Let the Lady Decide

by Gemma Blackwood

  James was grateful, then, that Emily was distracted by a particularly mournful expression of Mrs Wrenn's.

  "Is there something the matter?"

  "Do excuse me," said Susan, wrenching her eyes away from the corner of the room. "I was just admiring your beautiful instrument there."

  "The harp?" Emily's eyes lit up. "Do you play? I'd love to hear you!"

  Susan looked at the floor. "I'm afraid I haven't had the chance to practise in the longest time. After Andrew died, all my extravagances had to be sold."

  "Music is not an extravagance," said Emily warmly. "It is necessary to every person's happiness! I truly believe that a lovely piece of music is twice as good as any tonic from the doctor. Come, Susan, I am longing to hear you play."

  "May I?" The hope in Susan's voice wrenched James's heart.

  "Please!"

  James and Emily watched as Susan approached the harp the way she might have tiptoed towards a nervous fawn in the woodlands. She seemed half-afraid it might run away, or that something would happen to prevent her enjoyment. When she finally sat down to play, it was with a sigh of relief that spoke of too many months of sadness.

  Unpractised she might have been, but Susan's fingers soon found their rhythm. Within a few moments she was plucking the strings expertly, producing a wonderful sound. Her face was the picture of serenity.

  Emily breathed a sigh of happiness. "We have done a good thing today," she murmured, low enough that only James could hear. "Thank you for bringing her."

  "And I must thank you for treating her so kindly."

  "Anyone else would have acted the same way, knowing her history," said Emily dismissively.

  "I'm afraid not. At least, judging by the way Mrs Wrenn's old friends treated her when she lost her money, you are quite exceptional in your welcome."

  "I lack for nothing," Emily admitted. "In my circumstances it would be unthinkable not to treat others with charity. Ah, she plays so beautifully! I wish I could play like that."

  "I would like to hear you sometime."

  "Not today. I couldn't bear to follow such a heartfelt performance with my own fumblings." Emily drew herself up. "Not that I don't practise. I am an assiduous student. It's only my results that disappoint me."

  "You have high goals," said James. "It speaks well of you that you struggle to reach them. But I know that if I heard you play, I would be spoilt for any other musician."

  "Flatterer."

  The mention of her high aspirations brought the Earl of Corden back to mind. Judging by Emily's pensive expression, the same was true for her.

  "I did not tell you the story of my dance with the Earl."

  James's heart plummeted. "I've been dying to hear it. How did you enjoy it?"

  "Enjoy is not the word." Emily pressed a finger to her lips, considering how to continue. James could not help but notice the plump, pink fullness of those lips. He was in a bad state, it appeared. Every move she made entranced him!

  "I'm sorry to say that the Earl is not one of nature's great dancers," said Emily finally. "And that's putting it mildly. I'm sure he will not mind me telling you - partly because it was so very obvious, and partly because he found it as funny as I did."

  James was not reassured. "So you enjoyed his company, if not the dance?"

  "I must confess that I did - at least, until Mama dragged me back home! She was quite scandalised by our performance. But, Mr Marsden – I don't know if it's quite right to ask you this..."

  "You can ask me anything."

  Emily flushed a delightful pink. "Would it be awfully shallow of me, if – just in case the Earl proposes – if I turned him down because I could not dance with him?"

  "It all depends on what dancing means to you," said James carefully. He could not deny that Emily turning down the Earl was exactly what he wanted, but letting her know that could only be cruel to both of them. It was not as if he could make her an equal offer.

  "It is just that I think there are certain...feelings...which ought to exist between a man and wife. I always believed dancing was intended to inspire those feelings. And a man who can't dance, well..." Emily shook her head ruefully. "I have this silly notion, you see, that the man I marry would be able to dance me into a daydream. I have these foolish ideas about gazing into his eyes and feeling my heart quicken with every step. I know they are not sensible thoughts, and I know that dancing is hardly the foundation for a marriage..."

  "And the Earl does not make your heart quicken?"

  "Not in the slightest."

