by Joan Smith
She breathed a sigh of relief and directed a coquettish smile at him. “I am happy to see we think alike, Nick,” she said. Odd that he chose this promising moment to withdraw his fingers. Was it her wedding band that had put him off? Or was he going to rise and take her in his arms? A warmth invaded her, then faded to disappointment as she realized he was just reaching to pour them a glass of wine.
“A toast?” she suggested, when he handed her a glass.
His jaw stiffened. Really the chit had no finesse, to be toasting her freedom, as if it were a triumph to have buried a husband. He lifted his glass and said coldly, “This would be to the termination of your mourning period, I collect?”
She made a moue with her full lips, then laughed forgivingly. “That is not very romantic, sir!”
“I fear I am not at all romantical, Emma. Do you expect me to rejoice that you plan to run off to London and set the ton on its ear with your husband hunting?”
“London! Oh, but you misunderstand me. I want to marry you!”
Chapter Three
The words came out without thinking. Nick had misunderstood, and she was just setting him right, in her usual frank manner. She watched as his hand moved convulsively. Wine sloshed over the glass’s rim and onto his cream satin waistcoat. Three small red dots spread to form larger pink circles. “Is—is that not what you meant?” she asked in confusion. “I thought—I just assumed—”
He stared at her a moment, speechless with anger. When he found voice, Emma wished he had not. “Marry you!” he asked, his voice high with disbelief and heavy with irony. “Upon my word, you take a good deal for granted, Lady Capehart.”
“But you said—”
“I said you could count on me for any little matter about the estate that requires a man’s attention. My offer falls a good deal short of marriage.”
Emma found it hard to tell whether he was more astonished or outraged. She felt the sting of deep humiliation. When she realized her error, her humiliation was rapidly followed by a flash of anger. “There’s no need to pull your ears back like an angry mare, Hansard. You needn’t think I love you!”
“Then why have you just proposed marriage to me?”
“Because—because Papa is going to send Aunt Hildegarde,” she said, and clenched her lips to hold in a surge of tears, which were due more to Hansard’s rebuke than to the threat of Hildegarde. Anger and shame burned like acid inside her.
“And you are actually scatterbrained enough to marry only to avoid an aunt’s visit? I fear you and I have a vastly different view of marriage, ma’am. I don’t consider it a prank or trick to avoid some minor unpleasantness. When I marry it will be to a lady I love and respect.”
“Are you saying you don’t respect me?” she shot back. All fear of tears vanished, leaving behind undiluted anger.
“I find it hard to respect a lady who would offer for a gentleman who has given no indication of interest in her.”
“I didn’t offer! I thought that was what you meant! What else should a lady think when you are always underfoot. You just said I could rely on you, that you were always at my disposal.”
“That was mere courtesy,” he snapped, wincing at that “always underfoot.” She was always summoning him!
She tossed her head defiantly. “Is that what you call it? In any case, it would be an excellent match. Whitehern and your estate run side by side. I doubt you will find any lady better dowered or less demanding.”
“I see no reason to suppose you would be less demanding as a wife than as a neighbor. And you have omitted the other rather important factor. I don’t love you.”
She sniffed to cover her shame. But the two red flags burning on her cheeks betrayed her agitation. “Love has nothing to do with it. I had in mind a marriage of convenience.” This was not true, but her self-respect required some bolstering. She couldn’t let him walk away with the idea that she loved him. Indeed, at that moment she despised him thoroughly.
A gasp of astonishment hung on the air. “This goes from bad to worse!” he charged. “You are saying you don’t even like me, but you are willing—nay—eager to have me. I can only assume the advantage of adding my estate to yours is the real motive behind this extraordinary suggestion.”
“I only mentioned that because I thought it might appeal to your—vanity,” she said, unhappy with the last word, but unable to think of a better one. “I am not in the least eager to have you. I considered you marginally better than Aunt Hildegarde—and she is horrid.” She assumed an air of dignity and said, “I see now that I was mistaken. We should not suit in the least.”
