by Lynn Messina
“On the balcony. We need to talk,” said the duke in an inflexible tone.
One did not use inflexibility with the Harlow Hoyden. “No, we do not,” she said and spun around. The duke grabbed her hand and held her in place.
“If you return to the ballroom before I’m done talking, I will lift you up and carry you back outside,” he threatened. “Now have a seat and do not make a spectacle of yourself.”
Seething with anger, Emma sat down on the cold marble bench. She hotly resented his words. She would make a spectacle if she wanted, but she would not accept blame for a spectacle he created. “Very well,” she conceded while giving thought to her options. Despite his black expression, she was convinced he was bluffing. There was no way the impeccable Duke of Trent would embarrass a lady and himself with such a brutish display. To do so would mean supplying the ton with a year’s worth of scandal broth. She knew the duke well enough to realize that he would not relish being on the tip of every gossipmonger’s tongue for a full twelve months. Having thought it through, Emma decided to stay and listen. If the interview became too disagreeable, she would simply walk away, reasonably sure that he wouldn’t dare to follow.
Standing above her, the duke saw her calculating the odds. It was what he expected from her and one of the things he respected most.
“Lavinia was telling me about your ride through the park yesterday,” Emma said, determined that if there were to be a conversation then she herself would direct it. “She informed me that you were joined by a Mr. Matthew Hardy. She said he’s also a member of the horticultural society. Who is this Mr. Hardy?” she asked suspiciously.
“He is a friend,” explained the duke.
“A friend? And why have we never heard of him before? Could it be, sir, that you seek to free yourself from your commitment to my sister by substituting him for you? Despite what you think, the Harlow sisters do not find the members of the horticultural society interchangeable.”
This was not what the duke wanted to talk about, but he felt compelled to defend himself. “First of all, I do not have a commitment to your sister, I have a commitment to you. A commitment, I might add, that I have followed through with to little avail. Miss Harlow doesn’t view me in any capacity other than friend and fellow gardener, which is a good thing since I will be mar—”
“Haven’t you kissed her yet?” she demanded impatiently.
“Kissed her?” he repeated, horrified by the thought. He didn’t want to kiss anyone but Emma, especially not his future sister-in-law. “Look, I don’t want to talk about Lav—”
“You are a damnable fool, Trent,” she said, cutting him off quite viciously. “All you need to do to make a female fall in line is kiss her.”
The duke struggled to hold on to his temper. Somehow this conversation had gone terribly wrong. He wanted to talk of their marriage, not his and Lavinia’s or Lavinia and Sir Waldo’s. “After all that’s happened between us, you still want me to kiss your sister?”
Emma’s heart screamed in protest, but she’d never made a practice of listening to her heart. She recalled that smile he had directed at Lavinia when they’d first walked in. If it wasn’t the smile of a man in love, it was at least an indication of caring and friendship. Emma knew that something as complicated as love did not happened overnight, but she was confident that given time, Lavinia and the duke would develop warmer feelings for each other. They would raise children and orchids and be very happy—as long as Emma didn’t ruin it.
“Yes,” she said in a soft voice after a very long pause, during which the duke held his breath, “after all that’s happened between us, I still want you to kiss my sister.”
The duke sighed, feeling the heart flow out of him. He was prepared to fight her willfulness and obstinacy and the sheer bullheadedness that he had come to love, but he had no words to overcome her indifference. The Duke of Trent was many things, but despite the Harlow Hoyden’s opinion of him, he was not a fool. Only fools refused to see what was right in front of their eyes and only fools took up lost causes. If Emma had given any indication—a speaking glance or a sigh or even a moment of uncertainty—then he would have pursued the topic until he was lightheaded from speech. He would have indeed picked her bodily up off the dance floor and made sure she listened to him, regardless of the scandal it caused.
