It would be a cold day in Hell before Miss d’Ibert accepted him as a friend.
At least she liked the carriage. He’d caught her gazing around in admiration at the leather and velvet upholstery, the painted and varnished wood, and the gilded trimmings. If only he could make her like Bath, as well, perhaps she would feel more kindly toward him.
“Shall I be your guide, Miss d’Ibert?” he offered, leaning forward to look out the window. “My cousin already knows her way about, don’t you Jem?”
“Mmm. Miss d’Ibert, how long has your brother been studying medicine?” Jemima asked.
James didn’t want to talk about George. “Not now, Jem,” he said. “Not when I want to impress Miss d’Ibert with my vast knowledge of Bath. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to discuss her brother in the coming days.”
His cousin smiled back, unabashed, and exclaimed, “Oh yes, do let James educate you, Miss d’Ibert. He knows Bath so well!”
Looking at Emma’s profile as she gazed out at all the bustling elegance of the city, he wondered if she’d ever been to London or Brighton, or if her sphere extended only to Gloucester and its surrounds… How little he knew of her and her history. How much he wanted to know!
Aware of having an audience, however, he resisted the urge to pry, and instead contented himself with describing the sights they passed.
“You may think,” he said, “that you are traveling down a narrow street with low buildings on either side. Would it surprise you to learn you are in fact on a bridge spanning the River Avon?”
“Really?”
Emma sat forward to look farther out the window, bringing their heads close together. His pulse sped up.
“Indeed. And we are now passing the General Hospital and the Bluecoat School. When we get to the end of Barton Street, we’ll be at Queen Square, where you’ll see the obelisk set up there by Beau Nash, the architect of much of Bath’s recent prosperity.”
Did he sound a bore? Yes, he did—a complete bore. He should make a joke, tease her, compliment her, but his brain seemed to have frozen.
“We are now turning into the Bristol Turnpike and heading toward the Royal Crescent,” he said and winced. “Forgive me. You’ll think I’ve just swallowed a gazetteer of Bath and can talk about nothing else.”
His laugh sounded unconvincing, and he sighed inwardly. Thank heaven she wasn’t looking at him, or she’d see what an idiot he felt.
“Is it not a delightful prospect?” he rattled on, wishing he’d never embarked on this tour. “Those are the Crescent Fields spread out before you, and up above them the Royal Crescent, created by John Wood in 1774. It all looks very uniform and elegant at the front, does it not? But once the facade was created, all the rest of the building fell into the hands of different builders, so the Crescent shows virtually no uniformity at the back.”
Emma nodded, but he’d no idea if she was listening to him. He should think of something to say that would make her look at him, so he’d at least have an idea of whether or not he was pleasing her.
Tapping on the roof of the carriage with his cane, he directed the coachman to take them along Brock Street and around the Circus, then past the Upper Assembly Rooms. “That is where all the balls, routs, and concerts are held,” he said. “I cannot wait for the opportunity to beg you for a dance.”
That made her look at him. With what he could only interpret as an expression of deep distrust.
It seemed flattery wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Fortunately, they were now on Broad Street and headed back over Pulteney Bridge toward Great Pulteney Street and his parents’ imposing townhouse.
His ordeal was almost over. It seemed Miss d’Ibert was even more of a stranger to him than ever, and his tour had done nothing to improve her opinion of him.
He sighed inwardly. A few weeks of his mama’s tutelage would no doubt soften her up a bit.
If it didn’t break her entirely.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
August 4th
No.12, Great Pulteney Street, Bath
My dear Clara,
I do hope you are well and that your husband and your little one prosper. Do you not see the impressive address above? It will puzzle you greatly how I come to be living in Bath when the last you heard of me was that I was condemned to comfortable obscurity as a governess in Gloucestershire. I am currently sitting at a Chippendale writing desk, which has the most elegantly turned legs and burr-walnut top. It belongs to my new patroness, Josephina, Countess of Rossbury, who has condescended to let me use it for writing my letters, almost as if I were a proper lady again! But I cannot write for too long, because my regime here is nearly as strict as that of governess at Figheldene Hall.
