by Allison Lane
Appalled – she was barely fourteen and his best friend’s sister – he’d shoved her away, ignoring her shock, her pain, and even the stumble that pitched her to the ground.
“Go back to the schoolroom, Tadpole,” he’d snapped. “If you want to be a courtesan, I know a brothel that specializes in young country misses. But I doubt you’d like it. Take my advice and grow up before tangling with men.”
Without waiting for a response, he’d leaped onto his horse and sped away, leaving her sprawled in a pile of old leaves, her lips still wet from his kisses.
Shocked that he could entertain lascivious thoughts about a girl who was little more than a child – he despised men who frequented such brothels – he had viciously suppressed the incident and concentrated on school. He couldn’t afford to think of it, even to castigate himself for his stupidity. If Richard ever discovered how close Jacob had come to defiling his sister…
Gaining control of his inheritance had finally distracted him, for it entailed hours of study, numerous confrontations, and close supervision of his new employees. By the time he had everything under control, the incident in the orchard had been locked away with other ancient memories.
But it had exerted a profound influence on his life, he admitted now. He had never returned to Hawthorne Park, not even during the transition period. He’d let his new man of business turn off the old steward, then make the annual inspection tours to see that all was well. He’d thrown his own energy into Parliament, splitting his time between his Grosvenor Square house and the small estate of Oakhaven in Surrey. Gloucestershire was too far from town.
The incident had been a warning. Too many of his ancestors had lost control by letting untidy emotions rule their lives. In his family, emotion quickly became obsession, leading to bad decisions, lost chances, and lifelong regret. He’d nearly fallen into the same trap with Emily.
Ever since that slip, he’d kept emotion locked away with his unwanted memories. The only way to protect himself was to remain aloof, especially from women. So he avoided society ladies, refused to keep a mistress, and rarely bedded any courtesan twice.
Jacob poured brandy, then settled into his favorite chair. Notes for an upcoming debate in Lords sat at his elbow, but for once, he ignored them.
He could no longer deny that he’d drifted into an infatuation for Emily that summer. Luckily, school and his inheritance had drawn him away before it had gone too far. But today’s reaction proved that he remained vulnerable. Her womanly curves made her more desirable than ever – which meant that housing Harriet with her family was a serious mistake. The Winters obsession lurked in every Winters breast, a curse waiting to strike him as it had done others before.
Only the entail had kept Hawthorne Park intact after his great-grandfather sank everything and then some into the South Seas Bubble. Loan payments had kept his son in poverty for years afterward.
Then there was his father’s cousin, who had fallen in love while attending a friend’s wedding. Unfortunately, his inamorata had been the bride. Ignoring custom, honor, and even common sense, he’d taken insane risks to be with her, ultimately perishing in a duel when her husband discovered the affair. Her first child had the felicity of being female, for it was obviously a Winters.
The tales would fill several thick tomes. Every generation. Nearly every male and many of the females. Greed, dishonor, recklessness, and more, all the result of obsession. The Winters blood was passionate, driving the family to its doom. Jacob was determined to avoid adding new scandal to the family legend. His narrow escape with Emily had shown him how vulnerable he was.
He was more susceptible than the worst of his ancestors, for he had inherited dishonorable blood from his mother, too. His only hope for a reputable life was to avoid caring for anyone or anything. As for an heir, he would eventually wed someone unlikable who would welcome living apart once she completed her duty.
But not Emily. She was too enticing. It was good that she remained wary of him.
Yet that wariness hurt, he admitted. Did she think him caddish enough to reveal their kiss, tarnishing her reputation at the very moment she was entering society?
“Damn it, Em!” he growled. “Don’t you know me better than that?”
Unfortunately, she did. She was more perspicacious than even his friends and might recognize the latent violence seething inside him. News of Harriet’s imminent arrival had stripped some of his defenses, bringing that violence closer to the surface.
He badly needed to concentrate on Parliament. Its ponderous deliberations always brought his temper under control. Unfortunately, he had agreed to escort Emily and Sophie this Season. With Harriet due soon, he could not renege.