  "I don't think it's too much to ask," said James. Relief washed over him, all the more blissful because he knew it would be short-lived. After all, she would have to marry someone eventually. Heart quickening or not.

  Emily was looking at him seriously. "I am rather afraid it is too much."

  She looked as though she had something more to say - something desperately important - but she did not speak.

  For one brief, dangerous moment, James allowed himself to believe that he was the man she thought of, when she dreamed of her heart beating faster.

  Not that it would do either of them any good if he were.

  "It's a pity you were not able to dance through the night, since your mother took you away early," he said, an idea forming in his head that he knew was wrong, but which he couldn't quite resist.

  "You left early yourself," Emily reminded him.

  "And yet it seems we've been given an excellent opportunity to make up our losses," said James, extending his hand towards her. The golden notes of the harp sang through the air. "May I have this dance?"

  Emily took his hand, fear and longing both shining from her eyes. "She's playing a waltz..."

  "No-one is here to object to your choice of partner." James rose from his seat, lifting her with him. He led her into the centre of the room, a dizzy clamour in his chest.

  It was not at all a good idea. For a start, her brother might grow bored of the horses and return at any moment.

  Secondly, he was dangerously close to falling in love with Lady Emily Albemarle. He wanted to hold her against him and move her body to the music more than he wanted to take another breath.

  James had never been a man to deny himself pleasure. He placed his hand on Emily's narrow waist. She laid hers on his shoulder. Their other hands intertwined.

  She was gazing into his eyes as though she saw stars in them.

  Slowly, they began to move together, only swaying at first, feeling the rhythm of the music run through them.

  James knew Susan must have noticed what he was doing, but she kept playing. He didn't care in that moment who saw the way he was looking at Emily. He felt as though his whole heart was written on his face.

  He began to spin her through the steps of the waltz. Emily let him lead, as breathless as he was, leaning lightly on his arm as he turned her. She was a flawless dancer. He wondered how many hours she'd spent with her dancing master, perfecting the steps she might never be able to dance in public. Waltzing was still thought of as risqué by most of the ton. It was a new dance, a foreign dance, a dance which shattered the strict boundaries which Society drew between women and men.

  It was the perfect dance for him and Emily.

  As Susan brought the music to a close, James wanted nothing more than to lean forwards – a few inches was all it would take – and claim Emily's lips with his own.

  Her mouth parted. He knew she wanted it as much as he did.

  "You are quite right, Mr Marsden," said Emily faintly. "I will never be able to marry a man who can't dance."

  Heavy footsteps approaching the door forced them away from each other. James blinked, as confused as a man waking from a dream, as Jacob Albemarle stamped in.

  "You missed quite the animal, Marsden!" he said, rubbing his hands together. He did not seem to notice the way James and Emily had frozen, a few feet apart, in the middle of the room.

  "My lord," said Susan smoothly, rising from her seat. "Lady Emily was kin
d enough to let me play her harp a little. Would you like to hear anything in particular?"

  "Whatever pleases you! Yes! Let's have a little music! Ah, Em – I believe they're about to announce another visitor for you. You are popular this morning! I think I caught sight of the Earl of Corden taking his coat off in the hall."

  Emily looked as sick as James felt. She glanced towards him desperately.

  There was nothing for it. He couldn't bear to stay and watch her wooed by another man. A man whose place he would have killed to take.

  "I'm afraid I must be leaving," he said.

  "So soon?" asked Susan.

  "Oh, you must stay!" Emily cried. James did not quite know to whom she was speaking. Thankfully, Jacob took it as obvious that she meant Susan.

  "Off you go, Marsden. There's no need to drag Mrs Wrenn with you – we'll send her home in our carriage. No, I won't hear a word of protest! You simply must stay and play for me," he said, turning to the lady. James whispered an inner word of thanks to Jacob's chivalrous nature. There was nothing he wanted less than company.

  Emily ran after him as he left the room, catching him in the hallway. "Mr Marsden –"

  "Ah! Lady Emily!" The Earl of Corden was wearing an unusually cheerful expression. "Recovered from last night's adventures, I hope?"

