Briskly she walked to the door and held it open. “Get out! Get out and stay away from me!”
He glanced at the filling theater, then stalked toward her. Halting at the doorway, he fixed her with a piercing look. “I’ll leave—for now. But depend on it, I’m not staying away from you. Not until I get to the bottom of this.”
And with that, he stormed from the box.
Ophelia decided that St. Clair knew nothing of Emily’s identity. She’d given the man plenty of opportunities to discuss it, and he hadn’t said a thing. So Blackmore had apparently kept Emily’s secret. Wasn’t that interesting?
They were returning to the box when she spotted Blackmore himself emerging from it. She stopped short and grabbed the viscount’s arm. “Would you look at that?”
As St. Clair followed the direction of her gaze, he went rigid. “Bloody hell. I’m sorry, Lady Dundee. I’ll go after him, and tell him he’s not welcome—”
“Don’t you dare!”
He gaped at her. “What do you mean? After this morning, I thought—”
“Well, you thought wrong. I like Blackmore. I think he’s interested in my daughter.”
“You could call it that,” St. Clair muttered.
“I distinctly detect sarcasm in your voice. Are you saying I’m wrong?”
“Not in the least. God knows I’ve never seen a man more interested in a woman. But…well…”
“His interest is merely physical. Is that what you’re trying to say?”
He looked taken aback by her candor. “I’m not sure. It’s what he claims.”
“Pish-posh. Men always claim they’re only interested in the physical. It keeps their pride intact. They don’t want anybody thinking they might be enamored of a mere woman. Blackmore is a very proud man, after all.”
St. Clair smiled. “Yes. And ‘enamored’ is a good word for what Jordan seems to feel for Lady Emma. But being enamored of a woman and doing something about it—something honorable, that is—are two different things.”
“Are you saying he would debauch my daughter, then walk away?” She held her breath. If so, this couldn’t go any further. Emily wasn’t prepared to fend off the full seductive power of a man like Blackmore, and Ophelia didn’t intend to send the girl home ruined.
“I don’t think so. He’s always steered clear of innocents.”
“Well, he’s not steering clear of her, is he?”
St. Clair looked thoughtful. “No, he’s not.” He cocked his head to stare at her. “Lady Dundee, are you trying to catch Jordan for your daughter?”
“Of course! Emma is in love with him. And if my daughter wants a man, I’ll do what I can to get him.” It was the least she could do for Emily after involving her in Sophie’s mess.
“In love with him? She told you that?”
“No. She denied it violently. The girl doesn’t know her own mind. But I know young women, and I’d wager my husband’s fortune that she loves the scoundrel.”
St. Clair rubbed his chin. “I must trust your maternal instincts on that one. And it’s conceivable he’s in love with her as well.”
Ophelia’s eyes lit up. “Do you think so?”
“He denies it, too. But I’ve never seen him act this way around a woman. He can’t let her out of his sight or stop talking about her.”
“Aha! Well then, we must do something about this.”
“What do you have in mind?”
She paused to look St. Clair over. Even in the poorly lit hallway, he was arresting, if a little rakish. He was tall—Ophelia had a partiality for tall men—and he had quite good bone structure. What was more important, he had all the qualities of a fine gentleman—courtesy, tact, a sense of humor. True, sometimes he was a trifle somber, as if the weight of the world lay on his shoulders. But she suspected St. Clair would make a good husband for any woman, even a silly girl like Sophie.
As for Randolph’s fears about his character…Well, she couldn’t believe them. Yes, there were times when St. Clair seemed a bit…well…dangerous, but so had her Edward, and he’d turned out fine.
Nonetheless, before she took the monumental step of telling him where Sophie was, she wanted to be more sure of her decision. And there was a way to do that while at the same time giving Blackmore the chance to court Emily properly.
With a glance at the crowd around them, she pulled St. Clair into a nearby empty box. “Do you like entertaining, Lord St. Clair?”
“What kind of entertaining?”
