And Then He Kissed Her

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  No, best all around if they kept their distance from one another as they had always done in the past. Marlowe was clearly of the same mind as herself. His avoidance of her these past two weeks proved that much.

  Emma stared down at the blank page in the typewriting machine before her and wondered why she felt so dismal.

  What was the matter with her, in heaven’s name? She was living the dream she’d cherished for years and doing it quite well. The first two expanded Mrs. Bartleby issues had been a huge success. She had a nice, cozy home, a nice, cozy circle of friends, and a nice, cozy life. What more did she want?

  A sharp rat-a-tat startled Emma out of her reverie, and she rose from her desk. She crossed the room and opened her door to find Mrs. Morris standing in the corridor with a card in her hand.

  “Lady Eversleigh to see you, Emma,” the landlady informed her, sounding quite impressed. Lady Eversleigh was Marlowe’s sister, and despite the tarnished social standing of the Marlowe family among their own set, a peeress always impressed the middle class.

  The landlady presented the card with a flourish. “She’s waiting upon you in the parlor downstairs.”

  Emma stared down at the card in puzzlement. She could not think of any reason why the baroness would pay a call upon her. “Please tell her I shall be down directly.”

  Mrs. Morris departed, and Emma gathered her unruly thoughts. What ever the reason for the baroness’s unexpected visit, it certainly wouldn’t do to be daydreaming about kissing Lord Marlowe when his sister was sitting in front of her.

  A few moments later, Emma went downstairs where she found the baroness engaged in a friendly tête-a-tête with Mrs. Morris on the settee.

  Emma had met Marlowe’s sister once, four years earlier, and the moment she saw the other woman again, she was struck anew by the baroness’s resemblance to her brother. She had the same dark brown hair and striking blue eyes.

  Lady Eversleigh came forward to meet Emma, her hands outstretched in greeting. “Miss Dove, how do you do? We met once several years ago, though I expect you do not remember the occasion.”

  “But I do. I had come to your brother’s house in Hanover Square, delivering some contracts for him to sign. I was standing in the foyer, waiting, and you came walking through on your way out somewhere. You asked who I was, then you insisted I not stand in the foyer. You took me into the drawing room. How could you think I would not remember you after such a kind gesture?”

  “Kind? Nonsense. It was simple politeness. That Jackson had left you standing in the foyer was unpardonable.”

  Emma knew that a mere secretary did not get shown into the drawing room of a lord. Marlowe’s butler was well trained, for though she was not a tradesman to go down to the servants’ entrance, nor was she an acquaintance paying a call. Lady Eversleigh was clearly as unconcerned with social conventions as her brother.

  “Besides,” the other woman went on as she resumed her seat, “if nothing else, I was prompted by a spirit of profound gratitude toward you.”

  “Gratitude?” Emma asked as she also sat down.

  “Yes. It is thanks to you that Harry began remembering things like birthdays and social invitations.” She glanced at Mrs. Morris. “For that alone, my entire family is indebted to your dear Miss Dove.”

  “Fancy that,” the landlady murmured, seeming quite pleased.

  The baroness returned her attention to Emma. A hint of mischief so like her brother came into her expression. “And I have to say that you always did choose the most wonderful presents for us. Heaven only knows what we shall get now that you are no longer Harry’s secretary.”

  Emma smiled back at her. “You were never supposed to discover that little secret.”

  “Yes, well, as my brother will tell you, I love a mystery, and I’ve a knack for ferreting out secrets.” She hesitated, then went on, “Secrets are, in fact, part of the reason I am here.”

  “Indeed?” Emma was growing more astonished by the moment.

  “Yes.” The baroness glanced at Mrs. Morris again. “I wished to speak with you about a most important and delicate matter…”

  In the pause that followed, the landlady took the hint. “Heavens,” she said and rose to her feet. “Here I am dawdling when there is so much work to be done. I shall leave the two of you to your little visit, dear Emma,” she added, trying to conceal her disappointment at being left out of things. She departed, closing the door behind her and leaving the two women alone.

