by Lynn Messina
Trent took comfort in this. If the woman had wanted to aid Emma in her insanity, she could have come up with a dozen names instantly. Clearly she hoped to steer the Harlow Hoyden away from calamity—a daunting task. He made a note to discover who this Kate was and seek her out.
Emma was silent for a few moments, enjoying the dance and the lovely sensation of again being in his arms. Was it only this afternoon that she had been swept away by passion in the drawing room? “Your grace, you must kiss Lavinia.”
Why the duke was surprised by this statement he didn’t know. She was always making outrageous suggestions. “Excuse me?”
“You must kiss Lavinia.”
“Why?” he asked, thinking of their kiss earlier. He didn’t want to kiss her sister. He wanted to kiss her. She was a very tempting morsel, especially when in his arms.
“Because she’s only kissed Sir Windbag. He cannot know how to go about it as well as you.”
“I suppose that’s a compliment.” There was wry amusement in his voice.
“And once she learns that there are men who kiss better than Sir Waldo, she’ll drop him like a hot potato,” Emma explained logically. “That’s why it’s very important that a lady kiss more than one man before she marries.”
Trent stiffened. “No, women should only kiss the man they are to marry.”
“What nonsense is this?” she asked, surprised by his conservative answer. “How is a woman to know what a good kiss is unless she’s able to compare it? Surely that’s why men kiss so many women before they chose the right one.”
The duke knew for a fact that her theory was ridiculous. Men kissed women for a variety of reasons, the least of which was the comparison of chaste embraces. Still, he was not so much disturbed by her radical thinking as the vivid picture it brought to mind: that of Emma standing at the head of a long line of men with her lips puckered. It was unacceptable. “It’s different for men.”
Emma was not surprised by this answer. It was what men always said. “How so?”
“It just is.”
Miss Harlow scoffed. “You’re like the others—a hypocritical tyrant. You defend society’s constrictive rules against women while taking full advantage of your own freedom. How nice it must be to be a man.”
The duke didn’t respond. He was still smarting from Miss Harlow’s remarks. How could she tell him to kiss her sister when he’d kissed her only hours before? The last thing she should want was to see him in the arms of another woman. The very idea should be repellent to her. Why was she not as upset as he was? Earlier he’d wanted to plant a facer on Carson for dancing with her, and dinner had been interminable, watching her laugh with Pearson. It seemed inconceivable that she didn’t feel the same way.
“Very well, I will kiss your sister,” he said, hoping to make her jealous.
If they hadn’t been dancing, Emma would’ve clapped. “Excellent, your grace. I knew you’d see the wisdom of my thinking. I can’t imagine Sir Windbag is any good at it. He is always so stiff and formal and so boring. I don’t doubt that Lavinia will be quite swept away by your technique. I don’t have much experience yet, but I suspect that you’re unusually good at it.”
As the waltz finished and Trent led her off the dance floor, he made a silent vow that she’d never get much experience.
CHAPTER SIX
By the end of the fortnight, it was glaringly clear to Emma that her plan was working better than she could have ever imagined. The Duke of Trent hadn’t called the day following the ball, as he had to go down to Tattersall’s to look at horseflesh with a friend, but he came by the next day and the next and every day after that. He dropped by to take Lavinia for long drives in the park, during which they discussed the surrounding flora and fauna. Trent quickly discovered that the other Miss Harlow had a wicked sense of humor when it came to strutting fauna in ridiculous ostrich-plumed hats.
Lavinia would return from these drives laughing, her cheeks flushed. The promised theater party was another success. Sarah had been reluctant to go, as Roger was expected to return the next morning, but somehow Trent convinced her that it would be an excellent way to pass the hours. Everyone had a fun time, except Emma, who could not stand the way Trent kept whispering in Vinnie’s ear.
Because she’d never experienced the emotion before, it took Emma almost a week to realize she was jealous of her sister.
When Vinnie came back from the first of these carriage rides, Emma had sat her down in the front parlor and insisted that she reveal every detail. She was eager to hear how her plan was progressing. Vinnie obliged, lingering over a particularly funny story about Lord Redkin and his hobby horse.