“Dinner parties. Picnics. Diversions. You do have a house in town, don’t you? It would be no trouble at all for you to entertain. I’d do it myself, but it might look suspicious. And if two people who might not otherwise take the initiative to meet should happen to be invited, no one could blame you, could they?”
“Yes, but—”
“I should very much like to see your house, you know. If you’re as serious about Sophie as you seem, I think it only fair that I assess your potential.”
His eyes narrowed. “Fair indeed. Would your niece be equally interested in seeing my house?”
“I’m sure she would—if she were in London. But my brother has sent her off somewhere to keep her safe from certain unsuitable men.”
The expression on his face was priceless. “Like me, you mean. Damn it, I knew there was something suspicious about her illness!”
“Yes, well, Randolph overreacts sometimes.” She cast him a sly glance. “But if I determine that a man is not unsuitable after all, I might just be in a position to influence my brother. Or otherwise ensure that a wedding takes place, if you know what I mean.”
He gave her a long, assessing look. “Lady Dundee, are you blackmailing me into having dinner parties at my house?”
“Not at all. I’m merely pointing out the great advantages that you, your friend, and my daughter could derive from such parties.” When he seemed to mull that over, she added, “And that would allow me to assess Blackmore’s potential for my daughter as well, wouldn’t it?”
A reluctant smile creased his lips. “You are a sly, manipulative woman.”
“Thank you. I try very hard to arrange the lives of my family so as to ensure the most happiness for them and the least inconvenience for me.”
He chuckled. “Very well. I won’t stand in the way of your machinations. I need an ally, and Jordan clearly needs a wife, even if he won’t admit it. Since this is your idea, do you have any proposals about whom I should invite? Aside from you, Lady Emma, and Jordan, of course.”
“Mr. Pollock, for one.”
“Pollock? Why?”
“Blackmore seems jealous of his interest in my daughter, don’t you think?” That was just a guess, of course. Her real reason for including the odious man in their party was to determine once and for all if Pollock might be the one after Sophie. She prayed he wasn’t. She couldn’t stomach having that man in the family.
“I wouldn’t trust Pollock around Lady Emma if I were you,” St. Clair said with a grim look on his face.
“I don’t. But Blackmore will make sure the man treats her with respect, don’t you think?”
“I suppose.” His scowl faded. “Well, then, anything else?”
“Oh, I have a million suggestions. But come, we must return to the box before Emma wonders what has become of us. You and I will take care of the details later.”
It was high time to end this foolishness. And before it was all over, she planned to make sure that Emily got something of worth out of it.
Chapter 13
One must choose in life between boredom and torment.
Madame de Staël,
Letter to Claude Rochet, 1800
A dinner party, of all things. Jordan still couldn’t believe it. He climbed out of his coach at Ian’s town house, shaking his head at his friend’s odd behavior. Before his absence from England, Ian had kept to himself at his country estate. Jordan certainly never remembered his giving a dinner party. This sudden burst of conviviality was very
uncharacteristic.
But then, so was the man’s search for a wife. Jordan had never thought to see the day when Ian would be dancing attendance on the simpering girls at marriage marts. Soon Ian would be married, and there would be no more lazy afternoons fishing at Jordan’s estate or hours spent debating politics in the Subscription Room at Brook’s. Ian would be done with all that. He’d have little need for his friends, because he’d have a wife to keep him company, to share his thoughts and life.
To keep the loneliness at bay.
The thought shook Jordan. That was one thing to be said for marriage: it meant the end of loneliness.
Or did it? His mother had been lonely, painfully so. And his father, too. Marriage didn’t always end loneliness. Sometimes, it brought about a much worse loneliness, the kind that came from living side by side with a stranger.
He sighed. Pray God Ian chose his wife carefully and found someone who wouldn’t ignore him. Jordan wouldn’t wish his parents’ sort of marriage on anyone.
The door opened as he reached the top of the marble stairs, and a footman took his greatcoat and top hat. A familiar female laugh drifted down to him from the drawing room upstairs, sparking a sudden anticipation in his belly. Was she here? Two days had passed since he’d spoken to her, though he’d seen her at several social functions. But if she were here…
How could she be? Surely Ian, with all his protective instincts, wouldn’t have invited her. Still, his palms grew clammy as the servant led him upstairs. And when he entered the drawing room to find a knot of men gathered around Emily, drinking wine and relating stories that she laughed at with feminine delight, his throat went raw.