  “In what was can I be of assistance to you, Lady Eversleigh?” Emma asked.

  The other woman gave a grimace. “Oh, I do hate it so when people refer to me by my title. The name gives me…” She paused and gave a little shudder, closing her eyes for a moment. “It gives me painful memories.” Opening her eyes, she leaned closer and added, “I wish we could all use Christian names. So much simpler. All this emphasis on titles and position and who’s the right sort of people gets so tedious sometimes. You wouldn’t agree, I know, being that you are the famous Mrs. Bartleby and the standard-bearer of proper decorum.”

  Emma couldn’t hide her surprise at those words. “You know about me?”

  “I told you I have a knack for finding things out. But I promised Harry faithfully I would not tell anyone about you, and he knows me well enough to trust me. The secret of Mrs. Bartleby’s identity is safe with me. Now, as to the reason I’ve come to see you, you may have heard I am to be married in January to the Earl of Rathbourne.

  “Yes, and please accept my congratulations on your engagement. But you make me curious, Baroness. How does your engagement bring you to me?”

  “My sisters, my mother, my grandmother, and I have been reading your column faithfully every week. We adore Mrs. Bartleby.”

  pleasure welled up inside Emma at those kind words. “I am so glad! I rather like her myself.”

  “You should. I am here because, having guessed your identity, I have come to enlist your aid. Cheeky of me, I know, but there it is. I need your help. You see—” The baroness paused, shifting on her seat as if suddenly uncomfortable. “You may know that my brother’s divorce was a long, painful business. For Harry especially, but for the rest of us as well.”

  “Yes.” Emma eyed her with understanding and compassion. “I know.”

  “Many of our acquaintance condemned my brother for his action. He—and we—were shredded to ribbons in the newspapers of Harry’s competitors. The most terrible things were said. And of course, it didn’t help matters when, shortly after Harry’s decree was granted, the Queen issued a declaration condemning divorce and censuring those who break the marriage bond. It was issued in general terms, but everyone knew to whom that censure was addressed. Socially, it rather sealed our fate.”

  Emma bit her lip, rather ashamed of her own rigid stance on the subject. She was also irritated suddenly by the strictures of society in a way she had never been before. “To my mind, it isn’t right that your entire family should suffer for the action of one. And as for your brother’s divorce, he and I spoke about it not long ago, and I now appreciate what a wrenching decision it was for him. He did not make it lightly, I know.”

  “Harry told you about his divorce?” The baroness stared at her. “He talked with you about it?”

  “Yes, a little. You seem rather astonished, Baroness.”

  “So I am. Harry never talks about painful things. Never.” She gave a little laugh. “Well, this is turning out to be quite a day for surprises.”

  “I am truly sorry that your social position has been so adversely affected. If you would like me to write a Mrs. Bartleby column about the absurdity of guilt by association, I would be willing to do so.”

  “No, no. That isn’t why I’ve come to you. And in any case, Harry owns the Social Gazette now, and everyone would think he made you do it.”

  “True. I hadn’t thought of that. Why then, do you need the aid of Mrs. Bartleby?”

  “I want your help with my wedding.”

  “Y
our wedding?” Emma was astonished. “But surely your mother, grandmother, and sisters—”

  “I love my mother dearly, Miss Dove, but she is, to put it bluntly, a featherbrain. My grandmother is very old-fashioned—she still believes in throwing rice and old shoes at weddings, for goodness’ sake, and you and I both know that is never done nowadays. My sisters are helping as best they can, of course. Vivian is designing my gown herself—she loves to design clothing and such. She’s quite good at it, really. And Phoebe is handling all the details of invitations, the seating arrangements, and that sort of thing. But the woman I really need is Mrs. Bartleby. I want to be sure everything is done impeccably. I’ve come to you not only for my sake and the sake of my family, but also for Edmund. My fiancé suffers the stigma of divorce as well. If our wedding is perfect, then society hasn’t a shred of criticism to throw in our faces about it. Even more, I want this wedding to be the most stupendous social event of the year, and I need Mrs. Bartleby’s clever ideas. I want your help with the flowers, the wedding breakfast, the decorations—oh, everything.” She paused and flashed a charming smile that once again reminded Emma of her brother. “I told you I was being cheeky.”

