She turned away from the glass and picked up her reticule. Emma had sorted through the acceptances for the soiree, hoping against hope that Dunn would have refused, but his bold-handed reply was there, in the affirmative. Perhaps he would change his mind. Oh, please, Nick, come early, hold me for a minute.
Emma waited alone in the drawing room. Her aunt was a casual hostess, always ready by the time her first guests arrived, but not a minute sooner. When the knocker sounded early, Emma realized she had been clasping her hands tightly in her lap, staring at the closed draperies but not listening for the sounds of carriages. She felt vaguely feverish and placed a freezing hand to her warm forehead. Decidedly she had a fever.
The sound of lone footsteps crossing the hall toward the drawing room made her jump to her feet and smooth out any creases in her skirts. Sir Nicholas opened the door for himself and stepped into the room with lazy grace. He was impeccably dressed and looked, Emma thought, impressively handsome.
“You see, my dear, your word is my command. I am here early, with ring in hand and arrow through heart, just as any young bride-to-be could wish.” He laughed, clasping her hands and holding her at arm’s length to have a good view of her costume. "And you... You must have read my mind—or your dressmaker did.”
“I hoped you would like it. I’ve felt too modest to wear it, until now,” she teased.
“Modesty is not one of the virtues I prize in maidens,” he informed her, eyeing her cleavage appreciatively, “and I would positively dislike it in my wife.”
"I doubt you have the slightest cause for alarm.”
“No, I think not.” He released her hands after a chaste kiss on her cheek. From his breast pocket he retrieved a small jeweler’s box, which he opened with a deft flick of his finger, much as he might have treated a snuffbox. “Rundell and Bridges had a shockingly large assortment of rings to go through. I swear I was there for over an hour. The old man pointed out the advantages of a whole case of stones. I should have taken you with me, for I hadn’t the slightest interest myself. In the end I chose the diamond set round with emeralds; it will go well with your gown. Seemed to me a bigger diamond would have been vulgar, but you should have seen the size of some of the stones he showed me. Costly, of course, but I won’t have you thinking I balked at the price. Do you like it?”
Emma watched as he slipped it on her finger, a stupid great lump in her throat. “It’s beautiful, Nick. Thank you.”
“Is it nicer than your mother’s?”
“Much,” she assured him, suddenly grasping his hand for courage. “It’s much nicer than anything I own.”
“Really?” His voice was quizzing but he put a comforting arm about her waist. “We’ll have to remedy that by adding a few pieces to your stock. A necklace, say, and some earrings, and maybe one of those things women wear in their hair. What do you call them?”
“Tiaras?”
“Right. We’ll have them all match your ring.” He was studying her face and now laid a hand on her forehead, “You have a fever, don’t you?”
"Perhaps a little. It's the excitement."
They could hear Lady Bradwell issuing some last-minute instructions to a footman. Before she entered the room Nick said, "Have courage, my girl. After tonight the worst will be over. I put a notice in tomorrow's paper and you can lie low all day if you wish. No one is likely to make a fuss."
Far from making a fuss, the guests, when Amelia made the announcement early in the evening, stood in stunned silence. It was a reaction Emma had never before seen in a similar situation, and she bit her lip to restrain a nervous giggle. Nick made not the least attempt to hide his amusement. He turned to her, laughing, and said, "You see, my love, they are positively overwhelmed by the fitness of our union."
Anne was the first to reach them, holding out her hands to Emma and smiling at Sir Nicholas. "Congratulations! I am not the one to scold you for keeping such a secret, am I? You know I wish you every happiness. You are not even to think of working on my portrait, Emma."
"It got ruined in the storm last night," Emma told her sadly. "Marrying Nick seemed to be the only way to avoid having to finish it by your wedding."
Her jest shocked Anne, though she tried hard not to show it. Mr. Rogers was later to point out to her that Sir Nicholas had been vastly amused by the joke, and that he and Emma had shared a disturbingly speaking glance when she made it. After Anne and Mr. Rogers came Maggie, a puzzled quirk to her brow, but a warm smile on her lips, and Adam at her elbow.