She was here, all right, and making the men lust after her as usual. For God’s sake, why didn’t Lady Dundee do something instead of sitting there and watching Emily with fond indulgence? Did the deuced countess want Emily to be hounded by a lot of lecherous fools?
At least Emily’s gown was demure tonight, unlike that piece of scarlet seduction she’d worn to the opera. Rich folds of pale rose satin swathed her form, making her lips and cheeks look petal pink and soft. Sprigs of white orange blossoms encircled her golden hair like a fallen halo, and a strand of equally white pearls nestled between her breasts with a contented glow, drawing his envy. To rest between those soft mounds of flesh would bring contentment indeed.
“Well, if it isn’t the good earl himself,” said a cold voice. Jordan tore his gaze from the delectable image to find Pollock standing by the window, a wineglass of delicate crystal cupped in one equally delicate hand. “Welcome, Blackmore. You’re missing a fine burgundy.” Pollock held up the glass, then shifted his gaze to Emily. “And even finer company.”
Pollock? Here? Had Ian gone mad? Didn’t he realize Pollock had his eye on Emily? Oh, how he’d like to smash that dandy’s face for even daring to look at her!
By some miracle, he made himself sound nonchalant. “Good evening, Pollock. If I’d known you were here, I would’ve hurried. I wouldn’t want to miss your latest riveting account of your trip to your tailor.”
At his sarcasm, the ladies tittered, the gentlemen smirked, and Lady Dundee cast him a calculating smile. Only Emily ignored him, turning her back deliberately to him.
Pollock gestured dismissively with one manicured hand. “At least I know what the ladies want to hear. You’d bore them with stories about your precious reforms.”
“Ah, yes. Good forbid we should discuss anything important, like how to feed the poor and provide the workingman with a decent wage. We’re much better off focusing on the cut of your fancy coats.”
“Why, you—” Pollock broke off as the glass he was holding shattered in his fist. “Damn you, Blackmore! Look what you’ve made me do!”
A pall fell on the room, the other guests staring in horror, uncertain what to do, where to look. This sort of thing just wasn’t done.
Pollock grabbed at his hand, now studded with glass shards. “It’s bleeding, for God’s sake!” It was indeed, dripping down over Pollock’s other hand and onto Ian’s Moroccan carpet, the blood and burgundy mingling into a vermillion stream. “Somebody do something! Get a doctor!”
Whirling around, Emily hurried to Pollock’s side. “Let me see that.”
When he resisted at first, she caught his wrist and took out her handkerchief. “Stop it! You’ve cut an artery! Do you want to bleed to death?”
He went limp, his face turning ashen as she dragged up his lace-edged sleeve, then wound the handkerchief tightly around his forearm in a tourniquet.
Her commonsense reaction and lack of aversion to blood took Jordan by surprise, until he remembered the night he’d first met her, when she’d given Sophie some elixir and the two women had discussed her penchant for doctoring.
“Come over here,” she commanded, leading Pollock to the settee. “We must pick the glass out of it. I’m afraid you’ve got quite a nasty gash. I may have to sew it up.” She scanned the room, her eyes fixing on Ian, who was calming his guests. “Lord St. Clair, I’ll need some towels and clean rags, a bowl of hot water, a needle, and some clean thread. Ask your cook for garlic, rosemary, or mint. And bring some brandy. Mr. Pollock will need it.”
Ian called for a servant and passed on Emily’s instructions, then returned his attention to his hapless guests, who were now milling around the chair where Emily sat.
“Rosemary and garlic?” Pollock snapped, as she bent her head over his hand. “Sounds like you’re making a soup.”
“Both are good for treating wounds. I’d prefer eucalyptus,” Emily muttered, “but I doubt Lord St. Clair keeps that on hand.”
“What does a mere girl know about doctoring anyway? It’s not exactly the pastime for an earl’s daughter.”
