Lady in disguise

by Amanda McCabe

  But she had not, and now she was groping about in the dark. Literally.

  She must have made some low, involuntary moan of misery, because Jack said, in a concerned tone, “Are you quite all right, Emma?”

  “Oh, yes,” she squeaked. “Yes. I just wish the—the party was not so far away.”

  He put his arm about her shoulders and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “I am sure the coachman is going as fast as he can. I am sure we will not be set upon by highwaymen or wild wolves here!”

  “That is not what I am afraid of,” Emma muttered in acute frustration.

  “What did you say, m’dear? I am afraid I could not quite hear you.”

  “I said—oh, blast!” Emma could no longer contain herself. She feared she was simply terrible at playing the coquette. No one was watching her now, judging her on her social impropriety; the direct way was surely best.

  She reached her arms around Jack’s neck and pulled him to her, drawing him down to meet her kiss. She put everything she had learned from him into that kiss, every bit of the passion she was feeling.

  For an instant, Jack’s shoulders stiffened with surprise, but then he quickly moved into the spirit of things. His own arms came around her waist, pulling her across his lap, bending her head back against his shoulder.

  The carriage hit a rut in the road, jolting them apart just as things were truly becoming interesting. Jack lifted his head from hers and stared down at her, his breath coming fast. The only light was a beam of chalky gray-white moonlight, and it cast an unearthly glow over his sharpened features. He stared at her almost as if he had never seen her before, as if she were some elfin creature just landed in his arms.

  “By God, Emma, I do not know what has gotten into you,” he whispered hoarsely. “But I like it.”

  Emma laughed and dropped her head back to rest against the carriage cushions. Relief flowed through her like a cool wash of rain, and she felt like herself again. Like she and Jack were themselves, and everything would be all right. Everything would work out as it should, whether she swayed her hips and wore low-cut gowns or not.

  “Oh, Jack,” she said. “I do not know what has gotten into me, either. It must be your pernicious influence. You are very bad for me.”

  He chuckled and bent his head to kiss her shoulder, the first gentle swell of her breast. Emma shivered and closed her eyes in complete delight.

  “I think you are the one who is bad for me” he said against her skin.

  Vague snatches of Madame Ana’s advice floated through Emma’s fog-shrouded mind, and she followed them as if mesmerized, kicking aside her skirt to run her leg up and along the length of Jack’s. Her silk stocking caught on the fine wool of his trousers in a delicate friction. Jack groaned, and Emma smiled. So, some of that advice was good, after all.

  But the delicious moment was cut all too short, when the carriage turned and slowed as it made its way to the front doors of Watley Hall.

  Jack sat back and helped Emma pull herself upright. She reached up to smooth her hair and arranged her gown to rights, straightening her necklace and disentangling her earrings from her curls. Jack performed his own hurried toilette, his breathing ragged in the shadows.

  Emma drew her shawl closer around her shoulders and watched out the window as the doors to the house opened and their own footmen jumped down to help them alight from the carriage.

  “I am sorry,” Emma said. “I picked a very poor time to, er, express my feelings.”

  Jack laughed and drew her closer for one last quick kiss. “My dear, please feel free to ‘express your feelings’ any time you like. Except perhaps when we are at church or some such. I do have my reputation to maintain, you know. I would not like you to besmirch it.”

  Emma choked on her own laughter and smacked at his shoulder.

  He caught her hand in his. “And you may want to restrain your lustful impulses at supper tonight. I know it will be hard to resist my handsome face…”

  Emma slapped at him again. Jack just laughed, and jumped down from the open carriage door. He reached back to help her out, holding her against him for just a moment longer than was strictly proper before lowering her feet to the ground.

  He offered her his arm politely, as if they had been doing nothing more in the carriage than discussing the weather. “Shall we go in, Lady St. Albans?”

  ———

  “Oh, my dear Lady Emma! How glorious to see you again. You are every bit as lovely as you promised to be when you were a child.” Lady Watley, a tall, imperiously beautiful matron in a dark green satin gown and towering green and gold striped turban, swooped through the guests in her drawing room to kiss Emma on both cheeks. “Oh, but I cannot call you Lady Emma any longer, can I? It is Lady St. Albans now.”