  Emily turned to him with what James recognised as her Society Smile: beaming, cheerful, and devoid of any of the glimmering thoughts he saw when she smiled at him. "My lord. What a pleasure to see you again. Mr Marsden was just leaving. Why don't you come through?"

  The only comfort James clung to as he ventured out into the typically grey London morning was that, with Mrs Wrenn sitting at the harp, Emily would likely be spared an inconvenient proposal.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Emily had never thought of herself as the type of girl to pass a sleepless night. She usually slept deeply and dreamlessly from the moment her head touched the pillow till her maid came in to open the curtains in the morning.

  The fact that her last several nights of poor sleep had been caused by a man, of all things –that was too much! She was on the brink of becoming one of the silly, love-struck young Misses she had always pitied.

  James Marsden, though, was surely no ordinary man. No-one else she had ever met combined that devil-may-care attitude with an undercurrent of such deep, intimate understanding. If Emily had not retained her sensible outlook, she would have imagined that no-one had ever understood her the way James did. Every remark she made, every heartfelt declaration, he had taken seriously.

  And it didn't hurt that he was so deliciously handsome.

  At seven in the morning, before her maid even had a chance to come in and open the curtains, Emily gave up on sleep. It was too unpleasant to lie there, restless and miserable, with a head full of a man she couldn't have.

  Six choices she'd been given. And she had to choose the seventh! Typical.

  Emily rose from her bed, slipped on a night jacket for warmth, and wandered through the house in her bare feet. Even though the townhouse in London was significantly smaller than the great ducal pile in Derbyshire, there was still a great deal of red-carpeted corridor to navigate.

  It was all the more surprising, then, when she came upon her father gazing out of the large bay window on the third floor.

  "You're awake too, Papa?" she asked in surprise. Her father held out an arm to her, inviting her in for an embrace.

  "My poor Emily, you are very pale this morning. Are you unwell?"

  "Not at all. Only too distracted to sleep."

  "Ah." He nodded knowingly. "It's quite the decision I've laid on your shoulders, is it not? I worry sometimes that I ask too much of you. You are so studious and thoughtful that I forget you are a girl like any other. Most great houses choose their daughter's husbands for them. Would it be easier on you if I took the responsibility away?"

  "Certainly not! You have done me the greatest kindness I can imagine in giving me the choice," said Emily. "It is not any of my suitors who have spoilt my sleep, I can assure you." No, it was the one man she wished was a suitor – and her father would be enraged if she let him suspect it!

  "I am glad to hear it," said the Duke. "I have arranged a little outing for you today which I hope will help you make your decision."

  "Oh?" Emily tried to look interested. She had no idea how she would tell her father that not one of the suitors he had chosen was suitable.

  It was James's fault. If he hadn't been there to distract her, no doubt she would have settled for someone else.

  True, she would never have known the wonderful, agonising tremble that tormented her whenever his face came to mind. But at least things would have been settled.

  "There's a portrait exhibition at the Royal Academy which your mother is going to take you to see. You'll find the Marquess of Chiltern is there to meet you. I can't help but feel that these balls are too lively to really get to know a gentleman. Taking in a little art together is just the ticket." He beamed, anticipating her delight.

  "Oh, thank you, Papa. What a clever thought!" Not the Marquess! Out of all the unsuitable suitors, his betrayal was the one which offended her the most. He always treated her so kindly, and yet his heart belonged to another!

  "Your mother will give you some advice over breakfast about proper topics of conversation. She intends to keep a closer eye on you after your…eventful dance with the Earl."

  "Papa, did I embarrass you very much?"

  He winked. "I must confess, I don't often find much to entertain me among all the young people at a ball. But the Earl's style of dancing – well!"

  "Poor Corden," said Emily. "We are good friends now, Papa, but I'm afraid we shall never be anything more."

  "That's all to the good. I don't want to see you become a Duchess nearly as much as I want you to be happy, Emily."

