A Valentine Wedding

by Jane Feather

  Her response infuriated her. There was no indication that Alasdair was similarly affected. He seemed merely impatient to get her out of the cold.

  She shook his hand off her neck and stepped away from the warm pressure on her back, hurrying up the steps and into the house, distancing herself from him.

  Alasdair followed at his own pace. In the hall, he said casually, “So, do you care to try her out?”

  Emma paused. She could say that she would ride the mare in Hyde Park at five o’clock, during the fashionable hour of the promenade. Or she could do what she really wished to do and ride to Richmond, where she could give the horse her head and really see what she could do. But she could not go to Richmond without an escort.

  “I need a groom,” she said, instead of answering the question directly. “Does Jemmy have any friends?”

  “You have a groom,” Alasdair informed her. “One of Jemmy’s many contacts. Probably of rather dubious origins, but Jemmy vouches for him, and I interviewed him early this morning. He struck me as ideally suited to the position. Not too polished in his manner, but I’m sure you won’t mind that. His way with horses is unimpeachable. And Jemmy assures me he’s handy with his fives and can use a pistol should the need arise. So you should be safe enough in his company.”

  “Oh,” Emma said, taken aback by Alasdair’s sweeping arrangements, and yet knowing that she should have expected it. “Where is he to live?”

  “In the mews. You may send a footman to him with your orders whenever you wish to drive or ride out.” Alasdair raised an eyebrow inquiringly, clearly waiting for further questions that he was also so clearly willing and able to answer.

  “You appear to have arranged everything,” Emma said finally.

  “Only with your satisfaction in mind,” he responded politely. “You must tell me if any of my arrangements don’t meet with your approval.”

  Emma was betrayed into a laugh. “Impossible! As well you know, sir.”

  “So I hope,” he said, and his eyes suddenly narrowed. “I like to think that I know both your needs and what pleases you.”

  There was a tiny silence. A silence laden with the unspoken. Emma fought the urge to speak out, to challenge him, to force the truth. She fought the urge and won. Whatever game Alasdair was playing, she was prepared to play it too. She would not be the first to crack. If this was one of his competitions, then she would meet and match him.

  “What’s this paragon’s name?” she inquired placidly.

  “Sam,” he replied. “He’s an ex-jockey too. But I suspect he augmented his earnings as a jockey with a little pickpocketing. But Jemmy assures me he’s a reformed character.”

  “And Jemmy is always to be trusted,” Emma said with perfect truth. “I’m expecting my curricle to be delivered this afternoon.”

  “Sam has taken delivery already.”

  Emma could manage this absurdly polite exchange no longer. She went into a peal of laughter. “Alasdair, if you weren’t so damnably efficient, I could shoot you for being so managing. I’m quite capable of handling these arrangements myself.”

  “But it pleases me to see to them for you,” he said simply.

  “So you’re not merely taking care of a simple-minded woman who can’t be trusted to manage her finances alone?” she said with a touch of asperity now.

  “You almost deserve that I should say yes, that is precisely what I’m doing,” he returned. “Now, are you going to change and come riding? Or would you rather stand here and exchange pointless banter for the rest of the morning?”

  That was not a realistic choice. “Richmond?” she queried.

  “That’s what I said. Will it take you more than twenty minutes to change?”

  “Make my excuses to Maria.” Emma ran up the stairs.

  Alasdair stood for a moment, poised to follow her, one hand on the newel post, his foot on the bottom step. How the hell long was he going to be able to keep this up? He could barely keep his hands off her. He realized that he’d been hoping she’d have shown some sign of that explosion of passion. That she had been marked in some way that only he could detect. He’d been looking for the special glow in her eye, the increased translucence of her skin, the softness that had always lingered on her after their lovemaking.

  But the wretched, uncooperative creature had been as cool and composed as he. Except that his cool composure was entirely feigned. But was Emma’s?

  He shook his head with a gesture of impatience and was about to mount the stairs when Paul Denis appeared at their head. Alasdair waited for him to descend. “You seem to be finding your way around society, Mr. Denis,” he observed with a bland smile.