But Harriet must wed quickly – keeping her at Hughes House would force him into Emily’s company too often for comfort. While Harriet worked on finding favor with London gentlemen, he would compile a list of country suitors – farmers, squires, merchants – in case anything went wrong.
Relaxing, he drained his brandy, then picked up his notes.
* * * *
Emily checked Harriet’s room. It was small, having originally been meant for a governess or tutor, but it was the best they could provide. Hughes House had never been large, and a tight budget meant Richard could not afford his own rooms despite his advanced age of nine-and-twenty.
That hadn’t been a problem until now, for her parents had last visited London fifteen years ago. But having the run of the town house since leaving school must make sharing onerous for him. She’d overheard enough from the servants to know he was accustomed to holding parties that included courtesans. And while he’d never kept his own mistress – money again – he had a reputation for enjoying the favors of many a bored matron. Their parents might accept his angelic façade, but she knew his true nature.
Shaking away truths she wasn’t supposed to understand, she smiled at Molly and Rose.
“Well done,” she told the maids. “It looks every bit as nice as my room. I’m sure Miss Nichols will be pleased.”
They blushed and curtsied, then hurried away.
The moment they were gone, Emily’s face slipped into a frown. Everything was ready for Harriet’s arrival. The real question was whether Harriet would be ready for London.
Over breakfast, Richard had regaled her with everything Jacob knew about Harriet. She had apparently been the regiment’s diamond, basking in attention from all and sundry – which sounded good, except that parties in remote military outposts had little in common with society gatherings. Harriet would be rustic at best.
Emily foresaw tense discussions as she tried to cram years of lessons into a few days, starting with an explanation of how Harriet’s background would affect her reception. Few military wives hailed from the aristocracy, so it was doubtful that she would understand the nuances of society manners.
Girls relied on breeding, beauty, and behavior to attract a husband. Exquisite beauty could overcome marginal breeding if the behavior was impeccable. But Harriet’s beauty might be merely average. Her success in Bombay could as easily have arisen from her stepfather’s position or the scarcity of English girls in the area.
She turned when the footman rapped on the doorjamb.
“Lady Hughes requests your presence in the drawing room, Miss Emily. Lord Hawthorne and Miss Nichols have arrived.”
So soon? But her heart raced at this chance to see Jacob when she was clad in one of her new gowns. Pausing before a pier glass, she smoothed her skirts and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind one ear. This time, he would encounter a poised, gracious lady capable of handling any task he gave her.
* * * *
Emily recoiled from the tension crackling through the drawing room. A tableau of three statues and a flame stopped her just inside the doorway.
Lady Hughes lay on her couch, clutching her vinaigrette to ward off a swoon.
Richard stood with his back to the window, his jaw open and his tongue hanging out. He hadn’t looked
that stunned since the day his pony had kicked his thigh, narrowly missing more vulnerable parts.
Jacob stood by the fireplace, looking every inch a powerful, wealthy lord in a wine coat trimmed in black velvet to match his hair. Gray pantaloons outlined his muscular thighs. His boots gleamed.
The focus of everyone’s attention was the girl clinging to his arm in a most unseemly fashion. She was violently alive, exuding a force that diminished everyone else. Emily felt instantly dowdy, like the ugly stepsisters in the fairy tale. If Richard’s reaction was typical, Miss Nichols could start a riot by simply walking outside. She was an exotic, tropical flower transplanted into a barren field.
Jacob did not look pleased. “There you are, Miss Hughes,” he said, catching Emily’s eye. He made it sound as if he’d been waiting hours for her arrival. “I must again apologize for giving you so little warning.”
“It is nothing, my lord,” she said gravely.
He gestured to the girl pressed against his side. “My ward, Miss Harriet Nichols. Miss Emily Hughes. Pay close attention to her instructions,” he added, stepping far enough away that Harriet could curtsy.