  “Not at all! I am flattered that you should think of me, Baroness.”

  “I have to caution you that if you consent to help me and people find out, there are some among my set who might not look so favorably upon your advice.”

  Emma considered the matter. “Some people would look down their noses, I suppose, but as I said, I don’t agree with this notion of guilt by association.” She paused and took a deep breath, aware she was making a risky decision, but knowing her conscience could not let her do otherwise. “If people wish to condemn me just because I have assisted with your wedding plans, then let them.”

  “I think we can avoid that problem if we keep your involvement a secret. We can’t tell my mother or grandmother, for they’d blurt it out to someone straightaway, but my sisters can be discreet.”

  “I shall be happy to assist you in any way I can.”

  The baroness clasped her hands together in gratitude. “Thank you, Miss Dove.”

  “I shall enjoy the project. Truly. When shall we meet to begin planning things?”

  “Let me think. My family is going to Torquay for August.”

  Emma nodded. Everyone in society went sea bathing at Torquay in August.

  “Harry only intends to come for a week, for he says he has too much work here in London,” the baroness went on. “Work is all he ever seems to do. I grow quite concerned about him sometimes, the way he works so hard.”

  “It is his idea of fun,” Emma said without thinking.

  The other woman gave her a startled look. “Yes, you’ve the right of it there,” she said slowly, studying Emma in a thoughtful sort of way. “Another reason for the snobs to condemn him, I fear. A gentleman, they say, shouldn’t earn his living. They would deem it beneath them.”

  “No doubt most of those gentlemen are in debt.”

  Her dry response made the baroness laugh. “A wicked observation, Miss Dove, and so true. Anyway, when we return from Torquay, we are going straight on to my fiancé’s estate in Derbyshire for several weeks. Then we journey to Berkshire at the end of September to spend the autumn at Marlowe Park. I propose you come to stay with us the first week of October. Though I must warn you that Mama and Grandmama will pester you endlessly to reveal the true identity of Mrs. Bartleby.”

  “I’m accustomed to that,” she assured the baroness. “And I accept your invitation. We shall put our heads together, and between us, we shall make your wedding the most beautiful one of the year.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad I came to see you today!” She grasped Emma’s hands in an impulsive gesture that was quite endearing. “Thank you for agreeing to help me.”

  After Lady Eversleigh had gone, Emma went back upstairs. She sat down at her desk, still feeling a bit stunned by what had just happened. To be asked to help a baroness with her wedding was a great honor. To be sure, there were those who would condemn Mrs. Bartleby and refuse to read her again if they knew what Emma had just agreed to do, but even if the baroness had not suggested they keep it a secret, Emma would have agreed to assist her anyway. For once, she didn’t really care what other people thought, and that was probably the most astonishing thing of all.

  Chapter 13

  Some men are attracted to virtuous women. Should any of you fall into such a predicament, my friends, you have my utmost sympathy.

  Lord Marlowe

  The Bachelor’s Guide, 1893

  Harry had never been one for self-deceit. The reason, of course, was that he paid attention to his instincts, and they always told him the truth, if he was listening. But lately, the gut feelings upon which he had always relied could not be trusted. Right now his business instincts were shouting at him to stay away from Emma Dove. His instincts as a man, however, were telling him something completely different.

  He wanted her, and avoiding her was not making him want her any less. That was the plain, unvarnished truth.

  Harry leaned back against his desk and curled his fingers around the mahogany edge. Behind him, he could hear Quinn reading back dictation, but he paid no heed. Instead, he stared out the window of his office and stopped trying to push Emma out of his mind.

