by Allison Lane
Lady Hughes was delighted. She’d met several old friends and passed an enjoyable evening in conversation.
Even Jacob had seemed relieved when they left, though he’d been tense earlier.
But Emily was not pleased. While Jacob had reserved two of her sets and only one each with Harriet and Sophie, he’d failed to appear until that second set was nearly over. Not the mark of a gentleman. Even if he didn’t care for her personally, he should have sent word that he’d been detained. That he hadn’t, called her image of him into question.
Had she built him into a fantasy Prince Charming by assigning him traits that weren’t there? While she’d known him most of her life, their meetings had been limited to his school breaks. And until that last summer, they had always included Richard, and usually Charles.
Her new fear was that she’d combined traits of all three Beaux into her image of Jacob. And since he wasn’t tripping over his feet to sweep her into marriage, she had better decide in the cold light of day whether he was truly whom she wanted.
Reserving two of her sets meant less than nothing. Charles had done the same – and had appeared for both. Each man had the same motivation – helping Richard. A full dance card when many girls had partners for only one or two sets would mark her as a success, raising her credit and drawing attention to her charms. She couldn’t fault his thinking.
But his meddling made it difficult for her. He had always forced his friends to include her in their childhood excursions. They had good-naturedly agreed, though neither had really wanted her along. Now he’d forced them to fill her card. It would not take society long to discount such coerced attentions, making her seem pathetic.
Did he really think her such an antidote that no man would look at her?
He might be right, she admitted. How often had gentlemen overlooked her as they vied for a word with the exotic Harriet or the vivacious Sophie? Caught between their courts and hidden by the Beaux’ hovering, she might spend the entire Season invisible. It wouldn’t matter if Jacob intended to wed her, but…
“I think that went well,” said Harriet, following Emily into her room instead of heading up to her own.
Emily nearly threw her out – she needed to decide whether to abandon her dreams of Jacob and how to meet someone better if she did.
But Harriet would wish to discuss the evening – and who could blame her after the upheaval she’d experienced since dawn? And Emily had to explain the mistakes she’d made.
“The evening went fairly well,” she agreed, “though you raised eyebrows more than once.”
“I did not!”
“You did. London manners are much stricter than manners in the colonies. You cannot refuse to dance with one gentleman, then accept another for the same set, no matter how much you prefer the second.”
“But—”
“No exceptions. Lady Horseley saw you refuse Mr. Connoly, then accept Mr. Pierce. That was bad enough, but to do so while Mr. Connoly could hear you was unforgivable. She was appalled.”
“Why? Mr. Connoly is still wet behind the ears. I don’t enjoy the company of boys.”
“It doesn’t matter who your partner is, for you spend little time with him in a country dance anyway. You could have accepted Mr. Connoly, then joined the same set as Mr. Pierce if you wished to flirt with him. But manners forbid you to dance at all if you’ve turned down a partner.”
“That is stupid!” Harriet threw herself onto the bed in a huff. “Ja— Lord Hawthorne will never expect me to court boredom.”
“He will tell you that such rudeness is unacceptable. You must pay attention, Miss Nichols. Lord Hawthorne explained how your breeding compares to the other guests’. Mr. Connoly might be wet behind the ears, as you put it, but he is the heir to a barony, and as such, is well above your station. Your actions are gauche under any circumstances, but in this case, you looked vulgar.”
“Vulgar?”
“Exactly. Society does not accept vulgarity. You must temper your exuberance. Ennui is the fashion. Never forget that. Flirt, but lightly. Restrain your laughter to a decorous titter. Never display displeasure in public.”
“I saw ladies breaking all those rules.”
“Not unwed ladies. And not anyone on the fringes of society. A duchess can do whatever she wants, and no one will protest. But your position is fragile. Without the support and approval of society’s hostesses, you will receive no invitations. Lord Hawthorne’s credit cannot overcome their fury if you flout them. The matrons always have the last word on society matters.”
Harriet scowled, but finally nodded.