  “Yes, I thank you. Princess Esterhazy has been most charming and helpful,” Paul replied. “She has provided me with vouchers for Almack’s. I intend to be at the subscription ball this evening.”

  Alasdair’s meaningless smile remained on his face, although his eyes were sharply assessing. His neighbor didn’t look to be in the pink of health. There were dark shadows under his eyes and a grayish cast to his countenance. Alasdair wondered whether Mr. Denis had called for the watch when he’d recovered his senses in the conservatory. If he had, the tale of his assault amid the orange trees at the duchess of Devizes’s masked ball had not yet circulated. But to call for help and demand justice would surely be the most natural action. Indeed, it would be very strange if he had not.

  “I was hoping to discover if Lady Emma planned to be there, and if so to solicit her hand for the waltz,” Paul said. “But she disappeared before I had the chance to speak to her.” He gave a small, self-deprecating smile that nonetheless spoke of disgruntlement.

  “Well, it wouldn’t have helped even if you had spoken to her,” Alasdair replied bluntly. “Even if Emma is willing to waltz, which I doubt, Almack’s rules would prevent her standing up with you before you were offered to her as a suitable partner.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize.” Paul gave a despairing shrug. “So many rules … so many unspoken conventions. London society is very difficult for a newcomer.”

  Alasdair smiled his agreement and prepared to move on up the stairs, but was arrested before he’d taken the first step.

  “Lord Alasdair?”

  He turned at once. “Mr. Denis?”

  “This is a trifle awkward.” Paul touched his mouth with his fingertips. “But, I trust you would have no objections if I made a push to press my suit with Lady Emma.”

  Over my dead body!

  But that Alasdair didn’t say. Instead, he said evenly, “I suggest you discover if Emma has any objection, Mr. Denis. Legally, she has been her own mistress for two years. In practice, for much longer than that; since her father’s death, in fact. Her brother was no heavy-handed guardian. You will discover, if you have not already done so, that Emma has a very definite mind of her own.” He nodded in farewell and continued up the stairs.

  Paul went out into the street, his brow furrowed. It had occurred to him, as a sudden flash of inspiration, that perhaps Alasdair Chase objected to his pursuit of the lady. They had a shared past; they had been betrothed; he was her trustee; and the tension between them was unmistakable. But then so too were the moments when they were so obviously at ease. When they seemed to relapse into a mode of communication that could exist only between old friends … or erstwhile lovers.

  He had recognized that the lady was no inexperienced chit. Had she and Lord Alasdair anticipated the conjugal bed?

  If the jilted lover still carried a torch for the lady, he might well object to new suitors. Even to the extent of knocking the aspiring lover on the head to break up a têete-à-tête.

  And yet Paul couldn’t see the calm, debonair Lord Alasdair doing anything so crude. And he had given not the slightest indication of discomfort in his victim’s presence. Not a flicker of an eyelid had rewarded Paul’s question. No, it wasn’t possible. It would have been satisfying to have found such a simple reason as male jealousy for the attack, but Paul knew
in his gut that it wasn’t that. Someone was on to him.

  Emma returned to the salon within twenty minutes. Her appearance brought gleams of admiration to the eyes of the men gathered there, looks of envy from the young ladies, and pursed lips from their mamas.

  “Lady Emma, that is the most modish habit,” George Darcy said with wholehearted approval.

  “Indeed, ma’am, you will have all the young ladies eating their hearts out,” Lord Everard agreed. “Epaulets, are they?”

  “Yes, aren’t they dashing?” Emma said with a merry laugh. “But I most particularly liked the shako. I fell quite in love with it at first sight and knew I had to have it.”

  “Not every woman could wear it,” said George seriously. Like his friend Lord Alasdair, he was accounted something of an arbiter on matters of female dress.

  “Not every woman would wish to wear it,” Lady Dalrymple was heard to mutter as she rose to take her leave.

  Maria’s eyes sparkled. “No, indeed, Lady Dalrymple, one would hope not,” she stated. “One would need Emma’s flair to carry it off.”