When he had arrived at the Northrups’ earlier that evening, he’d believed that nothing could sway him from his course. He would leave with Emma as his betrothed or he would leave not at all. Indeed, he had amused himself with the image of him and Emma arguing on the balcony long after the other guests had departed. But now he had been struck with the truth and right between the eyes, at that. The episode in the carriage—the episode that had sustained him these many long days—meant nothing to her. The most deeply moving experience in his life, perhaps the fifteen happiest minutes of his entire existence, was mere experimentation for the Harlow Hoyden. She had warned him, of course, had told him straight out to his face that she believed women should experience other kisses. An outlandish idea, certainly, but one in keeping with her philosophy of freedom. Despite his disappointment, the duke could not cavil at her treatment of him. She had been honest. It was not her fault he hadn’t listened.
“Very well,” he said, suddenly realizing that she was still sitting there. “I guess there’s nothing else to say.” He offered her an arm. “Shall I return you to your family?”
Emma blinked in surprise. “Is that really all?” she asked, suspicious of this easy capitulation. Pretending to give in was one of her favorite tactics, and she couldn’t imagine anyone agreeing with her without an argument. But as she examined the discussion from other angles, she realized there was nothing to be gained by pretending to give in. The Duke of Trent was not trying to manipulate her or to get her to agree to something distasteful.
“Yes, unless there is another matter you’d like to discuss,” he said.
Emma tried to think of a topic, but nothing came to mind. She didn’t know why she was so reluctant to end their talk, but for some inexplicable reason she was. She recalled the heavy expression on his face when he was deep in contemplation moments before. What had he been thinking of to look so? She wanted to ask but knew that wouldn’t be the thing. One does not tell a man that his beautiful kisses meant nothing one moment and then ask what was on his mind the next. She had that much sense at least.
“No, there’s nothing I’d like to talk about,” she said. “But I think I’d like to stay out here for a moment longer, if you don’t mind.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he minded very much. It was not the thing for a young lady to be out on the balcony alone, where she was vulnerable to all sorts of bounders and cads. Anything could happened out there and no one be the wiser. In fact, anything just did. But the duke only nodded. The Harlow Hoyden’s behavior was no longer his concern. The impulse to protect her from harm or scorn was still there, but he had no right to it. She was once again her parents’ problem or her brother’s or even Sarah’s, but she was not his. The sooner he got used to that, the better.
Trent bowed and left Emma sitting there on the balcony with a confused look on her face. He’d known what she was thinking—it was all there on her face for anyone to read—and under different circumstance would have been amused by it. But now it only saddened him and all he wanted to do was get out of there. He returned to the ballroom long enough to say his good-byes and find Pearson. He had a bottle of very fine brandy at home waiting to be consumed.
Emma watched Trent walk away with an awful ache in the pit of her stomach. Although she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, she had the strangest feeling that something momentous had just happened. Something momentous had just happened—and she missed it.
She knew her behavior had been for the best. Even if she had given in to her weakest feelings and admitted that their moment in the carriage had meant something—and it did mean something to her—no good would come
of it. Emma would not find her own happiness at the expense of her sister’s. And she wasn’t convinced that happiness lay with Trent. He was dashing and charming and a wonderful, trustworthy friend, but he was also a man about town. His behavior and beliefs were commensurate with the behavior and beliefs of every other man who lived in London. It was acceptable for a man to be unfaithful. It is within his rights to keep a mistress. Emma knew she would chafe under such conditions. She couldn’t maintain the comfortable fiction of ignorance, as she was expected to do, especially if she were to marry Trent. Her heart could not bear his betrayal and her self-respect would not allow it. She would have to divorce him or take him and his mistress to task in public or something equally scandalous that would have her family forever frowning on her with disapproval. No, it was better this way. It might hurt for a little while, but Emma was convinced that the pain would eventually go away. If he and Lavinia eventually made a match of it, then she would be happy for them. She was a grown woman who was in control of her life. She would not be done in by so meager a thing as love.