  Emma smiled, drawing on every bit of her social training to be properly polite in the midst of this whirlwind. It was quite bewildering to be taken from the intense feelings in the dark carriage to this crowded gathering, this effusive welcome.

  “Lady Watley,” she said, returning the woman’s greeting kiss. “I am very glad to see you again as well.”

  “You must call me Aunt Amelia, as you did when you were a child. But you do not remember that, of course; you were so small when we lost your dear parents. You are the very image of your mother!” Lady Watley reached out with a tiny, casual movement that flicked the lace ruffle at Emma’s neckline back into place.

  Emma had not even realized it was still in disarray. “And this must be your handsome new husband! At least I hope that it is.”

  “Yes, of course.” Emma, hoping fervently that the rest of her clothes were straight, drew Jack forward. “This is my husband, Viscount St. Albans. Jack, Lady Watley was a great friend of my mother’s.”

  “We were bosom bows.” Lady Watley held her hand out for Jack to bow over and gave an almost girlish giggle when he flashed her a flirtatious smile. “And you, Lord St. Albans, are famous even here in the country! I will be a renowned hostess for securing you for my little supper. It was so dear of you both to interrupt your newly-wed idyll to come here.”

  Emma hoped Jack would not launch into Marlowe at the mention of the word “idyll.”

  He did not. “It is our pleasure, Lady Watley,” Jack answered. “We are hoping to spend as much time as possible at Weston Manor in the future, and we wish to know more of our neighbors.”

  “Then you have come to the right place. Everyone who is anyone is here this evening, and most of them knew your family, Emma.” Lady Watley tucked Emma’s arm through hers and drew her forward into the gathering. “Come, let me introduce you. Or should I say reintroduce you?”

  Emma, conscious of Jack always beside her on her other side, followed in Lady Watley’s wake. It was like being drawn forward by a green satin tidal wave. They met the vicar they had seen tending his garden on the day they arrived, his wife, a local baronet and his wife and four daughters, an earl and countess newly returned from Town, their dandyish son—and an elderly viscount who wanted to tell them all about the philosophical treatise he was writing. It was dizzying and confusing, but also delightful—they all offered reminiscences of her parents, memories of her as a young child.

  She just hoped she could remember all their names later.

  “And now, my dears, I would like you to meet your own neighbor! He surprised us by arriving from Town just a few days ago. This is Sir Jeremy Ashbey. His family’s estate lies right next to Weston Manor.” Lady Watley reached out to catch a gentleman’s blue velvet-clad arm and draw him to her side. “All of the local young ladies have tried for years to catch his eye, to no avail! But now that you are here, Emma, perhaps you can help me in a spot of matchmaking for him.”

  Emma stared in shock at Sir Jeremy’s familiar features and pale hair, features she had hoped were left behind in London. She could feel her smile slipping sideways, and struggled to hold onto it, to maintain her polite expression and not show her bewilderment. She felt Jack’s protective clasp o
n her arm, felt him move up next to her.

  Lady Watley chattered on, not even noticing the sudden tension in the air of her drawing room.

  “We have already met Sir Jeremy,” Emma managed to say. “In London.”

  Sir Jeremy’s stare did not move from her, but Emma could not meet that unwavering look. She stared past his shoulder at a painting on the wall—a still life of sliced fruit and a dead duck.

  “I had the great honor of attending Lord and Lady St. Albans’s wedding,” Sir Jeremy said. “Their very sudden wedding.”

  “Oh, of course!” Lady Watley cried. “I should have known you would meet in Town. So many exciting things going on there now. You must tell us all about it.” A bell chimed, interrupting the stream of her words. “Time for supper! I do hope you care for lamb. My chef is quite the wizard with mint sauce. Mr. Smithson, would you escort me in?”