I must practice on the pianoforte two hours a day, brush up my French with a displaced French duc—which lessons are shared with a Miss Jemima Pitt—and embroider a fire screen for Her Ladyship, which her various companions have devoted their labors to over the years but never finished. I must exercise Her Ladyship’s pug dog, Suki, attend dancing and deportment lessons, and visit in company with Her Ladyship every single afternoon, as well as find the time for a nap. And in the midst of all this activity, I must go with Miss Pitt to Pettingal’s the silk mercer, Mantell’s milliners of Manvers Street, and Percival and Cunditt’s drapers, as well as to the dressmakers, to ensure that no single part of us is not attired in the very finest muslin, brocade, lustring, and gossamer gauze.
Dressed like peacocks, we have already been to an assembly at the Upper Rooms and have exhibited ourselves in an open carriage around the bounds of Sydney Gardens Vauxhall. There are still more entertainments to enjoy before the rapidly approaching end of the Season.
Miss Pitt is a delightful young lady who, once she is comfortable with one, reveals a soul full of enthusiasm for life. I have noticed her particular enthusiasm for my brother, George, who has given her some exercises to do for a painful heel. He has thus become an idol of perfection to her undiscerning mind.
Alas, I must go, for tonight we are all to have supper together at Sydney Gardens Vauxhall.
Yours affectionately,
Emma d’Ibert
Emma sealed her letter with the countess’s seal, then franked it for the general post. It was the first time she’d had a moment to herself since arriving in Bath. Who’d have thought her new life would be so exhausting?
Nonetheless, she had the satisfaction of thinking herself a faultless protégé. Her playing was improving, her French—always good—was now polished to perfection, her dancing was both accurate and graceful, and her deportment so improved she felt she must be at least an inch taller.
There’d been little time to visit her parents, although George had fearlessly called upon the Rossburys, using Jemima’s sore foot as an excuse. He’d accompanied them to the baths and the Pump Rooms—where he’d taken the waters with them—and seemed not in the least hurry to return to his studies in Bristol.
Of James, Emma had seen less than she might have expected. He kept his own establishment in Duke Street, she’d discovered, though she’d not yet seen the place. He’d accompanied them to a ball at the Upper Assembly Rooms, where he very properly danced with every unmarried young female in the room. Because she was his mother’s protégé, he’d sought her hand for two dances…the second of which was a waltz.
The experience of that waltz had left her unusually flustered. It had brought her closer to him than she’d been since their first carriage ride together…and revived vivid memories of that fateful night at Tresham when he’d held her in his arms. Even though she’d kept her eyes firmly on the smart diamond pin in his cravat, she couldn’t help but recall the sculpted muscles of his torso shining with sweat and the compelling expression in his eyes when he commanded her to join him in his bed.
Furious at herself for allowing such disturbing memories to resurface, she had struggled to continue with the dance, and it was only James’s expert guidance of her steps that stopped her creating chaos
among the other couples. As it was, she spun dizzily around the room, wishing she’d had something more solid to eat before standing up with him. When he returned her to her seat afterward, she’d downed a whole glass of champagne in one go and afterward was unable to indulge in sensible conversation for a full ten minutes.
Now another evening’s entertainment beckoned, at which James would be present, and she must look her absolute best if she wanted to please the countess. She would make sure to observe James minutely, to see if he was at all put out by George’s attentions to Jemima.
Not that she cared one whit what the viscount felt about any other female.
Or did she…?
He’d behaved with absolute propriety each time they met, never once criticizing or belittling her or showing any of that stubborn arrogance with which she’d so often credited him. He was charming, attentive, and entertaining, and looked the paragon of masculine magnificence. Maybe the noisome spa waters of Bath really had been efficacious in restoring him to health—in mind as well as in body. One might almost say he was a changed man, or that he’d reverted to what he was before Belinda Carslake broke his heart, before his own experiences of warfare and the tragic early death of his brother.
