A Valentine Wedding (23 page)

The refreshments were meager to say the least: tea,
orgeat, and lemonade. But he reasoned that a night’s dancing would make the lady thirsty. It would be perfectly natural for him to procure her a drink toward the end of the evening, and the matter of a twist of his wrist to add the draft.

She would go home in her carriage. Her maid would put her to bed. And she would sleep through any possible disturbances—through an abduction even, should it prove necessary. He hoped it would not. It was such a messy business and even if she survived interrogation, she could not be allowed to live. Paul was not averse to murder, or assassination as he preferred to consider it, but in general he favored a tidier solution.

He was engaged in desultory conversation with a tongue-tied and extremely young lady when Emma entered the room. He saw immediately that she was not wearing his roses, and a surge of cold anger rose into his throat. It was a calculated insult. There was no other way to interpret it. He’d chosen white roses because they would complement any color she chose to wear, giving her no reason not to carry them. And, indeed, he hadn’t expected her to wish for an excuse. The posy was a courtier’s gesture. He was courting her and she had not shown herself averse to the courtship, quite the reverse.

His anger grew colder when he saw that she was escorted by Lord Alasdair. But there was no sign of his inner turmoil when he excused himself from the very young lady and made his way across the now crowded room. He was smiling a melancholy smile as he bowed before the ladies.

“Madame, I am desolated,” he murmured, raising Emma’s hand to his lips. “I had so hoped my little gift would find favor.”

“It was very pretty, sir.” Emma smiled and took back her hand when it seemed he intended to keep it. “So delicate, in fact, that I couldn’t bear to see the roses wither and die in this heat. They have pride of place on my dresser.”

She turned to Maria, explaining, “Mr. Denis sent me the prettiest posy of white roses, Maria. You must see them when we are at home.”

Alasdair was for a moment unaware that he was frowning fiercely. When he realized, he smoothed his expression to its customary bland neutrality and drawled, “You put us to shame, Denis. Such elegant gestures.”

Paul smiled, a cold flicker of his lips. His eyes were hard. Alasdair’s sardonic tone was impossible to miss. “Lady Emma, will you do me the honor?” He gestured to the dance floor, where a set was forming for the cotillion. “Or must I first be presented to you as a partner?” He gave a rueful little laugh. “I become so confused with these unspoken rules.”

Emma put her hand on his arm. “Only for the waltz, sir. And I shall not waltz tonight.” She smiled up at him, but her eyes were grave. She must make matters clear between them as soon as possible. Alasdair was not looking at all friendly. It was to be hoped there were no brass nymphs handy!

Paul led her into the set. Alasdair glowered.

“Lord Alasdair, allow me to present you to a most charming partner.” Lady Jersey bustled over to him before he could make good his escape. “Bedford’s granddaughter. New on the town, but she conducts herself prettily.”

“Insipidly is what you mean,” Alasdair declared, with perfect truth. “You fill me with dismay, Sally.”

Sally Jersey regarded him with a gleam in her eye.
Alasdair was one of her favorites. “If you don’t like milk and water, sir, I suggest you press your advantage elsewhere.” Her gaze went deliberately to where Emma was dancing with Paul.

“Believe me, I’m trying, Sally,” Alasdair said before he could stop himself. He sighed. “Don’t breathe a word! She’ll run from me like a hart before the hounds if there’s a whisper of it about town.”

“Oh, you know me, Alasdair. Silent as the grave.” Sally smiled with blithe assurance. Alasdair contented himself with a raised eyebrow. Sally Jersey was generally known as “Silence,” because of her inability to keep her mouth shut.

“To which of these debutantes are you intending to sacrifice me?” he asked, raising his eyeglass to survey the room.

“The girl in pink tulle.”

Alasdair shuddered slightly. “I was afraid of that. Why would a redhead wear pink?”

“She’s clearly not lucky enough to be advised by such a one as you,” Sally responded with a touch of acerbity. “Now, don’t be disagreeable. Just because your Emma is engaged with that charming Frenchman.” She put her hand on Alasdair’s arm and led him across to where the pink lady was sitting with her mama.

The movements of the cotillion were sufficiently complicated to prevent too intense or intimate a conversation, and Emma contented herself with small talk with her partner when the dance permitted it, but as the musicians laid down their instruments, she said, “Perhaps you could procure me a glass of lemonade, sir? I own I would prefer to sit out the next dance.”

“Allow me to escort you to a chair.” Paul moved
swiftly, leading her to a secluded corner close to a potted palm. “Ill be back in a minute, madame.”