“It’s fat and gray, not at all like a horse. Trent said it looked like one of those animals from Africa. And you know Lord Redkin, of course”—actually, Emma didn’t—“all fat and gray himself. Well, he was riding his hobby elephant, as Trent called it, down a hill when he lost control and came tumb—” Overcome with laughter, she could not finish the story.
For the first time since they were little children, Emma found herself out of sorts with her sister. Not because she failed to finish the story or because she endlessly dropped Trent’s name, but because she had made Emma feel left out. Emma, too, wanted to go to the park and have adventures and laugh at the fat, gray Lord Redkin on his hobby elephant.
After that first time, she stopped asking about their drives. She didn’t have to ask, of course, for Lavinia made a point of searching her out. Vinnie noticed nothing amiss, even when she found Emma in the draughty wine basement sitting on a barrel reading Sir Walter Scott. No, she simply located an empty barrel of her own, pulled it close to her sister’s and began telling anecdotes. The next day Emma went out shopping and didn’t return until it was time to dress for dinner.
Emma realized she was experiencing something more than irritation when Lavinia’s endless “Trents” became a trickle then a deluge of “Alexes.” She wondered then if Miss Harlow had given way to Lavinia or even Vinnie. The idea was insupportable—that Lavinia should be Vinnie when she herself had never been anything but Miss Harlow.
This jealousy was an unexpected development and one she intended to ignore. She tried very hard to cling to the happiness she saw on her sister’s face and chastised herself constantly for her pettiness. It was not, she convinced herself, that she wanted Trent for herself but rather Lavinia’s happiness. She wanted to sparkle and sigh and moon over a handsome face. Why she wanted it all of a sudden, Emma couldn’t fathom, but she was sure that it would pass as quickly as it came. Every night she went to bed determined to feel differently in the morning. She never did wake up recovered. Indeed, some mornings she didn’t wake up at all, lying in bed for hours trying to figure out exactly what her problem was.
On the tenth such morning, she was almost ready to call the whole thing off. Because the hour was so late, she ate breakfast alone, which was good. She needed peace and quiet to decide what the best course of action was. Should she make an appointment to see Trent and explain that it was time to end the charade? He would no doubt be relieved. But what if he wasn’t? What if her plan had actually worked? What if he was besotted? What if he actually wanted to marry Lavinia? The thought made an already tired Miss Harlow feel somehow more exhausted. Trent as a brother-in-law. Handsome, charming Trent. She didn’t think she could bear it. Not because she wanted him for herself, of course, but he would be too much of a handful for Lavinia. Yes, why hadn’t she seen it before? He was a libertine, wasn’t he? How could she stand idly by and let her sister marry a self-proclaimed libertine? There were those broaches at the Savoy to consider and the dancer in Chelsea. Was it better that she marry that pinched-faced ball of wind? She was debating precisely that point when the pinched-faced ball of wind himself entered the dining room. Emma cursed his return from the country. It had been a very nice two weeks without his stodgy presence.
“Ah, Lavinia, I am glad to have found you at home,” he said, taking the seat at the head of
the table. That he always took the seat at the head of the table whenever Roger was not there was just another thing he did that annoyed her. “I feared you might be out gallivanting with the Duke of Trent.” He laughed in his high nasal way. “No, really, my dear, I make no jest. I had been told by certain members of the ton that you have been passing the time with him in my absence. By certain members of the ton, I mean acquaintances who take great pleasure in running to me with tales of your indiscretions. Though these acquaintances sound like enemies, they are the ones we need to cultivate if I am to have a career in politics.” Here he talked for fifteen minutes about the exact sort of career he saw for himself. Emma watched him unblinkingly, like an owl. “Just as I always say, politics is all-consuming, which is why I am so glad that you gave up writing this horticultural book of yours. If people are going to talk about you at all, it should be about how well you serve me, not your hobby. Burning those pages was the best thing I’ve ever done. The wife of a member of Parliament should not have a career as an authoress.” Again the horrid high-pitched nasal laugh. “Damn me, what am I saying? No wife should have a career as an authoress. Or any career at all.”