“That is something we can agree on.” He rose stiffly and set down his glass. The astonishing, tumultuous nature of their meeting left him in a state of bewilderment. Yet despite all, he still felt some responsibility for Emma. Her performance that evening showed him she was in dire need of guidance. He braced himself to speak once more. “If you wish to marry, Lady Capehart, I suggest you set about it in the regular way. This sort of forward behavior will only disgust any gentleman of taste and refinement.”
“So I assume, when it even disgusted you,” she retorted childishly. “And how can I proceed in the regular way?” she asked angrily. “I have no one to arrange the matter for me. I cannot see Miss Foxworth handling it any better than I did myself.”
“It is hard to see how she could have done worse! You have a father—”
“We will leave Papa out of this, if you please. He is miles away.”
“I’m sure he would be willing to come, if necessary.”
“Yes, with Aunt Hildegarde. I have told you that is precisely what I wish to avoid.” Emma was now eager to terminate the visit. She rose and said, “How much do I owe you for the silk?”
He handed her the bill. She went to her cash box and extracted the sum. “Keep the change,” she said grandly. Nick counted out a few pennies and handed them to her with a lowering look.
“Thank you, Lord Hansard. I appreciate your fetching it for me,” she said. “I shan’t bother you in future. I didn’t realize I had been imposing so wretchedly on your good nature. You should have mentioned it sooner.”
“I was happy to do it, Emma,” he said, in a gentler tone. “Indeed, I did not mean to imply I resented any little assistance I may have rendered in the past. I hope you will call me if—”
Her sharp reply cut through his pretty speech like a knife through sausage. “You are too kind,” she said, but her cold tone said there would be icicles in hell before she applied to his kindness again. She lifted her chin and glared. “Good night, Lord Hansard, and, once more, thank you for your kindness.”
He hovered at the doorway, not wanting to leave with bad feelings between them, but not knowing what to say that would not set her off again. “Must we really begin ‘lord’ and ‘ladying’ each other, after all this time, Emma?”
“You’re the one who called me Lady Capehart first.”
“What you suggest would not do, you know.”
“Truth to tell, I hadn’t the least wish to marry you. I thought if I could tell Papa I had an offer, Hildegarde might not come. It need not have come to an actual wedding.”
This piece of chicanery did much to rekindle Hansard’s ire. He was to be jilted into the bargain! “Good evening, Lady Capehart,” he said through stiff lips.
Emma watched as he went out and slammed the door behind him. She had never seen such an eloquent back. Every inch of his broad shoulders derided her presumption. She buried her face in her hands and uttered a strangled cry of vexation. What a wretched botch she had made of it! She shouldn’t have blurted it out so suddenly.
Nick had no interest in her whatsoever. All these months she had been nothing to him but a pest. He hadn’t meant any of those compliments he used to shower on her. They were just to please John. Worst of all, the whole neighborhood would soon know what an egregious ass she had made of herself. She flew out the door after him.
Lord Hansard was st
ill in the hallway, just donning his curled beaver as she arrived, breathless, at the front door. She dismissed the butler, who stood ready to see Hansard out, and spoke to Nicholas in a low tone.
“A gentleman, I believe, does not boast of his conquests,” she said, peering up at him with a beseeching look. Her bottom lip began trembling. Her childish expression made him regret his harsh attack. Emma was still young after all.
He shook his head and gave a rueful sigh. “Don’t worry, Emma, I shan’t boast of this night’s work. I fear we neither of us appeared at our best. Let us forget it happened and continue friends.”
She studied him for signs of irony or, worse, laughter. She saw only a worried gaze. “Thank you, Nicholas,” she said in a small voice.
He opened the door and left. His traveling carriage and team of four were standing outside, as he had planned to remain only a short while. As he was driven home through the darkness, it was the image of the worried young face at the door and the small, soft voice that went with him. Emma had often complained of her aunt Hildegarde, but it seemed impossible that Emma had proposed to him only to avoid the visit. No, that visit had been a mere pretext and so had that claim of a marriage of convenience.
