Or when she would stop.
Finally, Lydia’s laughter faded to giggles. She dabbed at her eyes and came to sit down on the settee beside Emma. “Ah, my dear,” she said. “You do look surprised. I confess, I am surprised myself.”
“Then why are you laughing, Aunt Lydia?”
“Because, from your tale of Lord St. Albans’s masquerade, I suspect he may be a perfect match for you. Or very close to it.”
Emma had not thought it possible for her shock to increase, yet so it did. A perfect match? She stared speechless at her aunt.
“Oh, I am not saying he is definitely the man for you,” Lydia continued. “We will have to talk to him further and be certain this is right. But I had begun to fear you would never meet anyone who could understand your flights of fancy, could appreciate your true worth.” She laughed again. “It sounds as if Viscount St. Albans has his own—flights of fancy. Do you like him?”
Like him? Emma was furious with him, but… “Oh, yes. I like him.”
“Yes. I can see that you do.” Lydia reached over to take Emma’s hand.
“I know that you had hopes for Sir Jeremy Ashbey,” Emma said.
Lydia squeezed her hand. “He seemed nice and very suitable. Your uncle and I would never have pushed you into a match you did not care for, and I saw rather quickly that Sir Jeremy was not right for you. The viscount is just as suitable, certainly, but I do want to speak to him before anything is definitely decided. And you must do some careful thinking as well, yes?”
Emma nodded.
Her aunt sighed. “It is just too bad we have so little time. We must return to Russia in just a few days.”
Just a few days—and her life would have to change, no matter what she decided. She pressed her hand to her throbbing temple.
“Poor Emma. You look so tired,” Lydia said. “Well, you do not have to get married tonight. First things first. We should find some thread to sew up your skirt.”
A soft knock sounded at the door, so quiet that they almost did not hear it.
“Yes?” Lydia called.
“It—it is Lady Osborn,” a tentative voice answered. “I came to see if perhaps you needed some—assistance?”
“Your future mother-in-law, perhaps?” Aunt Lydia whispered teasingly, before she went to unlock the door.
Emma gaped at her. Her aunt was many things, but a tease was seldom one of them. Could this evening possibly grow any more odd?
Lady Osborn slipped into the room like a tiny, pale green silk-clad ghost and closed the door behind her, shutting out the staring girls who lingered in the corridor. “Is everything—quite all right?” she asked. Her blue eyes, so very like her son’s, were wide as she looked from Emma to Lydia and back again.
“Oh, yes, Lady Osborn, quite all right, indeed. I was just finding some thread to repair my niece’s skirt.” Lydia linked her arm with Lady Osborn’s and led her over to the settee. “I am so glad we have this opportunity to get to know one another.”
———
After the tumult of the party, the crowds of people, the stares of avid scandalmongers, the library seemed to hold the dark hush of a temple—or a tomb. Only one lamp was lit. Placed on the desk, it threw the rest of the high-ceilinged room into flickering shadows.
Jack stood with his back against a shelf, out of habit not leaving himself vulnerable. He liked to see everything before him. Obviously Count Suvarov felt the same. He seated himself behind the desk, quite as if he owned it, and stared at Jack across the expanse of the room.
The silence was dense, thick as a London fog, but Jack was reluctant to be the one to break it. He had the sense that this situation was very delicate, and he feared doing the wrong thing, bringing an erroneous conclusion to the situation. That he did not want to do.
Now that the initial shock of the idea of matrimony had worn away, he knew the idea of having Emma Weston as his wife was a far from repugnant one. In fact, it was quite the opposite.
He knew his family and Society always expected him to marry. Yet, it had been impossible for him to envision marriage fitting into his life, his work. With Emma, he could see it. All too easily, despite the difficulties. Those would have to be worked out later, of course. Right now, all he could see was this particular obstacle.
Emma’s uncle—who looked as if he would prefer to run Jack through with his sword rather than see him married to Emma.