“Get some sleep,” suggested Emily. “We will discuss the nuances of societal expectations in the morning. Also the topics of conversation that are acceptable for young girls. You must learn quickly, for the next day will be busy – Lady Sheridan’s Venetian breakfast and Lady Horseley’s rout.”
Harriet finally left, but her departure did little to improve Emily’s humor. Her own problems were too acute.
She had to wed this Season. Cherry Hill produced enough to cover Richard’s quarterly allowance and support the family in the country. But its income would not stretch to a second Season.
Which brought her back to Jacob’s intentions. If he was only helping Richard establish her, then she must look elsewhere.
Her heart screamed in protest.
“Behave,” she snapped, rolling over to muffle her groans with a pillow.
Jacob might yet offer – Harriet’s unexpected arrival had to have thrown his own plans into chaos. And she would certainly accept if he did. But it was irresponsible to assume anything. Unlike Sophie, who could afford to cultivate a gentleman for years, Emily had to settle now.
Which meant seriously looking at other candidates.
So far, they were an uninspiring lot. With the Beaux filling five sets, she’d spent time with only three others.
As Harriet had noted, Mr. Connoly was young, no more than eighteen, and had all the grace of a newborn colt. This had been his first ball, too, so he would improve with practice, but he would not be ready to wed for years. And at six years her junior, he would never consider her.
Sir Thomas Eaton was a better candidate – mid-twenties, nice-looking in a spindly sort of way, sober… Perhaps too sober. He hadn’t smiled once during their entire set. Granted, ennui was the fashion, but he hadn’t even cracked a smile when Lord Ross had sent staid matrons into the whoops with his tale of a contretemps at Grafton House between two women determined to claim the last length of blue silk. Their antics had ultimately ripped the fabric in two.
Then there was Mr. Larkin. Twenty-eight. Entertaining. Decent income. But she feared he was another reluctant victim of Richard’s arm-twisting. They’d been schoolmates. Mr. Larkin’s eyes had gleamed far brighter when fixed on Harriet than on her.
So tonight had done little beyond shatter her illusions and force her to confront reality. Tomorrow’s court presentation wouldn’t help, since only ladies would be present. Thus her next opportunity to see Jacob or anyone else would be at Lady Sheridan’s Venetian breakfast.
She must be ready.
* * * *
Two days later, Emily drew a deep breath as the Hughes carriage pulled up before Sheridan Manor an hour north of Mayfair. Warm brick glowed in the midday sunlight, but the sight did not warm Emily’s heart. Nor did the magnificent yews flanking the drive, the brilliant blue sky, or the glimpse of water in the distance. An hour of Harriet’s chatter could turn the hottest coals to ice.
Lady Sheridan had set up her Venetian breakfast beside the lake where the hills caught and concentrated the sunlight, creating a warmth that allowed her to stage comfortable alfresco events weeks before her neighbors.
The walk to the lake wound from the terrace through the formal garden, then past the ha-ha to a generous expanse of parkland, and finally into the valley sheltering the lake and adjacent pavilion.
“This path is awful,” hissed Harriet, grabbing Richa
rd’s arm with both hands when her ankle turned. “Why would anyone choose to eat outdoors in the cold and damp?”
“It’s a lovely day,” insisted Emily from Richard’s other arm, though the loveliest aspect was Richard’s recovery from infatuation – two days of Harriet’s chatter had canceled any interest, for which Emily thanked Fate. Harriet as a sister was too revolting an idea to consider. “As for the path, I warned you to wear half-boots. You’ve no one to blame but yourself that you insisted on slippers.”
Harriet grumbled.
“Easy,” snapped Richard. “Don’t embarrass yourself by arriving in a lather. You don’t see Emily growling like a mad dog.”
Emily bit her tongue. Richard’s comments increased Harriet’s fury, but chastising him could only make matters worse. It would never do to arrive with all three of them at odds.