"Congratulations, my dear. I hope you will both be very happy."
The words were repeated continuously as each member of the party approached them. If they were curious or surprised or even disapproving, no one so much as hinted, at least not to the couple involved or to Lady Bradwell. Out of the corner of her eye Emma could see them standing in small groups discussing the unexpected development, considering its cause and its ramifications. Lord Dunn was the last to approach them. He made no attempt to smile, his dark eyes cold, almost angry.
The formal bow was no less chilling than his eyes. "Miss Berryman, Sir Nicholas. I see the driving lessons have promoted more than Miss Berryman's skill with the ribbons." His lips were a tight line, through which he murmured, "My best wishes, of course."
His tone, Emma thought, more precisely conveyed the message “drop dead,” encompassing them both. If he has the bad taste to mention Nick’s portrait now really hanging in my bedchamber, I’ll kick him in the shins, Emma decided furiously. But of course he would never do such a thing. Instead he stood with them a moment conjecturing on who might be employed to do Emma’s portrait—or whether she might consider doing her own. Emma told him she had not so much as given the matter a moment’s thought and he soon moved away.
The evening was a wretched strain on her. The ring on her finger twinkled in the candlelight and Nick was frequently at her side, but it was difficult to appear joyous when her head ached and her fever kept rising. She lost track of how many times she explained that they would be married quietly in a month or so, that no, she had never expected Nick actually to come to the sticking point, that they had not as yet discussed any plans for a wedding trip. The heat of the rooms became unbearable and she wandered alone out into the hall and back toward the coolness of the studio, where everything was once again in order, the unfinished, ruined portrait of Anne turned to the wall.
Dunn saw her leave and was tempted to follow her, He had no idea what he would say, but he would have liked to upbraid her for her lies to him. Good manners prevented him from doing any such thing, of course, and he returned his attention to Lady Anne’s comments on the play she had been to the previous evening. Having seen the production some nights previously, however, his mind soon drifted away again.
What he really should do, he mused, was have a serious talk with Miss Berryman before this engagement became widely known. It was folly for her to consider marrying Nicholas. The man hadn’t the first qualification for being a decent husband, even if he did care for her. His life was a model of self-indulgence that could not easily adapt to a wife, no matter how independent. At an appropriate moment Dunn excused himself from the small group and headed directly out into the hall. She would have gone to her studio he decided, to have a respite from the prying questions and curious stares.
It didn’t surprise him that the studio was in darkness. In fact he rather welcomed the lack of illumination so that she might not read any untoward emotion in his eyes. He found the door slightly ajar and pushed it farther, preparatory to speaking her name. But the sound of voices within froze him, and his eyes quickly adjusted to the studio’s dimness.
“Oh, Nick, I wish it could be tomorrow. I don’t know if I can stand a month of this.”
“Just say the word, my little love, and I’ll get a special license first thing in the morning. I’d far prefer it.”
There was the whisper of a sigh. “I can’t do that to Aunt Amelia. Hold me, Nick.”
“Dear Lord
, Emma, you’re burning up. You should be in bed.”
“I know, I know. As soon as the guests leave, I promise you. Maybe I shouldn’t let you get close to me; you might catch whatever it is."
“Damned if I care,” he retorted jovially. “Talk about hot lips!”
“You’re impossible!”
Dunn was ashamed of himself for continuing to observe them, but he had no more power to remove himself than to fly. Not that they did anything totally outrageous, nothing more than an engaged couple passionately in love might do. But he could hear the quickening of her breathing, the murmur of pleasure. Somehow it surprised him that Nicholas was as gentle as he was, as restrained in his demands. Emma’s ardor did not surprise him at all. Hadn’t he always realized that sensuality floated close to the surface of her polished veneer?