Such things left deep scars. Emma was ready to both pity and admire James, even to admit she cared for him. The magnetic pull between them hadn’t lessened—if anything, it had become more powerful than ever. So much so that sometimes, when in his company, she was driven to distraction by the urge to touch him and experience again the scintillating thrill of desire.
Yes, her heart beat faster whenever she laid eyes on him. Yes, his presence could light up the room. But alas, she couldn’t forget what he planned to do to Tresham. Neither could she forgive him for manipulating her parents in such a way that they couldn’t possibly disapprove of his plans for the place.
And there was still the fact that he was exceedingly good-looking, and could not, therefore, be trusted to be faithful.
“Handsome is as handsome does,” she muttered to herself as she went to her room to dress for the evening.
And thus far, James Markham, Viscount Tidworth, had failed to live up to that ideal.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
James ran a finger around the inside of his starched collar and hoped the August heat would leach away as night approached. Sydney Gardens Vauxhall was packed with the last of the worthies still in Bath at the end of the Season, making the place feel stifling. The urge to rip off his jacket and throw himself into one of the illuminated fountains was almost irresistible, but he had a reputation to maintain. Besides, Emma would not approve if he made a spectacle of himself.
A wide range of entertainment was on offer tonight. There were to be French acrobats, a water organ, performing animals, a nighttime inflation of a tethered hot air balloon, and a ball. These attractions were in addition to the usual swings, bowling green, and grotto boasted by the gardens.
His cousin Jemima was bubbling with excitement, and he could only hope Mama wouldn’t consider any of these delights unfitting for her two young protégés.
He waited politely as everyone settled into their seats in the supper box he’d reserved, then seated himself directly opposite Emma, from which position he was able to take in every detail of her appearance.
It was impossible to recognize the water nymph he’d encountered near Tresham in the divine sophisticate at his mother’s right hand. Emma’s waist-length tresses had been artfully curled and piled on top of her head, leaving two locks of her chestnut hair falling in corkscrew curls to caress one side of her neck. She wore a low-cut evening gown of Italian sarsenet over white satin, with a border of gold net, and little sleeves caught up just below each shoulder with a delicate brooch. She looked exquisite, and he congratulated himself on having had a hand in this transformation.
Even though—and he was ashamed to admit it—he preferred her as a nymph.
Whatever was wrong with him? These weren’t the thoughts of a gentleman, and a gentleman he must be if he was ever going to impress Miss Emma d’Ibert.
Could he persuade her to promenade with him in search of fresh air? It was interminably hot and stuffy with the hanging lanterns above and the candles and chafing dish that were smoking away on the table. Perhaps he could show her where the new canal had cut through the bottom of the gardens—they might see some barges gliding past bearing coal, or raw wool destined for the cloth mills.
But if he marked her out for his particular attention, Mama would have a field day—one way or another. Should he perhaps invite Jemima and Mr. George d’Ibert to join them? That student of medicine who had so influenced Emma seemed a very pleasant fellow, and it would certainly please her were he to befriend her brother. After all, if a future earl could be bosom friends with a former governess, then why not a trainee physician, as well?
It suddenly struck him that he’d been staring. No wonder Emma’s cheeks looked hot. Yes, it was definitely time to leave the table and rescue her from Mama’s cloying presence. He, too, would be grateful for half an hour of freedom.
He was partway out of his seat when he caught sight of a face he recognized in the crowd. Something twisted in his gut, and he sank back down, his world spinning.
Surely not, after all this time? Belinda Carslake should not have the power to steal his breath and send his body hot and cold by turns. No, these afflictions were not born out of love. There was no room in his heart for her now. None.
His uncomfortable reaction must stem from pride. He’d no wish to be seen publicly in the same place as the woman who’d jilted him a few short months ago. People might point the finger and laugh. He might be unable to resist planting Cornwallis a facer.