The fact was, she wanted to marry him. Beneath the annoyance and surprise, he felt a little glow of pride or pleasure. It wasn’t every evening that a gentleman received an offer of marriage from a beautiful young heiress.
Of course, it was incredibly farouche of her to have put the offer to him herself, but as an offer, it was hardly offensive. At three and thirty Hansard was at an age when he often thought of marriage, but he planned to choose his own bride—and she wouldn’t be a spoiled beauty of low breeding. He didn’t love Emma, nor she him. She just wanted to make a good match. His title was but another step up her ladder of self-advancement. He had thought she would head straight for London. Perhaps she preferred to tackle Society from the unassailable position of Lord Hansard’s lady.
By the time he reached home, he half regretted his rough refusal. His teasing manner with her in the past, always when John was in the room to remove any air of impropriety, must have misled her. He might have let the chit down more gently. Emma really was very pretty and still green as grass. She’d marry the first handsome fortune hunter who came along—and saddle him with an unsavory neighbor.
The least he could do, for both their sakes, was import a suitable match for her. His mind sped over cousins and connections who were on the lookout for a well-dowered bride. It would be nice to have, say, Cousin James, at Whitehern. Lord James Philmore, his mama’s nephew, was in need of a fortune. Emma might not balk at James’s empty pockets when his face was so pleasing and his papa was an earl. It would raise her position in Society and assure her a Season in London.
Happy that he had hit on a solution, he wrote a note off to Lord James that very evening.
At Whitehern Emma stewed in embarrassment and anger. How could she have made such a fool of herself? How could Nick have let her? He had always seemed to like her, but beneath his suave manners, he had been laughing at her, despising her. “Marry you?” he had exclaimed, as if she were a yahoo. And after it all she was still faced with Aunt Hildegarde’s coming.
“Where is Miss Foxworth?” she asked Soames, when he came to remove her silk.
“She went to bed with the sniffles, madam. I fear she is coming down with a cold.”
“A cold!” Emma exclaimed, and smiled in delight.
The very thing! Aunt Hildegarde, that hypochondriac par excellence, would never visit a house infected with disease. Miss Foxworth’s cold must escalate to influenza or even pneumonia. When the pneumonia was conquered, say in a month, Aunt Hildegarde would hear that there was a smallpox scare in the village. Emma suddenly had a dozen ideas to put off the dreaded visit. Why had she thought she needed horrid Nicholas to rescue her? It had become too easy to send for him in all her little troubles. That was over now. She was a mature lady. She would look after herself. No more running to him with every little problem.
And if Hildegarde insisted on coming despite all, she would find her niece a changed person. Why should Lady Capehart take orders from Hildegarde in her own house? She was mistress here. It was time she began to act the role.
But when she was tucked under the counterpane that night, she felt grave misgivings about her ability to face up to Hildegarde. She also still felt a rankling disappointment at Nick’s blunt refusal. Did he not care for her even a little? How could she have been so mistaken about a thing like that? Ah well, no point shaving a pig. He was not interested, and she must find a new beau. Until she was safely shackled, the threat of visits from home would shadow her life.
Chapter Four
The next morning as he was going to his stable, Lord Hansard saw William Bounty riding through Emma’s park toward Whitehern. Bounty was Emma’s neighbor on the west side and a friend of both Emma and himself. What invested this unexceptionable gentleman with an unaccustomed aura of interest that morning was Emma’s determination to marry.
If she had sent for Bounty to put her offer to him, he would have her in a minute! From the first moment Bounty had clapped an eye on Emma, he had been in love with her. He was an older widower who made no secret that he wanted another wife, since his first one had not given him an heir, but only a daughter, now married.
A cynical smile curved Hansard’s lips. Bounty would be disappointed to hear it was a marriage of convenience the widow was offering. Had she been serious about that? She hadn’t mentioned it at first. Did she really think any man with blood in his veins could share a house with her under such terms? Whatever her faults she was an exquisite-looking woman. She would make a better mistress than a wife. Hansard had always thought those bewitching, self-serving smiles and dimples were wasted on John.