  Emma. A sweet name. His thoughts about her of late were not sweet. In fact, they were quite torrid, and growing more so with each day he stayed away from her. He closed his eyes and formed a picture of her body in his mind, one conjured solely from fantasy, one of lithe, slim legs and small, round breasts, and a long mane of brown hair that turned red in the sunlight.

  “…and therefore I must decline your countering offer…” Quinn’s voice floated past him.

  Emma. A pretty name. He inhaled a deep breath, imagined the scents of fresh cotton, talcum powder, and her. For perhaps the hundredth time, he imagined kissing her mouth and all her other pretty parts as well. He imagined stripping her out of her plain white shirtwaist and doing things to her that were anything but proper.

  “…should you wish to reconsider accepting the original terms we discussed…”

  Handsome, she’d called him that day in the Victoria Embankment Gardens, as serious as if she were reciting back catechism, her hazel eyes wide and utterly without flirtation or guile. Innocent eyes.

  He didn’t want her to be innocent.

  Any man who was unmarried and wanted to stay that way steered clear of innocent virgins. He’d only had one in his entire life, on his wedding night, and his memory was perfectly clear on how that had turned out. It had been a disaster, and quite a fitting prelude to the rest of his married life.

  His mind drifted back fourteen years. A lifetime ago, it seemed. The whole mess with Consuelo had begun when he’d gotten involved in several business ventures with her father, first in London, then in New York. When Mr. Estravados had invited him to spend a month with him and his family at their summer home in Newport, he’d been happy to accept. And so, on a hot, muggy August afternoon in Rhode Island when he was twenty-two, he’d looked across a tennis net into a pair of dark, haunted, innocent eyes, and his life had gone straight to hell.

  He lowered his head, staring at the carpet, imagining Consuelo as he’d last seen her, on her knees with her hands clasped together, sobbing. Begging, for God’s sake, begging him for a divorce.

  Let me go, Harry. Please, just let me go.

  “…yours, sincerely, et cetera. Do you wish to make any corrections, sir?”

  It was the silence that brought him out of the past. “Hmm? What?”

  He glanced over his shoulder to find Quinn regarding him impassively. “Do you wish to make any corrections to this letter, my lord, or shall I send it?”

  He hadn’t heard one word of the letter. “Perfect,” he answered. “Send it.”

  Quinn departed from his office, and Harry rubbed a hand over his face. Hell, if thinking of Consuelo wasn’t enough to get his priorit
ies in order, nothing would be. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t seem to govern his thoughts about anything nowadays.

  Perhaps he needed a new mistress. That would surely set him right again. Or perhaps he needed an even quicker form of relief. He grabbed his hat and left his office at a rapid stride. Passing by Quinn’s desk, he said over his shoulder, “I’m leaving for the day.”

  “But, sir, I think…that is, I believe—”

  Harry halted by the door. “Yes, yes,” he said with impatience. “You believe what?”

  His secretary looked at him with uncertainty. “I have a notation that you have an appointment here in your office only a few minutes from now.” He glanced down at his desk, running his finger along a line written on his blotter. “Mr. William Sheffield, manager of production at the Social Gazette, two o’clock. I believe you intended to discuss improving production procedures? I could be wrong, of course.” He looked up with that agonized expression Harry often found so irritating.

  I think you have very little consideration for others…and your life, I cannot help but feel, is a terribly dissolute one—your disdain for marriage, your liaisons with women of low moral character…

  Recalling those words, Harry’s desire to invade a brothel and spend a few hours in the arms of a courtesan didn’t seem quite so pleasurable a prospect after all. He ground the heel of his hand against his forehead with a sound of frustration. He was supposed to be putting Emma Dove out of his mind. Imagining her naked was bad enough. Did he have to hear her lectures in his head as well?

  Harry looked up. “No, Mr. Quinn, you are not wrong.” He pulled his watch out of his pocket, noting his appointment was in a quarter of an hour. “I shall go across the street and see Sheffield myself,” he said, hoping the short walk would be enough to clear his head. He put his watch back in his pocket and started to depart, then stopped. “Quinn?”