“I thought I heard something,” one of the women remarked.
“Probably a servant.”
The others bowed their heads, returning to their food, but Miss Braunschweig nudged the plain-looking woman beside her.
“Perhaps,” the plain-looking woman said in a trembling voice, “it was an insect.”
“A-an insect?” Lady Henrietta stammered.
“A grasshopper can be quite noisy. They are fascinating creatures. I do adore grasshoppers. In fact, I adore insects of all kind. Particularly,” she raised her voice, “earthworms.”
Earthworms.
The word had always sounded innocuous before. Earthworms had no teeth, and though they slivered in a manner resembling a snake, one never feared they might wrap one in their grasp like a boa constrictor until one’s ribs crunched and one wasn’t conscious of anything else, or that they might inject one with a fatal poison that would immediately turn one’s life into agony before one soon expired.
But why was this woman talking about earthworms?
He hadn’t even expected Miss Braunschweig would speak about earthworms. Why should she? She shouldn’t think she was being observed by the marquess. No one should. He certainly hadn’t imagined she would nudge this other, clearly shy woman to speak about earthworms with a glee Hugh assumed was feigned.
Did they think he was observing them? And why was Miss Braunschweig assisting this other woman?
He frowned, as his mind sped. He glanced at Jasper.
Naturally.
His friend had gone to the kitchen, the center of all gossip. The servants knew they weren’t supposed to speak about the people upstairs, but Jasper’s presence must have been obvious to any servants the guests had brought. Had one of the servants mentioned something to Miss Braunschweig?
Damnation.
This was decidedly not what he’d intended to happen.
“Heavens.” Lady Henrietta clasped her hand over her chest. “Earthworms. I’ve never heard something so dreadful.”
Miss Carberry jutted out her chin and glanced in the direction of the wall. “I find them fascinating.”
“There is no reason to jest about such despicable creatures,” Lady Henrietta said. “Conversation should be relegated to respectable topics.”
“Earthworms are part of the world,” Miss Carberry said.
“If you spend your time in the world looking at earthworms, your head is inclined in the wrong direction. I am quite surprised you do not know better. Not that I planned to give another contestant advice, but when one is confronted with such ignorance, one’s charitable instincts truly are compelled to instigate.”
This was not going well.
This was his fault. He’d only mentioned earthworms as a topic to halt Miss Braunschweig’s incessant questions. His stomach felt queasy. He glanced at Jasper, but the man’s lips had turned into a decided smirk.
“I suppose you didn’t do a brilliant job of vetting everyone,” Jasper whispered, and his eyes glimmered dangerously.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE EVENING WAS PROCEEDING in a decidedly unideal manner.
Emma had snuck into the marquess’s bedroom. She’d conversed with his valet, risking her reputation. She’d even procured private information from the kitchen.
The point of that effort was for Miss Carberry to be a success. Mrs. Carberry had paid Bertrand handsomely for Emma’s services, and she wasn’t going to let either of them down.
And yet... This evening was no success.
If this event was intended for the marquess to discover who was most at ease in a social setting, the answer would certainly not be Miss Carberry.
The Scottish heiress squirmed in her seat and shifted her legs underneath the table, as if her discomfort could be solved by shifting her position slightly, rather than doing any of the normal things people did to make acquaintanceships.
It didn’t matter.
If the marquess could hear Miss Carberry, perhaps he would be enthralled with Miss Carberry’s defense of earthworms and expounding–heavily detailed expounding–on the merits of these subterranean slithering creatures.
Emma could only hope so.
Miss Carberry glanced at Emma, her lower lip wobbling slightly, and Emma shot her an encouraging smile.
“Well,” Miss Carberry said finally. “There are many things to admire about earthworms.”
“I wonder if you have a dearth of role models,” Miss Stonehutton said with a smile her eyes did not replicate. She turned to Emma. “Did you come together?”
“Yes,” Emma said.
“You’re friends?” Miss Stonehutton pressed.