Two days with Harriet proved that she was incorrigible, the sort who would only learn from painful experience. She was so certain that every man would worship at her feet that she refused to believe London society could ever turn on her. Yesterday’s remarks about prying old busybodies increased Emily’s dread over this outing. Unless Harriet paid the proper obeisance to society’s matrons, she would be cut.
Emily would bear the blame.
Jacob would never speak to her again.
Taking a deep breath, she focused on the gardens, which contained surprising vignettes around each corner. This one was an irregular bed rioting with primroses, buttercups, and tulips, some descended from bulbs that had been worth fortunes during the seventeenth-century tulip mania. A clipped box hedge formed a backdrop, order and disorder combining into an odd harmony.
This harmony enhanced a broader vista of grassy slopes and specimen trees from around the world. Below, a pavilion in the form of a Grecian temple perched next to a cobalt lake. Tables and rugs dotted its shore. Half a dozen boats awaited rowers. Several others were headed for a tiny island in the lake’s center.
Charles and Sophie were among the fifty guests who had already arrived.
“Two beautiful flowers to grace the day,” exclaimed Charles, nodding to Harriet before raising Emily’s hand to his lips. “Enchanted, my dear.”
Sophie rolled her eyes.
“Where is Ja— Lord Hawthorne?” demanded Harriet.
“Delayed. But he should arrive in another hour.” Charles set Emily’s hand on his arm. “Walk with me. As I recall, deer delight you. There is a herd with several fawns just over that hill.”
“I would love to see them,” Emily said, responding to the plea in Sophie’s eyes – the dark-haired gentleman was approaching the tables. “Bring Harriet,” she added to Richard. “English fallow deer will be a treat for her.”
Charles scowled at the inclusion of Harriet, but Emily drew him ahead of Richard, chatting gaily so he wouldn’t notice that Sophie wasn’t following.
The deer were as graceful as always, the fawns frolicking with a playfulness that made Emily long to join them. But she was too old to run through the grass and must be content with this civilized stroll.
Judicious questions drew Charles farther along the lakeshore. Richard had to follow, forcing Harriet to keep walking. It was the perfect way to control the girl until Jacob arrived. And it gave Sophie a full hour to cultivate her gentleman.
She ignored the voice reminding her that it also kept her from meeting eligible gentlemen for that hour.
“Did you attend yesterday’s Drawing Room?” Charles asked as they headed back to the pavilion for refreshments.
“Yes, though I remember little of it.” She’d been too nervous to do more than pray she wouldn’t trip. “I’m not even sure who presided. The queen is too ill. Princess Augusta, perhaps? I didn’t notice much until I’d backed out of the presentation room without incident.”
He laughed. “Much like my first introduction to the king, though levees are not as formal as Drawing Rooms. But you can be sure that the next time you attend court, you will be more relaxed.”
“I couldn’t possibly be less so.”
“Now that the worst is over, you can enjoy town. I presume you’ve received your vouchers.”
“This morning. Mama is in alt. Harriet, on the other hand…”
“She can’t expect Almack’s.” He lowered his voice, leaning closer so only she could hear. “She should rejoice to be here at all. You have your work cut out for you, my dear. That girl will be trouble if she doesn’t settle down. Her tongue is sharp and doesn’t know when to cease moving. It quite detracts from her looks.”
“She may yet settle – the change from being a local diamond to being barely tolerated has to be difficult. A tantrum or two is hardly a surprise.”
“You have more patience than most. And far more tolerance.” His approval warmed her heart. Now if only Jacob felt the same way…
They rounded the pavilion to see Jacob and Sophie talking to Lady Sheridan.
Charles clucked his tongue. “Lady Sheridan really should not wear yellow,” he murmured in her ear. “It makes her look like a lemon – and she’s sour enough as it is.”
“Charles!” But he was right. Yellow emphasized Lady Sheridan’s roundness and her sallow skin. The green cap perched atop her gold hair made it worse.
Before Emily could say more, Harriet escaped and raced to Jacob’s side. “My lord. I must speak with you.”