As he went on in this way, explaining the importance of presentable children and a well-kept house, Emma fumed. How dare he treat Lavinia like this, coming back from two weeks away and resuming conversation as if it had never left off. No customary bidding of hello! No inquiring after one’s health and the health of one’s family! No fond kiss on the cheek! What an awful little man.
And to think that Lavinia was writing a book about horticulture. She’d never said a word about it. Emma wondered if Sarah knew and why Lavinia would be so closed-mouthed. Why didn’t she tell me? Didn’t she realize how proud of her I’d be? Imagine, little Vinnie writing a book—a book that this evil toad burned.
Emma could barely stand the sight of his small nose and weak chin, and she got up from the table without excusing herself. His back was toward her for the moment, as he was helping himself to a second portion of porridge, and he didn’t see her depart. It wasn’t until ten minutes later, after he finished outlining his new financial policy for England, that he looked up from his bowl to realize he was alone.
Unable to control her anger, she bounded up the stairs looking for Sarah. The person she most wanted to talk to, of course, was Lavinia, but she knew that she had to get ahold of her temper first. She had the urge to call out, the way she would Dobson when she wanted tea, but she restrained herself. She didn’t feel like sitting through a lecture on proper ladylike behavior, which she would have to do, if the yelling proved useful in locating Sarah. She checked Sarah’s room and the study and the drawing room with no luck. Then she looked in on Roger, who was in his old room down the hall. Nurse had taken herself out of retirement to care for him and was even now guarding his door as a troll would a pot of gold.
“I am only looking for Sarah,” she said, trying to keep her voice down. Earlier in the week, she had greeted Nurse in full voice and had barely escaped an ear-boxing for her trouble. “Is she in there?”
Nurse shook her head.
“Have you seen her this morning?”
Nurse nodded.
“When did she leave?” she asked, hoping to get something useful out of the woman.
Before Nurse could answer—or not answer, depending on her fancy—Roger called out from the room, “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Roger—Emma,” she answered, slipping past Nurse with a smug smile. “I don’t want to bother you. I was looking for Sarah.”
He was lying in bed, with his back against pillows. Aside from the bandaged shoulder and a chalky complexion, he looked as he always did—good-humored and robust. “Please bother me. Lay all the problems of the world at my feet and let me sort them out. I’m bored to flinders up here. I want to go outside, but my prison warden won’t give me leave.”
“Your body has suffered a major trauma and must have time to recuperate. Nurse wants only what’s best for you.” He snorted in response. “Really, you should be grateful. She’s the same woman who nursed Vinnie and me, but she didn’t seem to give a fig about our health. I’m sure I’d have to lose a lot more than an arm to get her attention.” Having said these words, Emma realized how insensitive they sounded and gasped. “I’m sorry. That was awful of me to say.”
Roger laughed weakly. “No, please don’t worry about hurting my feelings. I have lost an arm but kept my life. It is a fair trade. I see that now.”
“You are remarkably well adjusted to the change, Roger,” she said, admiring his composure. “I think I would still be railing against fate.”
“Trust me, I railed. Oh, did I rail. I’m very glad that Sarah was not there to see it. I was miserable to be with for the first few days of lucidity.”
“Then it’s good that she didn’t take me up on my offer. I wanted to hightail it to France, you know, the second I heard.”
Roger reached over and took her hand in his. “Sarah told me. You’re the best of good sisters.” He pulled her close and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “Now tell me what’s bothering you.”
She looked around, expecting Nurse to be standing over her shoulder and tapping an impatient foot. “Maybe I should…”
“No, please, I meant it. Lay every one of your problems on these shoulders—that’s right, two shoulders, one arm—and give me something to worry about other than my own bedsores. You have not been looking like yourself lately.”
“An astute observation from a man who hasn’t seen me for more than two months.”
“Please, I know what my sister looks like and you’re looking more and more like her everyday.”
“Ah, I see you’ve taken to speaking in riddles, like the Sphinx.”