Miss Carberry’s shoulders tensed, but Emma jutted out her chin. “Indeed.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t know anyone else,” Lady Henrietta said. “She does have an...accent. German, is it?”
Emma nodded. “Though I’m Austrian.”
“I knew it,” Lady Henrietta said proudly. “There aren’t that many Austrians in Britain.”
Lady Letitia leaned forward. “Which part of the Austrian Empire?”
“Oh, I’m just from the mountains.”
Lady Letitia raised an eyebrow. “The Austrian Empire is filled with those.”
Emma braced herself. Bertrand and she had been lucky before. The Austrian Empire had been a mystery to most English people, offering no easy access. Even after the war with Bonaparte had ended, people had been wary of Europe, too accustomed to despising the continent to delve into holiday planning there. The brutal weather the following year had hardly dissuaded them.
But now people were beginning to forget the war, or at least they were accustomed to not hearing vile things about the continent. The Austrian Empire was now accessible, with some people speaking fondly of the Congress of Vienna, forgetting their shock when they’d discovered during those series of vital diplomatic meetings that Bonaparte had escaped his island and would need to be recaptured.
She’d warned Bertrand more people might become familiar with Austrians. It didn’t help that the English royal family spoke German, prompting eager sycophants to make the journey to the German-speaking portions of the continent in order to best charm the royals.
Bertrand had liked to be vague about their identities, giving a mysterious smile if anyone asked whether he was related to the House of Habsburg, murmuring he wasn’t going to flaunt his family. He’d smile mysteriously as if he was aware of his false modesty, though the only thing he was doing was lying.
It was all terribly tiresome, but Bertrand wasn’t stuck in a castle with a group of competitive women. Discovering Emma was a fraud would certainly be a competitive advantage.
Emma extended a smile she feared was overly strained. “I do hope you liked my home country. Are you acquainted with Scotland as well? Scotland is ever so wonderful. In fact, Miss Carberry is from there.”
“You know Scotland?” Lady Letitia asked.
“Well–er–not precisely. But I’ve heard good things,” she added hastily.
“Ah. She knows how to listen,” Miss Stonehutton said. “Imagine that.”
Emma swallowed hard.
Lady Henrietta turned her attention to Miss Carberry. “How do you like Surrey?”
“It’s nice,” Miss Carberry said meekly, as if she had less to say now she’d finished reciting every fact about earthworms she’d memorized.
In fact, Emma had been impressed with just how much knowledge Miss Carberry had been able to absorb and import. She’d imagined Miss Carberry would satisfy herself with a simple sentiment that all creatures, even earthworms, were worthy of interest.
Miss Carberry had given more.
Much more.
And now all the other women stared with blatant curiosity.
“I think we can be assured neither of those women can be marchionesses.” Miss Stonehutton smirked and leaned closer to Miss Carberry. “Did you think coming to this festivity would make it easier for you to land him? How sweetly naive. D
readfully unsophisticated.”
The other women giggled.
“This is a competition, darlings. I suggest you leave. If your face reddens like that when the marquess isn’t even in the room, I don’t want to think of what it can do when he’s here. Though I suppose you do have experience being ugly.” Miss Stonehutton shrugged. “Perhaps you’ll be just fine.”
“You mustn’t say that,” Lady Letitia scolded, but her eyes glimmered, as if more amused than horrified.
Emma glanced at Miss Carberry. The woman’s cheeks were reddening. Indeed, the back of her neck was becoming curiously red. Miss Carberry’s skin glistened, as if this were July in the Mediterranean, even though it was nighttime and they were in a castle.
“You’re making her uncomfortable,” Lady Letitia said.
“Am I?” Miss Stonehutton gave an innocent expression. “In that case, Miss Carberry, save yourself some dignity and leave now. After all, if you haven’t got much dignity to begin with, you do not want to lose any.”
“Especially not because of earthworms,” Lady Henrietta said with an added grimace.