“In a moment.” Irritation clouding his eyes, he finished his conversation with Lady Sheridan before moving to one side. Harriet immediately laid a beseeching hand on his arm.
Emily shook her head at Harriet’s impatience and joined Sophie. Jacob now had another grievance against her.
* * * *
Jacob shook Harriet’s hand from his sleeve and glared. “That was badly done, Miss Nichols. Interrupting a conversation displays atrocious manners.”
“Forgive me. I wasn’t thinking. I was too glad to see a friendly face after being locked away for two days.”
“Hardly locked. I’ve received enough accounts to know you spent most of yesterday shopping.”
“And enduring smirks from half the shop owners,” she snapped.
He bit back a sharp retort. “I can’t believe that, Miss Nichols. You must stop assuming that everyone is plotting against you.”
“But they are,” she insisted, sidling closer. “They won’t allow me to do anything. In Bombay—”
“This is not Bombay.” He stepped back and glared. “It does not matter what you did in India. This is London. Now let’s concentrate on the activities Lady Sheridan has provided for your entertainment.”
“I’d rather stay with you. It is ever so pleasant.” She smiled up at him, again grabbing his arm.
“That is impossible, Miss Nichols. I have business to conduct.”
“But—”
“No.” He moved toward the lakeshore where several people chatted near the boats. Lord Ross grinned when he spotted Jacob. A little high for Harriet, but a good choice for now.
“Hawthorne,” Ross called. “I am organizing races. Will you man a boat?”
“Perhaps later. But my ward would enjoy a ride if one of the boats has a vacant spot.”
“Of course.”
Jacob introduced her, then waited until Ross settled her in Crawford’s boat before turning back to the pavilion. Several lords had retreated to the farthest table to discuss an upcoming debate. He joined them.
* * * *
Two hours later, Emily was finally relaxed. She had not seen much of Jacob, who had spent the afternoon discussing politics with one group of men after another. But she had enjoyed time with several others. Mr. Gresham would never make an acceptable husband – Sophie was right about that – but he’d offered droll comments on the boat races they had watched together. Mr. Larkin had strolled with her once the races were over. And now Mr. Penfield had invited her to walk along the shore.
Sophie had exaggerated Mr. Penfield’s character. While he was too sober for Emily’s taste, he was far fr
om a prosing bore. They were chatting lightly about the ducks swimming in and out of the reeds when a voice erupted from a nearby thicket.
Charles.
“I swear I’ll throttle her if she doesn’t settle this Season,” he swore. “But every time I try to talk to her, she falls back on her waiting for love excuse. How can she believe such tripe? If she hasn’t found love in four years, she never will.”
“True,” answered Jacob. “Love is merely a fancy word for lust and a trap for the unwary. It doesn’t last, and when it dies, she will feel betrayed. She would be better off seeking an arrangement based on mutual interests.”
“You know that, and I know that, but try convincing her. She is obsessed by those damned novels she reads.”
“Tell her about Richardson and the Smythe-Gower chit. Starry-eyed, the both of them. Swearing eternal devotion. Spouting maudlin poetry night and day. Six months after their wedding, he resumed his rounds of the brothels, and she turned to flirting with every man she meets. I doubt they have spent five minutes together in the past year. Westlake did better by accepting an arranged marriage. The moment he got an heir, he released his wife to seek her own pleasure while he sought his. They are better friends now than when they wed.”
Penfield’s progress took Emily out of hearing, but it was too late to salvage her heart. It had cracked painfully in two. Jacob didn’t love her … had never loved her … did not even believe love existed.
Somehow she kept up her end of the conversation for the remainder of their walk. But she was so desperate to be alone that she dismissed Penfield quite abruptly when they returned to the pavilion.
A quick glance proved that Charles and Jacob were still gone. Harriet was in a boat with young Connoly, laughing so loudly she drew disapproving eyes from shore. Richard was glaring and would likely chastise her when she landed. Sophie had used Charles’s absence to again speak with her dark-haired gentleman.