Her gown was cut too low for any sane man in Nicholas’s position not simply to push it down a little lower, an expedient he shortly resorted to. Dunn caught a glimpse of the proud white breasts and turned away, pulling the door almost closed. But he was unable to move, leaning against the door frame for several minutes until his sluggish brain bore it in on him that it would be totally unforgivable for him to be found there either by the participants or anyone else. He walked numbly back to the drawing room.
He, too, was a sane man, he told himself fiercely, and he knew there would be no talk with Emma. A woman who was sexually attracted to a man would never listen to reason. Emma would marry Nick, and from the looks of it, he thought, the pulse in his neck throbbing, the sooner the better.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The carriage had slowed to a crawl along Bond Street because of the press of other vehicles. Emma and Amelia, exhausted from shopping, said little as the coachman guided them into Piccadilly to deliver Emma to Maggie’s. The expedition had not been successful; Emma had not decided on a gown for her wedding.
As though continuing a conversation, Amelia finally said, "I don’t think you should be concerned that Sir Nicholas has missed escorting us the last two evenings, Emma. Undoubtedly he has any number of things to arrange for your marriage and he will never be one to sit in your pocket. You told me you knew that from the start.”
“I do know it, and I’m not overly concerned at his defection. Frankly, I’ve been astonished at how regularly he does escort us. Emma gazed unseeing out the window. “I wouldn’t marry him if I thought he wouldn’t be able to maintain his freedom. It’s more important to him than I am.”
Amelia looked positively stricken. “Don’t be absurd, Emma! He’s head over heels in love with you. Anyone can see it.”
Turning from the window to meet her aunt’s eyes, Emma said softly, “I think he does love me, yes, in his way, and certainly he wants me. But he doesn’t need anyone, and he only felt it possible to marry me because I wouldn’t need him, either. We understand each other.”
Amelia shivered in the warm carriage. “That’s ... awful, Emma. You’re either terribly mistaken or you are making a terrible mistake.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Emma replied, her voice gentle. “I’m very fond of Nick, and . . . attracted to him. I shall like being married, you know. Every young lady wastes a great deal of time searching for a suitable husband, attending parties, setting up flirtations, worrying about whether she will be left on the shelf. I have other things I want to do. Well, one thing, really. I want to have time to paint, to concentrate on it. When your mind is continually skipping about, wondering who you will dance with one night, and if you will receive a posy the next day, continually assessing the gentlemen you meet for their potential as husbands instead of simply enjoying their company—oh, the whole lot of it distracts and absorbs unnecessary energy. I want to get on with my life. I want to let you get on with your life. I’m not saying there is no affection in this marriage. There is. We’re simply not talking of the great passion of the century, my dear, and you must know as well as I that such passion is rarely sustained.”
The carriage had drawn to a halt in Half Moon Street and Emma pressed her aunt’s hand. “Can you understand that?”
“I don’t know,” Amelia whispered. “I thought there was more. There should be more.”
“Perhaps neither of us is capable of more,” Emma replied lightly as she allowed the footman to hand her down from the carriage. “Anne will drop me off later. You needn’t send for me.”
As the carriage drew away, Emma felt sure she saw the gleam of tears In her aunt’s eyes and bit her lip. Why had she felt it necessary to tell Amelia the truth? She hadn’t told anyone else; she wouldn’t tell anyone else.
The strain of trying to live up to other people’s expectations was taking its toll. Everyone assumed that Emma Berryman—pretty, sought after, well dowered—would marry precisely whom she chose. And she was going to do just that, wasn’t she?
She had suddenly felt an urge to speak of her true feelings because she was about to face Anne and Maggie, and somehow with them she could not be so honest. For a variety of reasons the three of them had not been together in some time, and probably wouldn’t again for heaven knew how long. Anne was getting married, Maggie would go off to the country with her husband and her baby. They had both achieved a very special relationship in their lives and they wanted to believe that she had as well. Emma felt she had to perpetuate the illusion so as not to diminish their happiness.