The wall moved.
It creaked and groaned and did everything walls were not supposed to do, except in the most gruesome stories.
“What’s happening?” Miss Stonehutton fanned herself. Her normally steely gaze was less steely. Since she’d been the most unpleasant, perhaps she thought a demon itself was coming to punish her. “Is this common in England?”
“Moving walls?” Lady Letitia scoffed. “Not common.”
“Perhaps it’s an earthworm,” Lady Henrietta added uncertainly, her eyes widening.
Miss Carberry gave a pedantic sigh. “Earthworms do not possess the muscular capacity to move walls.”
“I don’t think humans do,” Miss Stonehutton said.
“It’s a spirit!” Lady Henrietta squealed.
Voices sounded.
The voices didn’t seem particularly celestial. Though Emma’s brother seldom brought her to church, she was quite certain angels were not predisposed to curse.
“Damnation,” a voice said. “I spilled my brandy. Give a man some warning.”
“Behave,” another voice said.
This voice was familiar, and tension jolted through Emma’s body.
Two figures stepped from the wall.
The first had red hair, bright green eyes and a stained shirt, and the second... Well, the second person she recognized.
It was the valet.
No wonder his voice had seemed familiar.
She brushed away the thought that she’d characterized his voice in his mind as ideal. Some thoughts should not be dwelled upon. The last thing she needed was to go goggle-eyed over the marquess’s valet: it was the sort of thing of which her brother and Mrs. Carberry would disapprove.
The other ladies rose rapidly, as if ready for him to admire their dresses, rather than continuing to hide them beneath the long table and all its tempting delights that had nothing to do with bodices and flounces.
Why would the marquess’s valet be hiding behind a secret door? Was the humidity more suitable for ironing? And who precisely was the man beside him?
She would have assumed him to be the marquess himself, but this man had red hair, and none of the portraits had shown anyone with red hair. She tilted her head, wondering if the redness could be explained as a trick of the light.
“Lord Metcalfe.” Lady Henrietta curtsied.
The other women followed her action quickly.
“I hope you’ve been enjoying your dinner,” the valet said.
Well.
It had been clear he’d been prone to confidence earlier. Still. Emma hadn’t expected him to actually address everyone. That was a confidence most servants were trained not to express, even if their chests were sufficiently puffed from glances in mirrors and they were cognizant of their skills at folding.
The odd feeling in Emma’s stomach grew, even though the food hadn’t been the least bit poor, and her stomach should be feeling happy and content.
She surveyed the valet and his companion. Why would the valet be hiding with an aristocrat from another house? She’d expected the marquess might be observing them, but she hadn’t supposed that he would assign the task to his valet. No matter his confidence at his valet’s ability to keep his clothes mended and his boots polished, he may have desired to pick a wife himself.
The dull feeling in her stomach changed.
Unfortunately, it did not vanish.
It grew stronger and turned into a sharp ache that made breathing an athletic feat.
Was it possible this man was not the valet after all? That this man was...the marquess?
“Well, I for one want to tell you how perfectly thrilled I am to be invited here,” Miss Stonehutton announced. “Your place is ever so nice.”
Emma hoped the redheaded man would answer. She hoped he would thank the valet for his assistance and express excitement for the rest of the house party.
“Thank you,” the not-a-valet-after-all said.
Emma’s heart tumbled downward.
She glanced at him, and he gave her an awkward smile.
Emma closed her eyes, as if the action might keep the flame that seemed to have set upon her cheeks from scorching her, and as if she might will him and their past meeting away altogether.
When she opened her eyes, he remained before her.
She should have guessed he was the marquess.
She’d believed the housekeeper when she’d said the marquess was absent today, and she’d assumed the only other person who would be in the man’s dressing room would be his valet.
Instead, she’d openly been caught sneaking in his dressing room, and to make things even worse, she’d asked him herself for information on the marquess.
And then...
She glanced at him.