Someone was whispering in his ear, but he was too distracted to make out the words.
“My lord? James?” It was Emma, standing beside him, consternation written on her face.
“Hmm?”
“Walk a little way with me.”
Still in a state of confusion, he stood up as she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. She led him out of their supper box, coming to a halt at the foot of the empty bandstand, but still within view of their family group.
“Which one is Miss Carslake? Can you describe her without pointing?”
He laid his other hand over Emma’s, meaning to give it a friendly squeeze, but then couldn’t bring himself to let it go. How had she worked out so quickly what was wrong with him?
Clearing his throat, he pushed his shoulders back and lifted his chin. “Miss Carslake, the woman I’d hoped to wed, is walking about in a white dress with a fringed blue stole, and a blue ribbon and ostrich feather in her hair. Her hair is golden, and she’s close in height to Jemima.”
“Ah yes. I see her.”
He sucked in a breath and clutched Emma’s hand more tightly. “I hadn’t expected her in Bath, although there’s no reason why she shouldn’t be here. But how did you know I’d seen her?”
“Your mama told me and commanded me to rescue you. I assume you haven’t told her why I’m the last person whose help you’d want, since it was through my folly that—”
“Say no more. That’s all over and settled between us. I’m ashamed I reacted so obviously—it’s most unbecoming in a future earl to show emotion, you know.” He added in a lighter tone, “It’s enough to have you with me, for that will turn the tide of wagging tongues. Everyone will wonder who the new beauty is upon the arm of Viscount Tidworth, and they’ll say—quite rightly—that Belinda Carslake isn’t a patch on her, and that the viscount and the mysterious beauty look very well together.”
She made an almost imperceptible choking noise.
Looking down, he surprised a blush on her cheek and smiled softly. “I thought to please, not embarrass you,” he murmured close to her ear.
“You do please me, my lord. I’m very amenable to being thought a mysterious beauty, but let’s hope I’m not too quickly unmasked as a mere governess born into a faded anci
ent family.”
“Why should anyone worry about that? To me, you are a complete delight.”
Her lips parted in surprise at his compliment, and he was about to press home his advantage, when suddenly the throng parted and revealed Belinda again, arm in arm with Cornwallis.
An icy fury gripped James’s heart. Damn it all to Hell! He shouldn’t allow himself to feel anything. Had his illness stolen his inner strength?
Emma tugged at his sleeve, her brown eyes large and serious. “You must go to her,” she said. “Once you’ve spoken to her and shown her your indifference, you’ll feel yourself again. If you avoid her, the gossips will hand the victory to Miss Carslake.”
He gazed down at Emma with increased respect. She was right. It was exactly what he needed to do.
“Mama was wise to send you to me,” he murmured, turning toward her. “No one else has your good sense. I’ll go after them straightaway, offer my congratulations, and engage them in conversation. And I won’t punch Cornwallis, I promise. Thank you,” he added, and forgetting they were in public, he took Emma by the shoulders and placed a deft kiss on the top of her head. Then he strode off in search of his erstwhile sweetheart.
He’d barely gone two paces when a familiar voice arrested his progress. Spinning around, he was amazed and delighted to see Charles Keane approaching. Emma, who’d just turned to go back to their group, nearly walked full tilt into him.
“Whoa!” exclaimed Charles, catching her by the elbows. “Great heavens! Do my eyes deceive me? Emma?”
James turned back to him, irked to hear his friend address her with so little formality.
“Charles,” he said, holding out his hand. “How splendid to see you. What are you doing here? I thought your family was in Brighton.”
Charles shook his hand genially, but his eyes kept flicking to Emma, who was busying herself with her fan.
“I’m here with Aunt Letitia—she’s taking the cure. But it’s such a bore. If you’re free in the next few days, I beg you to rescue me from the company of the elderly and infirm. A man needs to talk about robust things like politics, cards, and women.”
Vanquishing the Viscount Page 14