  Emma caught Alasdair’s amused eye and grinned. Maria, sweet nature notwithstanding, could always be relied upon to stand up for her chick. Alasdair responded with a lazy wink that brought back memories of so many occasions in the past when that conspiratorial little gesture had comforted her through some childhood trouble or scolding, or had invited her to share privately in his own wicked amusement at some individual or situation he considered comical.

  She offered Lady Dalrymple her most charming smile as the lady took her leave, soon followed by the rest of the company.

  “I’m going to Richmond with Alasdair, Maria. You don’t mind my deserting you?”

  “No, indeed not, my dear. If we should have other visitors, I daresay I can entertain them on my own,” Maria said placidly, adding with a degree of satisfaction, “although it’s not me they come to see. I’m not so deceived as to think that.” She laughed.

  “What nonsense, Maria!” Emma protested. “You know perfectly well that Lady Dalrymple and her like don’t come to see me. They disapprove of me heartily for the most part.”

  “Old cats,” Maria stated.

  Emma hugged her. “You are a true friend. You always know just what to say to make me comfortable … even if it isn’t true.”

  “Goodness, Emma, I never tell a lie.” Maria was shocked. “I dare swear I’ve never knowingly spoken anything but the truth.”

  “Your partiality for Emma, ma’am, leads you to see truth where perhaps others do not,” Alasdair said with a smile that was a touch sardonic.

  “Well, of course I can find no fault in Emma,” Maria said stoutly. “It isn’t to be wondered at.”

  “Oh, Alasdair would wonder at it,” Emma said, glaring at him. “Alasdair has never failed to see all my flaws of character. And never failed to point them out to me at every opportunity. Alasdair’s notion of honesty doesn’t admit of the kindly falsehood. Isn’t that so, sir?”

  Alasdair gave her an ironic bow. “I don’t believe in lying to my friends,” he said. “The truth, while it might hurt a little, can only do good if it’s offered in the right spirit. Shall we go now, ma’am?” He held open the door for her.

  Emma yielded the field, although it went against the grain to do so. She kissed Maria goodbye and went past Alasdair, saying over her shoulder, “Why must you always put me out of charity with you?”

  “It was not my intention,” he said seriously. Then a smile glinted in his eyes and he said, “Stand still for a minute and let me take a proper look at you.”

  Emma stood still on the landing, regarding him with a challenging tilt to her chin. “Well, sir?” she demanded. “Do you find fault with my riding habit?”

  Alasdair did not immediately reply. Emma’s riding habit of emerald green broadcloth was cut to accentuate the rich curves of bosom and hip. It was styled like a hussar’s uniform, with epaulets on the shoulders, gold braid on the tight buttoned sleeves, and frogged buttons marching down the front of the jacket. The whole was surmounted with a tall plumed shako. Darcy had been correct, Alasdair reflected with quiet enjoyment. Only a woman with such a body and undeniable sense of style could wear such a daring costume and not be called fast.

  “Well, sir?” Emma demanded again. “Will you be embarrassed to be seen with me?”

  “I can fault you in only one instance,” Alasdair said solemnly.

  Emma’s eyes flashed. “And what, pray, might that be?”

  “Turn around,” he said.

  Emma obeyed, although she didn’t know why she should.

  Alasdair grinned appreciatively. “If your intention is to inflame the passions of every man you encounter, my sweet, then you have succeeded. If such is not your intention, therein lies the fault. One should always ensure that one’s dress creates the desired impression.”

  Emma turned back to him, unsure whether she’d received a compliment or not. Then she saw his grin. “Odious man!” she declared, and flounced down the stairs ahead of him.

  Alasdair followed, enjoying the view.

  Chapter Nine

  The roan was spirited, fidgeting and sidling beneath her rider. “She’s testing me,” Emma declared with satisfaction, relishing the challenge. It took all her concentration to hold the horse to a steady pace through the noisy traffic of Piccadilly.

  “Does she have a name?” Emma inquired finally, once she was sure she had the mare well in hand.

