma hugged her gently. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart. You can apologise to him later.’
‘I did that on the way home.’ She frowned a little. ‘He said that he had to mind his horses and we’d talk about it later. Is it later yet?’
‘Not quite yet. What shall I read to you?’
‘Something nice, Mama. Beauty and the Beast? In English?’
Emma picked up the book from beside the bed. ‘Very well. In English as a special favour.’
* * *
Hunt dismissed his valet after he had been helped out of his evening coat and shrugged himself into his dressing gown. He doubted that Emma was in her room yet, if she came down from the nursery at all.
A light tap at the door between their rooms made his heart leap. He strode over and jerked it open.
‘Emma.’ He reached for her...then let his arms drop.
She wore one of her old gowns, her hair caught up in a simple twist. He noticed those things in passing. What held him back was the fear in her eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’
The breath she took was audible. ‘I have to go back up to her, Hunt. I just came down to change.’
His stomach twisted. ‘Is she very ill?’
‘I don’t know. She has a fever and her breathing is bad, but she is asleep now so I came down to change.’ She managed a wobbly smile. ‘She always gets dreadful colds, but—’
‘Should I send for the doctor?’
‘In the morning. But I... I can’t stay. I’m sorry.’
‘I know.’ He nodded and kissed her gently. ‘Go back to her then.’
Her hand came up, fingertips tracing his jaw. The light touch tore at him, moved him unbearably.
‘Thank you.’
The door closed behind her and Hunt leaned back against the wall beside it. Fear gnawed at him. A cold contracted after a wetting was not smallpox, but a child’s life was so fragile. He would send for a doctor first thing. The doctor who had attended upon his own children in London had died, but no doubt Letty or Caro would know of one.
His Convenient Marchioness Page 18