Jack wondered if he knew anything of his niece’s adventures as Tonya, the lady’s maid. He rather doubted it, for if the count did know, then surely he, Jack, would no longer be breathing.
He decided that perhaps his best course was simply to wait. He did not have to wait for long.
Count Suvarov folded his hands atop the desk and said, “So, Lord St. Albans. What exactly happened this evening?”
Jack folded his own arms and answered, “Lady Emma’s gown tearing was a complete accident, Count, I assure you. She fell over the plant, and I was helping her up when—well, when everyone found us there. I would never insult your niece. I hold her in great esteem.”
“Do you, indeed?” The count’s face was utterly expressionless. “That esteem could not have been of long duration.”
Jack thought fast. “No. I met her at the reception at Lady Bransley’s, and then in the park. I have not had as much time with her as I would have liked, which is why I welcomed the chance to talk to her on the terrace this evening. But I do assure you that my regard for her is genuine.”
“So genuine that you proposed to her as soon as you saw her on that terrace?”
Jack hesitated at that, and the count saw it. “The proposal, then, came after your discovery together,” he said.
“Yes,” Jack admitted. “But that makes it no less sincere. I would be greatly honored if Lady Emma would be my wife.”
Count Suvarov studied him very closely for a long, silent moment. Seemingly satisfied at whatever he saw there, he nodded and leaned back in his chair. “Her aunt and I did have some hopes that she might meet someone suitable here in England. She is English, you know, and my wife thought her late sister, Emma’s mother, would prefer her to have an English husband. But you are not exactly what we had in mind.”
“I realize this is quite a surprise…”
The count snorted. “Surprise, indeed!”
Jack couldn’t help but grin. Despite the acute discomfort of the situation, he found he rather like Count Suvarov. It was obvious that the man cared for Emma as he would have his own daughter. “But I do have my own credentials. I am a viscount, and one day I will inherit an earldom. My family is wealthy, we have many estates and Lady Emma would be able to live anywhere, in any style she chose.”
“And you fought very bravely, some might even say recklessly, in Spain.”
That did surprise Jack. He stared at the count.
Count Suvarov shrugged. “I know a great deal about many people, especially people involved in the military. We were fighting the same enemy in Russia, you know.”
“Yes,” Jack answered quietly. “I know.”
“You still have not sold your commission, yet you cavort about London like some young pup, I hear. Drinking with young Bertie Stonewich, gambling, not wearing your uniform. Curious.” The count’s eyes narrowed. “You also deliver papers to my office here dressed in very plain attire. Papers from a certain—Mr. Thompson.”
Jack remained silent. What could he really answer to that? He had no glib lies, and Count Suvarov deserved better than that. He was a brave man, a man devoted to duty and his own work. But Jack could not tell him the full truth, either.
“Well, this is not the place to discuss these things in any great depth,” Count Suvarov said. “I must think on them and speak to my niece. Yet, we are to leave in only a few days, so of course there is not much time to tarry. Perhaps you would be so good as to call on us at the Pulteney Hotel tomorrow, Lord St. Albans?”
Jack nodded warily. Was this, then, a positive outcome to his proposed engag
ement? Usually he was quite good at reading people, but Count Suvarov’s years in imperial service had stood him in good stead. His face was a blank. “It would be my honor,” Jack answered.
“Excellent. Until tomorrow, then.”
Effectively dismissed, Jack left the library, daring to relax a bit only when he was alone in the corridor. Blessedly, no one waited for him. Faint strains of music could be heard from the distant ballroom, so at least people were going on with their merriment and perhaps forgetting the scene on the terrace.
At least until tomorrow, when they would be looking for the announcement of his betrothal in the papers.
Jack started to walk away from the door, only to realize that he was not alone in the dim corridor. A figure moved out of the shadows and stepped into a narrow beam of lamplight.
Sir Jeremy Ashbey. Jack remembered how the man had been seen escorting Emma about, how he would watch her with an almost proprietary solicitude. He had forgotten until this moment that Emma had had an admirer besides himself.
But he remembered now.