  She bit her lip, wondering how much she really dared to believe those words. "What if my happiness took a different direction than the one you had planned, Papa?"

  "Oh," crowed the Duke. "Am I to understand that there is now a seventh contender for your hand?"

  "Not exactly." She tried to imagine telling her father that James Marsden, titleless, fortuneless, and banned from Almack's, was the man she desired.

  "Emily, all I want is to see your future secured. Send any man to me with a good reputation, land of his own, and a title to match yours, and I'll agree to it."

  Doubtless her father thought he was being very generous. Emily wished she could appreciate it.

  "I'll let you know the moment I find one I like," she said, wrinkling her nose. Her father laughed.

  "All I ask is that you give Chiltern a fair chance, Emily. You know what a good friend he is to me. Now, I hear the house stirring. Off you go and dress for your day out. You'll have quite the time of it trying to satisfy your mother this morning, I've no doubt."

  Give the Marquess of Chiltern a fair chance. Emily rather thought that he'd already been given one. To please her father, however, she would go through the motions.

  The least she could do was banish thoughts of James from her mind. It was easier in the light of day. She could find ways to distract herself. After all, she did not even know whether he loved her. His longing looks, his passionate dancing, it might all be a figment of her imagination – or worse, simple flirtation that she had taken too far.

  The dress she chose was pink jaconet muslin, with a pattern of leaves embroidered around the skirt. She knew she'd need something exquisite to satisfy her mother. It was imperative that she gave her parents the impression that she was really considering the Marquess.

  "Of course, I'm grateful to Papa for arranging this expedition," she complained to her mother as they sat in the town coach. "But I can't help but worry that I won't have much to say. I know almost nothing about portraiture. There's a scientific exhibition at the Royal Society which would have suited me much better."

  "You have quite the wrong idea about how to attract a man," sig
hed her mother, leaning forward to fuss over Emily's messy skirts. "Nobody wants a bookish wife, Emily."

  Then perhaps I'd rather not be a wife at all, thought Emily rebelliously. She did not dare say it aloud.

  The Marquess was waiting for them beneath an archway of the tall, square building that housed the Royal Academy. He cut such a handsome figure in his tail coat and hessians that Emily almost forgave the grey hairs on his temple.

  As she and her mother descended from the carriage, she saw who was standing beside him. She blinked in surprise. Why on earth had the Marquess brought a child along?

  But there she was. A tiny girl of about six years old, twisting one foot nervously behind the other as she waited to greet Emily and the Duchess.

  "Your Grace," said the Marquess, bowing. "Lady Emily. May I present my daughter, Miss Annabelle Harding?"

  Emily struggled to contain her shock. "Annabelle?" she repeated, staring at the girl. Little Annabelle had a halo of curly ringlets peeping out from her bonnet, and eyes the same dreamy grey as the Marquess's. It was undeniably true. Annabelle was his daughter.

  "Good morning, Your Grace," said the little girl, bobbing a curtsy. The Marquess laughed.

  "Very good, Annabelle, but the Duchess is this lady here. Her daughter is Lady Emily."

  Annabelle gasped in horror. Emily bent down to her level.

  "It was only a small mistake, and nobody noticed," she assured the girl. "Titles are so difficult to remember, aren't they?"

  Annabelle nodded, too shy to speak again. Emily looked up at the Marquess, smiling. "Your daughter is a credit to you, my lord."

  "She is the apple of my eye." The Marquess reached down and took Annabelle's chubby hand in his. He offered an arm to Lady Emily. "Shall we?"

  They went through the art gallery at a slow pace which ordinarily would have seen Emily chafing for better entertainment. The Marquess knew a great deal about portraiture from the Renaissance to the present day, and spoke at length on each picture. Emily could not help but be fascinated. She had never truly understood that art could be studied in the same depth as science or mathematics. When she looked at a painting, she saw pretty colours and a nice picture. The Marquess saw history, poetry, tragedy and romance. She found that she was just as enraptured as the wide-eyed Annabelle as she listened to him speak.