“Miss Nichols.” Emily inclined her head, but inside, she was quaking. Her initial impression seemed truer every moment. Harriet was a Siren – striking black hair that made her blue eyes seem mysteriously transparent, a very red mouth that pouted provocatively, exaggerated curves readily apparent under a scandalous gown of the thinnest cotton she’d ever seen. Its neckline plunged so low it barely covered the shadowy circles of her nipples, clearly visible even in moderate light because Harriet wore no corset. And possibly no shift! The gown clung to every generous curve. Her languid motion as she swayed against Jacob demanded attention.
Richard took an involuntary step forward, his tight-fitting pantaloons revealing his reaction to anyone with eyes. The very air thickened as he studied her bosom.
Harriet was Trouble. This was no English miss. And Jacob didn’t treat her as one. He made no attempt to seat her, no objection when she practically crawled inside his coat, and his eyes seemed frankly appraising whenever they touched her.
Emily drew in a shaky breath. She had never watched a pair of rakes size up a potential conquest before, but she had no doubt about their current thoughts. Jacob might have better control – his manhood was barely stirring – but she could feel his awareness.
What was she to do with Harriet? She couldn’t imagine Miss Nichols running an English household. Nor would a gentleman want a wife with such flagrant power to attract others. Every male in town would fall panting at her feet, for she was fully aware of her effect and basked in her power.
“Pay strict attention to Miss Hughes,” Jacob repeated when Harriet laid a beseeching hand on his arm.
“Of course, my Jacob.” Her voice had a lilt that enhanced her foreignness. She deepened her pout. “But it would be so much easier if you—”
“No. We’ve spoken of this already. It is important that you learn to go on in society, so you will stay here and study manners.” He turned to Emily, who remained barely two steps from the door. “She has a ball gown, so I will return at eight to escort you to Lady Penleigh’s. Order anything she needs. For now, I have a meeting I cannot postpone.”
“Of cour—”
“You can’t leave me here!” Harriet wailed, plastering herself against him. Her lashes were the longest Emily had ever seen.
“I know this will be difficult for you, but neither of us has a choice,” he said firmly, gently forcing her into a chair. “Now behave yourself and pay attention. I will return this evening.” Turning to Lady Hughes, he smiled. “Thank you for taking her in. I am forever in your debt. And yours,” he added to Emily as he headed for the door. Beckoning Richard, he left the room.
Richard reluctantly followed, taking much of the tension with him.
Emily wanted to run after them and demand answers to the thousands of questions tumbling about her head. Jacob had paid her less heed than the furniture. Even her days as Richard’s pesky sister had garnered her more notice.
But chasing him down would be impossibly gauche. And leaving her mother to deal with the too-exotic Harriet would be worse. Lady Hughes could never handle her. Emily feared she couldn’t, either.
“Welcome, child.” Lady Hughes said, covering Emily’s indecision. “I hope you will tell me if you need anything. I can do little myself, but I will see that my staff makes you comfortable.”
“You are kind.” Harriet’s tone belied her words.
“But ill,” put in Emily with a pointed stare.
Harriet mouthed sympathy while Emily castigated herself for letting jealousy make her rude.
“You must be weary,” she said in contrition. “You’ve doubtless had a grueling journey. To be thrown in with strangers at the end of it can be overwhelming.”
“How very astute.” Lady Hughes nodded. “Emily will show you to your room and discuss tonight’s ball. It is very important to make the right impression. A bad one can color your entire Season.”
“Of course.” Emily led Harriet upstairs, understanding her mother’s unspoken command. Given the unsuitability of her gown, Emily must discover the state of Harriet’s wardrobe and find out if the girl’s maid was up to London standards. A difficult job, for tonight would be her first London ball, too, so her own knowledge was sketchy. But if Harriet was to find a suitor instead of a protector, Emily must transform this exotic orchid into an English rose. In half a day.
“Have you a maid?” she asked when they reached Harriet’s room.
“Mine refused to leave Bombay. I shared Mrs. Paine’s maid on board ship – she accompanied me from India but has nothing to do with society. Jacob assured me that he would hire a new one.”