“Lavinia. You are looking more and more like you spend the whole day in a little room cross-breeding flowers.” He patted the bed and indicated that she should sit. Emma checked to make sure Nurse wasn’t watching and sat down. “Where’s the customary blossom in your cheeks from too much time in the sun?”
“I have been mopey of late, but that’s over now. I am much too angry to be mopey,” she said, animation returning to her voice.
“What has occurred?”
“I just discovered that Vinnie was writing a book about horticulture and that repulsive worm she’s engaged to burned it. Burned it! The very thought of his touching anything of Lavinia’s makes the bile rise in my throat.”
“How did you learn of this?”
“Sir Windbag just told me. He, too, thinks I look like Lavinia.”
“You are twins.”
“Yes, but the people who care about us know the difference. The Duke of Trent never mistakes me for her,” she said, wondering where that thought had come from.
“Yes,” said Roger, “tell me about the Duke of Trent. Sarah says he’s been living in Lavinia’s pocket these past two weeks. Why do you think that is?”
“Because Lavinia is beautiful and interesting and a fine catch for any man who has the sense to see it.” And because I asked him to. “It is my dearest wish that the two of them make a match of it.”
Roger digested this piece of information. He had already talked the situation over with Sarah and what puzzled him was the same thing that puzzled Sarah: Why did he spend so much time with Lavinia when it was Emma he stared at when he thought no one was looking? “But she’s engaged to Windbourne.”
“Pooh, what woman in her right mind wouldn’t throw him over for Trent? And it’s not just that he’s rich and handsome and charming but also that he respects Lavinia and wouldn’t object to her queer gardening ways. He would support her in the Horticultural Society’s exhibitions and be proud of her when she won and he wouldn’t burn her manuscript. He would even help her get her book published.” As she listed off all the reasons that Lavinia would choose Trent over Windbag, Emma began to feel better. Yes, this was what was right. So maybe she had developed a tendre for Trent unexpectedly—and against her will. Well, it w
asn’t so unexpected if one thought about it. He was everything she’d said—handsome and charming and supportive. What woman wouldn’t develop a partiality toward such a man? But she wouldn’t let that stand in the way of her sister’s happiness. Besides, nothing could come of it anyway. Emma never wanted to marry. And Lavinia did. “I am sure that Lavinia would have no trouble jilting Windbag for Trent. He’s the most perfect choice in the world, and to think that this morning I was read to abandon the whole—” She broke off before she said too much.
Roger made a note of this odd behavior, determined to discuss it at length with Sarah. There was more here—much more here—than met the eye. He was determined to get to the bottom of it.
Noticing Roger’s considering look and fearful that he might refine too much upon her slip, she quickly changed the subject. “I have yet to hear about your fall. Did Sarah tell you how suspicious I was when I first heard of it? You ride as well as I, and I would never take a spill on a pothole-ridden French road on a moonless night.”
It was an arrogant boast, just the sort one expected from the Harlow Hoyden, and Roger laughed himself into a coughing fit. Nurse came in, spitting fire at Emma with her eyes until she got off the bed, and patted him on the back. Then she tucked the covers around him, in the mummy fashion, and left the room.
“I sincerely hope you never get to prove that,” he said, recalling the incident. “Actually, the experience is still fuzzy in my mind. Try as I might, I cannot recall what made the horse jump. It might have been dark, but I’d ridden that road many times and knew it like the back of my hand.”
“Ridden the road many times,” echoed Emma. “I did not know you were much in France.”
Roger smiled. “This was only my second visit. When I say many times, I really mean three or four. It was the road from Paris to the coast. I meant to ride all night and catch the first boat out in the morning. I was eager to see Sarah again. But then this mishap.” He shrugged. “The doctors were very surprised that the fall didn’t kill me. In addition to the crushed arm, I had a bump on my head the size of a breakfast roll. Indeed, it lingers still. I was unconscious for the first three days. It’s little wonder I can’t remember the accident,” he added wryly, although it was clear to Emma that he hadn’t given up on trying.