He had his mare saddled up for a tour of his tenant farms, but as he discussed crops and herds and marling, he found his mind wandering back to Whitehern.
A little before noon he cut his business short and returned home. His eyes traveled west to the boundary of his land, with Emma’s lush acres spreading enticingly beyond—excellent land, with a large herd of prime milchers grazing in the sunlight. If it were to join his own, it would be the finest spread in Sussex.
Hansard’s housekeeper, Mrs. Denver, had been in Waterdown Hall as long as he could remember. She was a widowed distant cousin of small means. She didn’t take her meals with Hansard, but in every other way, she was considered as family. She often took coffee with him after his meal to discuss household doings. She did so that day after lunch.
“I saw Bounty riding over to Whitehern this morning,” he said, and looked for her reaction. “There was no announcement?” Emma’s kitchen maid was keeping company with one of his footmen. If a wedding had been announced, the news would have reached Waterdown by now.
“What sort of announcement? You don’t mean Lady Capehart is selling Whitehern! Oh, I would be sorry to lose her.”
“No, I thought there might be a match in that quarter.”
She looked at him in astonishment. “Surely not! She can do better than that. She will soon be snapped up, but it won’t be William Bounty who gets her. I have often thought you and she might come to terms. It seemed a natural thing, the right thing,” she said. “Time to settle down, milord.”
He recognized this as a reference to Mrs. Pettigrew. This dasher had moved to the neighborhood three years before. As he had known her in London when she was under Lord Quarter’s patronage, he had called on her a few times. Before long he realized the lady was interested in marriage. Since then his visits were limited to her large parties.
“Mrs. Pettigrew is a friend, nothing more.”
Mrs. Denver spoke on of Emma, praising her good nature, her looks, and her fortune.
“She is certainly eligible,” he agreed, with growing frustration. It was not only Mrs. Denver who realized Emma’s eligibility. Every Benedict for miles around was aware of it. Emma realized
it herself. She was chomping at the bit. “In fact, I posted a note to Lord James this very morning.”
Mrs. Denver said, “Lady Capehart would like the noble connection, and you could keep an eye out to see that Lord James doesn’t run amok.” That addendum was a reminder that while Lord James was a handsome fellow, he was no serious one.
A moment later she said, “Is it her being a widow that you dislike?”
“Not in the least. Between ourselves, the lady is an idle, vain, provincial fribble. She has no interest in serious or cultural matters.”
“She’s young yet. You’ll not find many bluestockings hereabouts,” Mrs. Denver said, then spoke of household matters.
Nick felt dissatisfied after their chat. Was he being foolishly demanding in his requirements for a bride? Perhaps with training, Emma might do him proud after all. He ought to have taken time to think over her offer. “Lord, I sound like a lady!” he said to himself. But he had done right to reject her offer. A lady who proposed to a gentleman surely passed the bounds of acceptable behavior.
Still, he would drop in at Whitehern and apologize for his brusqueness the evening before. If Bounty had accepted her, she would be sure to fling it in his face. Hansard took a brace of partridge as an excuse. Since John’s death he often took her game for her dinner. She had given him free shooting at Whitehern. That was generous of her. She really was a generous sort of girl.
At three o’clock that afternoon he posted over to Whitehern, where he was told that Lady Capehart had taken a book to the gazebo. It was a favorite spot of Emma’s on a fine day. From the crest of the hill, she could see the road leading to London. Deeply engrossed in her book when Hansard passed, she didn’t see him.
He came upon her unawares and stopped for a moment to gaze at her. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the vine-covered roof, sprinkling her head and shoulders with dancing beads of light. She was still dressed in black, but wore a violet shawl over her shoulders to soften the mourning effect. One finger played with her curls in an endearingly childlike manner. Surely this girl was too innocent to have made her offer out of self-interest. John’s aging spaniel, Rusty, sat dozing at her feet. Rusty discerned the approach of an intruder and set up a spate of barking. Emma looked up to see who it was.