Sir Jeremy’s expression was cool and unreadable, one could almost say impassive. But his pale eyes burned as he stared unwaveringly at Jack. He made no move once he came to a halt a few feet away, yet somehow Jack yearned for his sword.
Sir Jeremy reminded him of a French officer he had encountered once, a cold, expressionless man who would have tortured and killed Jack with no compunction at all. If Jack had not killed him first.
“I understand congratulations are in order,” Ashbey said, his voice as flat as his face.
“Indeed,” Jack answered shortly. He would have moved on, but Sir Jeremy slid into his path.
“My family has been friends with the Westons for a very long time. I have known Lady Emma since she was a child,” Sir Jeremy said. “I hope you realize what a truly fortunate man you are and do not take that good fortune for granted.”
“Of course I do not,” said Jack tightly. He wondered if he was going to be forced to do battle with only one of Lady Hertford’s spindly gilt chairs as a weapon.
But Ashbey moved, melting back into the shadows. Jack went on his way, still feeling the chill on his skin from that icicle gaze.
That was certainly a man who would bear watching, he thought, before he forgot all about Jeremy Ashbey in the shower of good wishes heaped upon him by the crowd in the ballroom.
———
Later that night, when she was at last alone with her husband, Lydia asked him what she had been aching to ask all during the silent drive back to the hotel but had been unable to because of Emma’s silent presence.
“Well?” she said, pulling a brush through her loosened hair. “What did you think of Lord St. Albans? What did you say to him?”
Nicholas gave an unreadable little laugh. “A most interesting young man, my darling. Most interesting.”
Lydia sighed impatiently. “Interesting in what way?”
“Interesting in that he might possibly, just possibly, be a proper match for our Emma. They seem to share a, shall we say, impulsive nature? A foolish bravery. I have asked him to meet with us here tomorrow.”
Lydia spun around on her dressing table bench to face her husband squarely. “And?”
“And—if a betrothal agreement is drawn up…”
“A betrothal agreement!”
Nicholas held up his hand. “I said if, darling. We will have to see that a very generous settlement is made on our niece and pay particular attention to her widow’s portion.”
Lydia was thoroughly confused. “Widow’s portion? Emma is not even a bride yet!”
“It is merely a precaution. That impulsive nature, you know. It can be a grand, passionate thing. But it can also be quite dangerous indeed. It would never do for dearest Emma to find herself stranded alone in a country far from us, with no resources.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Just look at the lovely flowers that came for you this morning, my lady!” Natasha said happily. She carefully placed the breakfast tray across Emma’s knees.
Arranged neatly on the tray’s japanned surface was a pot of chocolate, a dainty cup and saucer, a plate of toast and a small nosegay of yellow rosebuds and sprigs of dried lavender. They were bound by a wide swath of purple ribbon, under which was tucked a note.
Emma unfolded the paper and read written there, in a bold, black scrawl, “Dare I hope that you will favor me with a short walk this morning? Your uncle has granted his permission. We have much to talk about. Your penitent Jack.”
She stared down at the note until the black ink blurred before her eyes, running into an endless, incoherent dark river.
Much to talk about, indeed.
Her life had changed so completely last night, so irrevocably. She had found her Jack again, yet he had not been at all what she had thought. And no sooner had she discovered that than they found themselves betrothed! Her head still spun when she thought of it. After a night spent sleepless, turning things over in her mind and trying to find a solution, she knew nothing at all. She did not even know her own feelings.
Jack wanted to meet with her. She wanted to see him, too. There was so very much she wanted to ask him, explanations she must have. But how would she act with him? How would he act around her’] After all, despite the wondrous day they had shared, they were really strangers. What would Lady Emma Weston say to Viscount St. Albans?
They were supposed to be betrothed. If she had found herself betrothed to the Jack who danced with her in the light from the illuminations, she would be wild with happiness. She was not so sure about the viscount. Her anger over his deception had faded, leaving her just— confused.