  “Not that I know of,” Alasdair replied. He held his own black close beside the roan, prepared to assist if Emma needed it. He knew she’d be furious at his intervention, but he also knew that his hands were stronger than hers and the roan was clearly not a typical lady’s horse. She had a definite temperament of her own. Not unlike her rider’s, he reflected with a private smile. They were going to be well suited, these two.

  “Then I shall call her Swallow,” Emma said, drawing back on the reins as a rambunctious stallion between the shafts of a tilbury showed an interest in the roan.

  The gentleman driving the tilbury hauled back on the reins, cursing vigorously, and his horse shied and rose up in the shafts with a panicked whinny.

  Alasdair reached instinctively to take the roan’s bridle at the bit, but Emma shot him such a fierce and outraged look that he refrained with a half gesture of apology. Emma steadied her mount with a hand on the neck and a soft word, and the mare trotted past the rearing gelding with what in a human would have been a distinctly lofty air of contempt.

  The driver of the tilbury, a gentleman in a bright yellow waistcoat and a cravat so impossibly high that he could barely turn his head, ogled Emma as she passed him and went so far as to raise his eyeglass for a better look.

  “Vulgar cit,” Emma declared in a carrying voice. The ogling gentleman flushed and dropped his glass.

  “Your horse … if you please,” Alasdair said in a pained voice as he drew Phoenix aside from the now prancing gelding.

  The gentleman yanked back on the bit and his horse reared again in the shafts. Alasdair, without a backward glance, encouraged Phoenix to trot past.

  “Your Swallow, for all her spirit, has been well schooled,” he observed, coming alongside Emma.

  “She has lovely manners,” Emma agreed with enthusiasm. “Such a soft mouth.”

  “I’m delighted my choice gives satisfaction,” Alasdair responded solemnly.

  Emma only chuckled. The crisp January day was too exhilarating, the pleasure of riding such a perfect horse too heady for anything but wholehearted enjoyment of the excursion.

  When they reached Richmond Park, Alasdair immediately directed Phoenix toward one of the smaller grassy rides that meandered through the trees alongside the major thoroughfares where horse and carriage traffic abounded.

  Emma followed him and they trotted in companionable silence until they reached a glade from whence stretched a broad grassy path disappearing into the distant trees.

  “So,” Al
asdair invited. “Try her out.”

  Emma looked along the ride. The roan raised her head and sniffed the wind. She shifted eagerly on the soft ground.

  “Ventre à terrel” Emma murmured.

  “Go, Emma.”

  She threw him a glance of pure mischief and gave the mare her head. They flew down the broad ride.

  Alasdair waited, watching her critically. Then he shook his head in admiration. “By God, she can ride!” he muttered aloud. He nudged Phoenix in pursuit, and the black galloped flat out after the roan.

  Emma heard Phoenix pounding the turf behind her. She leaned low over Swallow’s neck and whispered encouragement. The roan increased her speed. Emma laughed and glanced sideways at Alasdair. Phoenix had pulled up with them and his stride now matched the mare’s.

  Alasdair grinned at her, his teeth flashing white, his eyes alight with his own exhilaration. They galloped side by side until Emma felt the mare beginning to tire. She drew rein and eased the horse into a canter and then a trot.

  Alasdair reined in Phoenix immediately and they trotted together beneath the bare branches of oak and beech tree, enjoying the quiet, the sense of privacy, after London’s noisy bustle. One couldn’t set foot outside one’s house without drawing remark.

  Although it had been three years since she’d last been at Richmond, Emma recognized the ride Alasdair had chosen. It had always been one of their favorites in the old days because it was so rarely used. When Ned was around, the three of them would spend all day under these trees, sometimes without seeing another soul.

  As she understood how very alone they were, their seclusion undisturbed by even the faint sounds of distant voices, she became aware of a slight tension building in the pit of her stomach. It was anticipation, she realized, a warm flush creeping over her face. She allowed Swallow to break into a canter, hoping the fresh wind would cool her cheeks and do something to tamp down the unbidden swirl of arousal that seemed to be taking charge of her body.