CHAPTER NINE
Although Emma never said anything to the contrary, Lavinia knew instantly that something disastrous had happened between her and Trent. She had seen them walk out onto the balcony together and return separately. When the duke had left she’d caught the defeated look on his face and tried to discover its cause. But try as she might to capture the duke’s attention, he avoided her eyes with single-minded dedication. A few minutes later, he left the ball. He did not pause to say good-bye. Almost a half hour after this strange episode, Emma returned. For all intents and purposes, she looked exactly the same as she had earlier, but Vinnie could swear that something was different now. Emma had changed on some imperceptible level.
Vinnie didn’t expect her to talk about Trent during the carriage ride home because Sir Waldo was with them, but as soon as he said good night, she prepared herself for a barrage of questions. It never came. Instead, Emma complimented the food and the music and the decorations. She had a nice thing to say about everything, except Trent. She had nothing to say about Trent. When Vinnie herself had tried to raise the issue, she was left high and dry. Upon hearing his name, Emma yawned widely and excused herself.
In the morning, Emma looked well rested and healthy. She partook voraciously of breakfast and chatted mindlessly through the entire meal. Vinnie didn’t know what to make of this. She had expected listlessness and a chalky appearance like the last time. That Emma seemed so untroubled troubled her sister greatly, and she wrote to Trent requesting an interview. Vinnie knew better than to try to learn anything from her sister. The duke had been extremely helpful and good-humored on other occasions. She assumed he would be so now, but a note came back from his secretary informing her that his grace was out of town on business. She wrote back asking when his return was anticipated, but the unsatisfying reply was imprecise. He was expected back anytime in the next four weeks.
Now Lavinia felt deep concern. That her sister was acting oddly by not acting oddly was only to be expected but for the duke to behave in unusual ways was a twist that Vinnie had not foreseen, and it made her cross. She relied on him to be the sensible one. What could have sent him off for four weeks in the middle of the season? She considered the very real possibility that some great emergency had called him away but quickly dismissed it. The duke would not have left under those circumstance without a note. No, for him to disappear like this meant that Emma did something very stupid. Vinnie racked her brain for an answer. Again and again she came back to the Northrup ball and the defeated look on the duke’s face. She recalled the determination with which the duke had tried to get an audience with Emma. The Northrup affair was the first chance he’d had to speak privately with her. Vinnie wondered what he’d wanted to talk to her about. Could it have been an offer of marriage? No, she dismissed, even Emma would not be such a fool to turn down an offer from a man like Trent.
Or could she?
Vinnie thought about her sister and how she had always been adamant about never marrying. Although Vinnie respected Emma’s convictions, she hadn’t really expected her to stick to them, not when confronted with a prospect. It was one thing to toss away marriage as an abstract idea and quite another when a man was attached to the offer. But this is Emma, Vinnie reminded herself. Emma, who never does things like other people.
Having come to the conclusion that Emma must have rejected the duke, Vinnie turned her thoughts to Trent. She could understand her sister’s behavior but what explanation could there be for his? The Duke of Trent was not the sort of man to run away without provocation. He was an experienced man of the world who had courted a great many experienced ladies. Surely he could overcome one green girl’s fears? He knew her well enough to choose the right words, to assure her that when two people love each other marriage was a sort of freedom. Emma was a passionate creature and could never deny his heart. All he had to do was tell her what was in it. How could he have botched it so thoroughly?
Sitting at the escritoire, Vinnie made a vow to interfere one last time. If she had misread the situation and Emma and Trent were not fated, then so be it. But she must first hear it from the duke. He must convince her that he was not in love with Emma. She would gladly abandon the field under those conditions. But if there was some misunderstanding between them, she would not rest until it was sorted out. She couldn’t let her two favorite people throw away their one chance at happiness. Happiness was too rare an animal to play fast and loose with.