Anne had already arrived and Emma sensed that they had been discussing her, which, under the circumstances, was only natural. Their smiles of greeting were warm and real, but there was an undercurrent of curiosity, of speculation. Emma regarded them with a rueful smile, instinctively knowing that any forced gaiety on her part would be suspect.
“Just look at the three of us,” she opined, seating herself. “Sent out into the glittering world of society from Mrs. Childswick’s haven of peace over a year ago. Who would have suspected that Maggie would be pushed into a marriage with a rattle, Anne would throw herself away on an untitled gentleman, and I would become engaged to an aging rake? Do you suppose the girls at Windrush House whisper amongst themselves of our folly? For how can they know that Maggie has steadied her carefree spouse, and Anne has discovered that character; wherever it may be found, is more important than position, and I . . .“ She hesitated, to add to the suspense, offering a wicked, leering grin in imitation of Nick’s. “I have succumbed to the lure of the flesh?”
Anne’s irrepressible chuckle escaped her “Oh, Emma, how can you? Surely you see more in Sir Nicholas than that.”
“Well, I do, of course, but I won’t admit it to him. He’s vain about his sexual prowess, you know, and not the least interested in hearing that it is his mind which intrigues me. Ever since I painted his portrait, displaying his true colors to the world, he has felt he had to live up to his image. Far be it from me to discourage him! If he’s willing to see me as a portrait painter, I’m willing to see him as a rake. There is, I hope, a little more to each of us than that.”
“He is rather attractive,” Maggie said doubtfully. “Ever since you became engaged he has been utterly charming to me, and I confess I’m not immune to that rakish grin of his. But, Emma, I don’t think he would tolerate even a shadow of interference.”
“Interference? Merciful heavens! He couldn’t want it any less than I do. Now don’t tell me I need a guiding hand, either of you. Even if I did, you know I would chafe under any restraint whatsoever. I’ve learned how to behave myself, I hope, and Nick has always known how to get away with his outrageous conduct.” Now, though, Emma wore a soft, misty-eyed smile. “He really is a love, you know.”
Her companions seemed somewhat mystified but her apparent frankness was disarming. Maggie rang for tea and the talk turned to Anne’s wedding and Maggie’s baby, who was brought in for them to see. Nothing is quite so distracting as admiring an infant or guzzling tea, Emma mused, satisfied with her performance. But just when she thought she had lulled any faint fears, Maggie asked, “Do you remember our discussing Sir Nicho
las last year toward the end of the season? You said then that he didn’t care about other people, and he didn’t care about himself, that he didn’t take anything seriously. I should think it would be difficult to live with such a person.”
Emma sat very still for a moment and then said softly, ‘”He cares about me.”
There was such quiet conviction in her voice that neither of them thought to question the statement. In fact, they were both aware that what she said was true. His method of showing his affection was not perhaps just what society was accustomed to: teasing his prospective bride and puffing off her talent as a portrait painter. Both Maggie and Anne had observed him carefully, had heard the surprised comments of others that he had been snagged at last, well and truly. Decidedly, Sir Nicholas cared for Emma.
Anne hesitated as she set down her cup and asked without looking at Emma, “And do you care about him, my love?”
‘”Yes.” Why did it make her heart ache to say that? She did care about Nick, very much.
Anne decided to press just once more. “Well, yes, actually I can see that you care about him, Emma, but is that why you agreed to marry him? I mean—please don’t be offended—you didn’t accept him just because he was such an elusive fellow did you? I know it would be a challenge having everyone say that he would never marry, you said so yourself last year. No, of course you wouldn’t accept him for such a stupid reason,” Anne hastened to add, disgusted with herself.
Emma sighed, smiling. “I see the two of you know me too well, and I actually might have done something so simpleminded last year, but not now. Have no fear that I accepted him as some sort of conquest. I wouldn’t do that to Nick.”
The Loving Seasons Page 36