“Good.” She paused, but the lessons must start immediately. If Harriet had any hope of making a successful appearance tonight, it was impossible to wait until they were comfortable with each other. “London is very formal, Miss Nichols. Never use anyone’s given name without permission, and even with permission, you can use it only in private. Your guardian is Lord Hawthorne. Never call him anything else when others are present.”
“But—”
“Do you wish to be cut?”
“No.”
“Then you must adhere to the rules. Even I, who have known him since childhood, call him Lord Hawthorne in public. I understand your father was the younger son of a vicar.”
“So?”
“So your breeding is marginal by London standards. Lord Hawthorne’s sponsorship will garner invitations to some events, but not all. And the hostesses will not forgive indiscretions. Poor manners will see you cut in a trice. We will do our best to bring you out properly, but there are limits to what we can accomplish. I presume Lord Hawthorne explained that already.”
Harriet scowled. “I was the belle of the army and pursued by Company representatives and every gentleman who visited Bombay.”
“I’m sure you were,” said Emily, hiding exasperation. “You are lovely, as you must know. But men have very different standards in foreign ports than in London drawing rooms. The military’s acceptance of deeds in lieu of breeding does not exist here. Never forget that society is controlled by ladies, not men, and the most powerful of those ladies are the Almack’s patronesses. Beauty will not sway them, for they judge on breeding and behavior. Without their support, you are nothing. So show deference to everyone.”
“Everyone?”
“That way you will make no mistakes. It is unlikely that you will meet many people below your own station. But enough of that. May I see your wardrobe? The gown you are wearing is lovely, but unsuited for daytime wear.”
“Why?”
“The neckline is too low, and the fabric thin enough to freeze you.”
“True. It is very cold. I should have worn a shawl.”
“And a gown that covers your shoulders.”
“Absurd!” Harriet scowled. “No one covers the shoulders.”
<
br /> “In India, perhaps, but fashion is different here. Your position does not allow you to flout accepted standards. This year’s gowns bare the shoulders only at night.”
Harriet’s eyes flashed, but she closed her mouth and turned toward the wardrobe. The maids had already unpacked her trunks.
Emily said little while Harriet displayed her gowns. Keeping the girl out of trouble would be a bigger challenge than she’d expected. And while Jacob could help at night, Emily would have the entire responsibility during the crucial morning calls, where the dowagers formed their opinions.
The next months would be nothing like her dreams. Having an exotic flower constantly at her elbow would throw her into the shadows. Thank heaven her future was assured.
Already she disliked Harriet, who embodied all the arrogance of a diamond despite lacking the breeding of one. It was not a demeanor calculated to win society’s approval. Hostesses and gossips expected deference, not a supercilious smirk.
When the last gown had been held up for examination, Emily sighed. “The blue will do for tonight – barely – and the green will make a suitable dinner gown for dining en famille. But the others need work.” She pointed to three gowns of printed cotton. “Adding a lace fichu will make these acceptable as morning gowns, but they will not look au courant no matter what you do. This shawl is very nice, though, and will likely draw envious glances. And adding a flounce to the pink might produce an acceptable theater dress.”
“What about the gold silk? It’s my best gown.”
“But five years out of date. The skirt is too slim and contains little ornamentation. We can recover some fabric by removing the demi-train, but not enough to add fullness. See mine? It is a simple morning gown, but the skirt is full enough to swirl as I move, and it ends in a deep flounce. Ball gowns need multiple rows of ornamentation to be au courant. And everything, day or evening, requires a corset and petticoats.”
“But—”
“If your maid is talented, she might fashion the gold into an open robe over a contrasting slip. It is a style that is returning to favor, and I agree that the fabric is beautiful. As for this—” She pointed to a pale yellow with matching spencer. “Silk is not suited to walking dresses. Even wearing both spencer and shawl will leave you cold. The park requires a pelisse this early in the year. We will have to call on the dressmaker immediately. Lord Hawthorne’s credit will speed things, but it will take a week to gather even a minimal wardrobe. This is the busiest time of the year.”