She chose the wording of her letter carefully, assuring him it was a matter of great importance. She purposely kept the details vague, hoping that the duke’s curiosity as much as his concern would bring him to her doorstep. And she was reasonably confidant that he’d be turning up on her doorstep soon. Trent was too much of a gentleman to ignore a lady’s cry for help and would respond instinctively. In a few days time, she would have him in the drawing room, and she would sit him down and tell him about Emma’s fears of marriage. No doubt he would renew his suit.
Vinnie signed the letter, put it in the post and went about her daily business, confident that in a little while everything would be nicely sorted out.
Emma stayed close to home in the days following the Northrup ball. While Sarah and Vinnie were out shopping, she spent hours with Roger talking about the war in France and their childhood and favorite authors. Emma left her collection of Sir Walter Scott adventures for her brother, and when she observed that he hadn’t touched them, she began reading them aloud. Although this was a new experience for Emma, she had a knack for it. She read long passages without ever once losing her place, and she had a variety of voices to call upon. Roger carelessly remarked that her talent would come in handy when she had children, and Emma chose that moment to excuse herself. Roger did not notice that anything was the matter.
As long as something did not remind her of Trent, Emma was as happy and content as she’d ever been. During those long hours by Roger’s bedside, she had convinced herself that nothing had changed. But if something made her think of him—and this did not require much, for his name need not be mentioned—she would be overcome by an almost uncontrollable feeling of sadness. Sometimes it took all her strength to return to her room before the tears began slipping down her cheeks. Emma was not used to tears and only gave herself a further disgust by indulging them.
She knew the problem was inactivity, but she was trapped. It was the middle of the season and no one would countenance her returning to Hill Crest Park, where she could take her horse, Titan, on blistering rides through the fields. Never one to be idle in the best of times, Emma longed now for an occupation. She would no longer interfere with Vinnie’s business—at least not for the time being. She would observe from a quiet distance her courtship with Trent, but she wouldn’t do anything to further it. She admitted there was only so much a concerned sister could do, and she resolved to be more supportive of Vinnie’s choices, assuming she made the right ones. If the pl
an with Trent did not work out, she would devise another one. But not for another few months yet. She would wait until they were back in the country, where things were clearer and less complicated. Once they were back at Hill Crest it would all make sense. They still had seven months until the wedding. Anything could happen in seven months.
Checking in on Roger now, Emma was disappointed to see that he was sleeping. She would have preferred company than to be alone with her thoughts, but she knew sleep was the best thing for him. His recovery had been going smoothly, and the doctor had just yesterday pronounced Roger healthy enough to get out of bed. He had spent much of the early morning downstairs in the dining room taking breakfast with his family. It had clearly worn him out.
She decided to go to the study, to read quietly by the fire. One was rarely disturbed in the study, and she chose a large wingback chair facing the window. It was an unusually sunny day in London, and she could hear the sound of birds chirping. She smiled, curled up in the chair and started to read.
Emma passed many undisturbed hours in this fashion and when she heard the door to the room open, she furrowed her brow in annoyance. She planned on doing the polite thing and announcing her presence immediately, but when she caught Sir Waldo’s reflection in the glass window, she help her tongue. She was in no mood to be mistaken for Lavinia this afternoon. She curled up into a ball, so that Windbag wouldn’t see her blond tresses from above the chair and waited for him to leave. Once he had assured himself that his fiancée was not here, he’d look elsewhere. Sir Windbag was not the sort of man who liked quiet introspective afternoons in deserted studies
But the next sound Emma heard was not of a figure departing but of a drawer opening. Emma assumed he was looking for writing paper, and she wished he’d get on with it. Really, if it was writing paper he was looking for, he needn’t have come so far. There were plenty of note cards in the escritoire in the drawing room. Impatient now, Emma silently shifted positions and curled her head around the side of the chair. She saw the baron flipping through a file and wondered what he was about. Her family’s private documents were none of Windbag’s business. When he took a document, folded it up and stuck it into his coat, she could barely choke down a shout of protest. Really, the gall of the man was insupportable. She herself had rifled through his private papers but had the decency not to take a thing.