But even though her world had turned tip-over-tail, the routine of life went on around her, seemingly oblivious to her turmoil. Natasha opened the draperies, letting in the pale yellow light of morning, and proceeded to open up the wardrobe and plan Emma’s attire for the day.
“Now, what would you like to wear this morning, my lady?” she asked, riffling through the jumble of muslins and silks. “What is on your schedule for this morning?”
“Schedule?” Emma left off her ruminations on Jack to consider this most mundane subject. “I am not sure what we must do today…”
As if summoned by that magical incantation “schedule,” Madame Ana entered the chamber after a quick knock at the door. Despite the early hour, she was immaculately dressed in her black silk gown with its narrow white lace collar. Her dark hair was as usual drawn back into a neat knot, her spectacles perched on her nose, a neatly penned list in her hands.
As always, Madame Ana made Emma want to sit up straighter and smooth her hair down. In the force of her fierce efficiency, Emma always forgot that Madame Ana was only a few years older than herself. No wonder Aunt Lydia found her indispensable in organizing the family’s social calendar.
“Your aunt asked me to inform you of today’s activities, Lady Emma,” she said.
“Er—yes, of course.” An activity list. If she had had any doubt that dutiful life went on even in the face of surprise betrothals, the list ended them. How she hated lists! She wanted to throw them in the fire and never think of them again.
To cover her fit of pique, she carefully poured out a cup of chocolate and sipped at it.
“The morning is curiously blank,” Madame Ana said. “But after luncheon there is an afternoon musicale and tea with Princess Charlotte. Then, there is a supper…”
And on it went. A ball, dancing with Lord So and So and Sir Something or Other, the white muslin gown and pearls. She nodded, as if paying the utmost attention, but in reality, her mind was flying free on the clouds of a daydream. If she was a married woman, she could do as she liked. She could be done with lists forever!
She envisioned a country house, with comfortable rooms and pretty gardens. Near enough to a town to have company, but not with so many neighbors that there would be a surfeit of social engagements. There could be small suppers with friends, quiet evening
s with books and cards and conversations. One day, there would be children to run and play in those gardens.
It was a lovely picture. But it would truly only be complete with Jack to share it with.
The empty cup clattered down onto the tray as Emma dropped it in surprise at the truth she had so idly uncovered.
She could, just possibly, have a chance here to make these visions true. The Jack she had met was buried somewhere beneath the viscount. He had to be. Surely it could not all have been a lie. Surely not.
She had to talk to him, to hear what he thought of their odd betrothal, what he said about his deception— and hers. Only then could some of the fog lift from her thoughts and let her make a decision.
She moved aside the tray and said, “Natasha, help me up! I must bathe and dress.”
“Surely there is no hurry, Emma dear,” Emma heard her aunt’s voice say. Lydia stepped into the room next to Madame Ana, already dressed for the morning in a pale fawn-colored muslin gown and Indian shawl. “It is still early. Thank you, Madame Ana and Natasha—may I have a few words alone with my niece?”
Natasha and Madame Ana curtsied and withdrew, closing the chamber door behind them. Aunt Lydia came and sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling the bedclothes tight along Emma’s legs. “You have not eaten even your toast.”
Emma looked down at the plate of buttered bread, feeling as if she had truly never seen it before and had no idea what it was for. “I am not very hungry.”
Lydia nodded. “I was just the same when I first met your uncle. Never hungry at all. Are your flowers from Lord St. Albans?”
“Yes.” Emma touched one of the velvety rosebuds with her fingertip.
“Very pretty. Nicholas says you may go for a short walk with him, but there is no need for you to hurry. Better to make him wait for a bit when he gets here.”
Emma bit her lip. “Does that mean that Uncle Nicholas—approves of Lord St. Albans?” That title still felt odd on her tongue, like the name of a stranger.
“Well, that all depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“On what you think of him, my dear. I have not told your uncle of your little adventure the other day, but I have said you might look at the viscount with a favorable eye. Nicholas seems to know a great deal about Lord St. Albans. I must say he does have some reservations, but he would not stand in your way.”
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