  Emma took Jack’s arm and moved automatically toward the dining room, following the trail of Lady Wat-ley’s green and gold train. She still smiled, still held her head up as if she was having a marvelous time. But some of the luster was gone from this homecoming, this beginning of public life as a couple with her husband.

  What was Sir Jeremy doing here? Why did she have to see him again? Had he followed her? He was meant to be in London, at the embassy.

  As Jack helped her into her seat at the table, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Do not worry, my dear. He won’t bother you. He cannot ruin this evening in any way.”

  She smiled at him and reached up to touch his cheek. He sat down beside her, a solid, reassuring presence next to her. He was right. This was their evening, and no one, especially no spurned suitors, could touch it. She took a sip of her wine and laughed at a joke the vicar was telling. This was a perfectly ordinary supper party, and she would treat it as such. She would completely ignore the looks Sir Jeremy Ashbey was sending her down the table.

  ———

  What the devil was that man doing here?

  Jack drank his wine, ate the courses that were set before him, talked and laughed just as he was expected to, but all the time he was aware of Sir Jeremy Ashbey just down the table from them. He wanted to move closer to Emma, to put his arm around her. She also talked, sipped at her wine and smiled, yet Jack could see the careful stiffness of her slim shoulders, the pointed way she did not look in Sir Jeremy’s direction.

  But he looked at her, and Jack did not like it at all. He wasn’t exactly sure why the man so unsettled him. A woman as lovely as Emma was certain to have had other admirers. Most men, though, once they lost the object of their interest to another, would bow out with good grace and turn their attention to a different lady. They would not follow her on her wedding trip.

  And surely that was what Ashbey were doing, family house in the neighborhood or no. Following Emma— watching her.

  Her hand trembled just a bit as she placed her wine glass back on the table, though her smile remained beautifully in place. Jack reached out to touch her fingers, briefly, reassuringly. She gave him a grateful glance.

  Jack wished this blasted supper was over, that they were alone in their own home.

  “It is so very nice to see a young newlywed couple so fond of each other,” the vicar’s pretty, round little wife said, with a romantic sigh.

  Emma laughed and blushed the palest of sunset pinks. Jack wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Indeed it is, my dear!” the vicar agreed. “And we are all very glad you have decided to settle in our fair county. Such welcome additions!”

  “I am really not sure where we are going to settle permanently,” Emma said. “Though I do hope we will spend much time at Weston Manor. I had not realized how homesick I was until I returned there!”

  “Of course, of course,” said the vicar. “And I hope you will join us for services on Sunday.”

  “We are looking forward to it,” Emma assured him.

  “Reverend Mr. Smithson has been an excellent shepherd to our flock,” said Lady Watley. “His homilies are always so inspirational.”

  The vicar laughed. “You are too kind, Lady Watley. I merely do my best.”

  “You are far too modest!” Lady Watley admonished, and gestured to the servants to bring out the dessert. “We are all proud to be part of your congregation. Though we have not seen Sir Jeremy’s mother or sister at services for quite some time.”

  Everyone who heard her words turned to look at Sir Jeremy Ashbey. Forced to move his gaze from Emma and stare out at the company, he turned a bit pale.

  “Yes,” he finally said. “I fear my mother has not been entirely well of late, and Maria has been taking care of her.”

  “Oh, I am sorry to hear that!” Lady Watley exclaimed. “Perhaps I should come visit her and give Miss Ashbey a bit of a rest?”

  “No!” Sir Jeremy said, too loudly. He seemed to notice the surprised glances of the other diners, for he went on in a quieter voice, “You are very kind, Lady Watley, but I fear my mother is not quite well enough for callers. I am sure Maria would like to visit you here, though.”

  “I would enjoy that very much,” said Lady Watley; then the talk turned to other topics as everyone finished their lemon trifle.

  Perhaps that was all there was to it, then, Jack thought. Sir Jeremy had just come back to take care of his family. Jack doubted it, though. He doubted it very much.