For some reason he didn’t seem to desire to meet her eyes. It was almost as if he felt...guilty.
Her eyes narrowed.
He’d told her the marquess had a passion for earthworms and insects, and she’d encouraged Miss Carberry to announce a deep passion for those very same, ever so controversial, hobbies.
And then the other women had teased Miss Carberry.
It was Emma’s fault.
And Lord Metcalfe’s fault.
He shouldn’t have told her such falsities. He’d negatively impacted Miss Carberry, and that was deplorable.
“I am happy to meet you,” the marquess said. “I am Lord Metcalfe, and this is my dearest friend, the Duke of Jevington.”
The women fluttered their eyelashes.
“I have no attention of marrying,” the duke said hastily.
There was an awkward silence.
“I would like to establish some rules,” Lord Metcalfe said. “Well—one rule, to be precise. One important rule.”
Confusion flitted over the guests’ faces.
Lord Metcalfe glanced at a vase filled with roses. He hesitated for a moment, and Emma had the odd sense he was counting. Finally, he marched over to the vase and grabbed the roses. Water splashed onto the tablecloth, and the women’s eyes widened.
“I will give each woman who is staying here a rose,” the marquess announced. “One woman will not receive one. One woman is leaving.”
The Duke of Jevington’s eyebrows rose, and the women’s faces paled, as if seeking to compete with the ivory tablecloth.
Emma’s own heart clenched. Was he going to announce that he’d caught her trespassing in his chambers? Or was he going to send poor Miss Carberry home?
“Please line up,” the marquess ordered.
The women did so hastily, and there was a flurry of pastel and ivory. Emma and Miss Carberry joined them, even though Emma’s legs wobbled, as if she were attempting to make her way across a ship’s deck.
“How can one of us leave?” Lady Letitia asked. “That’s not done.”
“My rule is kindness,” the marquess said. “You must
be kind to one another. I’m afraid most of you have been lacking in that quality tonight, but one of you in particular has lacked that.”
He strode by the line of women. Water continued to drip from the damp roses, though somehow he didn’t appear the least ridiculous.
The man was too handsome for that.
Emma had thought him appealing before, but then he’d been wearing buckskin breeches. Now he was wearing formal attire. Emma’s heart beat quickened, and she wasn’t convinced it was entirely attributed to nervousness.
Lord Metcalfe stopped at the beginning of the line. “What’s your name?”
“Miss Priscilla Dunham.”
Lord Metcalfe nodded. “I am happy to have you here. Will you please accept this rose?”
Miss Priscilla Dunham looked suspiciously at the dripping rose.
“The rose is a symbol of my hopes for the house party,” the marquess said, perhaps sensing her trepidation.
Miss Priscilla Dunham took the rose hastily, only grimacing slightly when her fingers collided with a thorn. “Thank you.”
Lord Metcalfe bowed, and then proceeded to offer a rose to the woman beside her.
Finally, only three people lacked roses. Emma would feel better if two of those people weren’t Miss Carberry and herself.
Miss Carberry trembled, no doubt thinking of what her mother might say if she had to leave the house party after the first night.
The marquess stopped before Miss Carberry, and then, thankfully gave her a rose.
“Shocking,” Miss Stonehutton muttered. “Eccentric Englishmen.”
Lord Metcalfe frowned. “You will note I only have one more rose.”
He raised it unnecessarily in the air, as if he desired the other guests to gasp.
Emma was aware he had only one rose. She was also dreadfully aware she didn’t have one.
“What is your name?” the marquess asked her.
“Miss Emma Braunschweig,” she said, grateful the marquess had not decided to declare they’d met some hours earlier.
“Will you accept this rose, Miss Braunschweig?”
Relief surged through her, and her legs buckled.
Lord Metcalfe’s lips twitched.
“I-I accept.”
“Good.” He pressed it into her hand, and her heartbeat quickened at the contact.
A Kiss for the Marquess (Wedding Trouble Book 5) Page 7