Jordan’s blood chilled in his veins. There was a vague suspicion in Pollock’s tone. The man couldn’t possibly know anything. Still…
“Surely you’ve heard of the Scottish penchant for physic,” Jordan said. “I believe it’s common for even their women to learn such things. Isn’t that true, Lady Dundee?”
The countess raised one eyebrow. “Oh, certainly. My Emma has learned from the best doctors. You’re in safe hands with a Scot, Mr. Pollock.”
“I never heard any such thing about the Scottish,” Pollock grumbled. Emily dug out a piece of glass, and he jerked his hand. “Ouch! Are you trying to murder me?”
“I will if you don’t sit still! Would you rather we send for a doctor? Then you can bleed to death while you wait for him to arrive.”
Pollock lapsed into a resentful silence. The servant entered, bearing the items Emily had requested, and Ian tactfully offered to take the ladies on a tour of the house so they wouldn’t have to watch. The other men left with them, as did Lady Dundee. Only Jordan remained. He wasn’t about to leave Emily alone with Pollock for one minute.
“Staying to gloat over my pain?” Pollock snapped at Jordan.
“Not at all. But Lady Emma might need something else.”
“Yes, make yourself useful.” Emily’s calm, clear gaze met his for the first time all evening. She handed him a rag. “Tear that into strips, will you?”
“Don’t give that to him,” Pollock muttered peevishly. “He might put poison on it.”
Jordan bit the ragged edge with his teeth, then tore a strip loose. “I ought to poison you. The world would be better off without men foolish enough to cut themselves on wineglasses.”
“Why, you arrogant ass!” Pollock said, half-rising in his seat.
“That’s enough, both of you!” Emily jerked Pollock back down. “You’re not helping matters, Mr. Pollock.” She glared at Jordan. “Nor are you. This is all your fault, you know. If you hadn’t provoked him—”
“How was I to know he couldn’t take a joke?” Jordan said unrepentantly as he handed her the strips of rags.
She took them with a scowl. Crushing rosemary and garlic together between her fingers, she pressed the pulpy mass against the wound, then wrapped the bandage aroun
d it. “It wasn’t a joke. It was just another case of your showing contempt for anybody who doesn’t meet your high and noble standards.”
The words of rebuke brought him up short. Was that what she thought of him?
Pollock watched them both, a slow smile curling his lips. “Exactly, Lady Emma. You know the man well. He looks down on us mere mortals. And he certainly doesn’t understand men with sensitive tastes like me.” He covered her hand as she bound his wound, and his gaze drifted down to ogle her breasts. “Or women of kindness like you.”
Jealous fires seared Jordan. And when she went still, blushing to the roots of her hair, the fires flamed even higher.
Quickly, she finished binding the wound, then mumbled, “The servant forgot the brandy, and I know you must be in pain. I’ll fetch it.”
As soon as she had gone, Pollock leaned back and cast him a taunting glance. “I was wrong, after all. She’s very good at doctoring, isn’t she? She has a soft touch.”
Jordan could hardly see for the anger clouding his vision. “You stay away from her, Pollock, do you hear me? She’s not your sort.”
Pollock smiled, examining his bandaged hand with fastidious interest. “I suppose you think she’s your sort.”
“Stay away from her. That’s all.”
“I will if she will. But as you can see, the woman can’t keep her hands off me.”
“Don’t be absurd.” He added snidely, “She amuses herself by helping idiots.”
Pollock’s gaze shot to him, resentful, devious. “Really? Is that what she was doing that night she and I were together in Lady Astramont’s garden?”
The blood drained from Jordan’s face. He told himself that Pollock was lying to pay him back for making a fool of him in front of Ian’s guests. But there’d been that blush of Emily’s every time Pollock was mentioned, and what she’d told him last night about Pollock’s advances…
“You know, Emma kisses like an angel,” Pollock remarked. “And those breasts, so ripe to the touch—”
“You bastard!” Jordan reached Pollock in two strides and jerked him out of the chair. “You keep your filthy hands off her!”
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