  ———

  Emma was very glad when Lady Watley rose and led the ladies back to the drawing room for tea, leaving the gentlemen to their port. An evening she had been looking forward to, a time to become reacquainted with old friends, had become a strain due to Sir Jeremy’s unexpected appearance. She still did not care for the way he watched her from his pale green eyes, as if expecting her to do or say something.

  She was sorry to hear of his family’s troubles, of course, but that did not mean he had to watch her so. She shivered despite the summer warmth of the breeze from the open windows.

  “Are you cold, my dear Emma?” Lady Watley asked, sitting down next to her on the satin settee to hand her a cup of tea.

  “No, not at all. It is perfectly comfortable in here.” Emma sipped at the strong brew. “A lovely evening altogether, Aunt Amelia. Thank you so much for inviting us.”

  “Oh, pish! I was very glad to hear you had returned. It somehow seems to make our little circle complete again.” Lady Watley sipped at her own tea and gave a little sigh. “We are quite close-knit here, as you can see. So I was very sorry to hear Sir Jeremy speak of his mother’s illness.”

  “Hm,” Emma murmured softly. “Indeed. Are you very good friends with Lady Ashbey?”

  “Friends? I am not sure one can be friends with Lady Ashbey. She has kept rather to herself, ever since her husband died several years ago. But she is a part of the neighborhood, and Maria is a sweet girl, if very quiet.” Lady Watley gave Emma a smile. “Lady Ashbey did always seem to like your mother, though, and always attended her gatherings. And her son seemed so fond of you when you were children, always following you about, fetching you sweetmeats and such. Do you not remember him from those years?”

  Emma shook her head. She really did not want to talk about Sir Jeremy or any affection he may have held for her. “No, I fear not.”

  “Ah, well, you were so small then. Things here must seem so strange to you, after living in Russia for so long! Are there really bears and wolves roaming the streets there? And snow all year around?”

  Emma laughed, glad of the change of topic to one she was comfortable with—her other home. They talked of Russia, of her aunt and uncle, until the men came to rejoin the ladies.

  “Well, we are glad you have come back to England,” Lady Watley said, rising as Jack came to stand beside his wife. “And with such a handsome husband in tow! We must persuade Mrs. Smithson to play the pianoforte for some country dances, so I may partner with Lord St. Albans.”

  Jack gave her his charming smile. “It would be my honor, Lady Watley.”

  “H
andsome and accommodating!” Lady Watley twittered, then moved off in her green satin cloud.

  Jack sat beside Emma and took her hand in his. “Are you quite all right, my dear?” he whispered. “Would you like to go home?”

  Emma was all right, now that he was with her. Even the presence of Sir Jeremy, talking with the earl’s dandyish son over by the fireplace, did not matter one whit. She smiled and said, “And miss the dancing? Certainly not!”

  Nothing was going to mar the rest of their evening, she determined. Nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The house was quiet when they arrived back from the supper party, without even the butler or a footman to greet them. Since they had not been out in the evening before, there was no formal routine set, but Emma did not mind what her aunt would have decried as slackness. She was just happy to be back in their own safe, warm haven.

  In the darkness of the foyer, lit only with one small lamp set on the table, Emma turned to Jack and moved into his arms. She buried her nose in his shirtfront, inhaling his clean scent of starch, soap and brandy. She dropped her shawl, letting it tangle at their feet.

  He held her, too, rocking her gently and pressing kisses to her hair, her temples, her cheek. “You looked lovely tonight,” he said, his voice enticingly low. “Not that you don’t look lovely at all other times, as well…”

  Emma laughed. “Thank you, Jack. And so did you. Look lovely, that is.”

  “I’m sorry Sir Jeremy Ashbey appeared there. What could the man have been thinking? I will have to have a conversation with him.”

  A conversation’} “No, dear, don’t do that. We shall just ignore him as if he did not exist. And he doesn’t, not here.” She tilted her head back to stare up at him. The flickering light of the lamp cast shadows across his sharp cheekbones, his eyes, the lock of hair that fell over his forehead. He was so unbearably beautiful to her that it made her very heart ache. It made her want to cry, but it also made her happier than she could ever have imagined being. “No one exists here but you and me.”