Emma sat down on a low gilt chair and opened her fan. The interview was going to be uncomfortable, but she was not one to shirk discomfort when duty lay clear.

Paul returned within a very few minutes, bearing a glass of lemonade. He gave it to her and drew up another chair. He’d changed his plans. Emma should drink her sleeping draft now. She would become ill and have to be taken home. There would be more fuss, it would be messier than he liked, but he wasn’t prepared to let this opportunity slip in the light of what he sensed was about to happen.

Emma held the glass in her lap. “Mr. Denis, I am afraid I may have given you the wrong impression.” She twisted the stem between her fingers. “I … I am not looking for a husband,” she said directly. “My brother’s death is still too recent a memory for me to … to …” She took a sip of lemonade. “I had thought I could put it behind me, but I find that I cannot.”

“Your confidence does me honor, madame,” he said gravely. “But you will allow me to be your friend?”

“I have many friends, sir.” She smiled up at him. This was much less unpleasant than she had expected. He was behaving impeccably, more so than she deserved. “I should be honored to include you among them.” She raised the glass to her lips again.

Paul smiled and watched her drink.

“Mr. Denis.” Princess Esterhazy hove into view, a vision in bright yellow silk with turquoise ribbon knots. “Ah, Lady Emma.” She bestowed a chilly smile on Emma. “You must allow me to take Mr. Denis
away for a minute. There’s someone I wish him to meet. A niece of my husband’s great-aunt. You will know of her, Mr. Denis, since you are distantly connected.” She swept the gentleman away before he could demur.

Emma took another sip of lemonade. She saw the duke of Clarence wending his way toward her with a very purposeful air, his eyes rather bloodshot, his nose rather red. He’d presumably wined and dined well. Emma set down her glass, wondering if she could evade the coming encounter. She rose from her chair, intending to slip away to the retiring room, but the duke hailed her in booming tones.

“Ah, Lady Emma. Don’t run away. I most particularly wish to talk with you.” He came up to her, beaming. He bowed his stiff and creaking bow. “Sit down, sit down, dear lady.” He gestured expansively to the chair Emma had vacated. “I’ll sit beside you.”

He eased himself into the chair next to Emma’s. “Not much of a dancer, I’m afraid.” He nodded, beating time with one hand against his plump, satin-clad thigh. “But I enjoy music. Runs in the family, y’know. M’brother Wales is very fond of all kinds. Quite the patron, he is. Don’t know how many composers and such he’s taken under his wing.”

Emma murmured something suitable and picked up her lemonade again.

“You’re counted something of a musician, I understand, Lady Emma,” the duke declared. “You’d be wantin’ your own music room and teachers and suchlike, I’ll be bound. Finest instruments too.” He nodded again. “No need to fear we couldn’t manage it … no, no need to fear that.”

Emma was at a loss. The duke appeared to be talking as if they were betrothed and on their way to the
altar. She didn’t think he’d made a formal proposal, unless she’d been unconscious at the time. She set down her glass and said firmly, “I have an excellent music room in my house on Mount Street, sir. It does me very well, and I have no need of another.”

“Ah … ah …” The duke looked a little nonplussed. “Thought we might come to an understanding, you and I, dear lady.”

Emma unfurled her fan. “Sir, forgive me, but I’m at a loss to understand you.” She rose from her chair. “I beg your pardon, but I must retire for a few minutes. Would you excuse me?” She bowed and hastened away, leaving the royal personage to scratch his head, wondering if he hadn’t made himself quite clear. It was marriage, not a liaison, that he’d been proposing.

Emma fled to the retiring room, much inclined to hide in there until she could reasonably go home. She felt beset on all sides. The room was empty except for the attendants, and she went behind the screen to use the commode, thankful for the moment of peace and quiet.

It didn’t last long.

Voices soon came from beyond the screen. Emma recognized Lady Melrose’s voice immediately. Her tone was pitched a little high and sharp, as if she were annoyed about something.

“Alasdair tells me she intends to lionize in a racing curricle,” she declared. “He says she’s as vulgar as Letty Lade. She creates a scandal to beat all scandals, and then returns to society flaunting her wealth, expecting every man to fall at her feet.”

“Clarence is dangling after her,” Lady Bellingham declared. “But that’s only to be expected.”

“Well, if she wants a royal title, she couldn’t do
better,” Lady Melrose trilled maliciously. “Unless, of course, she’s set her sights on the prince of Wales.”

Emma sat seething behind the screen.

“Lord Alasdair seems to be dancing attendance on her these days,” spoke a woman whose voice Emma didn’t recognize. “You’d think once bitten twice shy!” She dropped her voice a little and added spitefully, “You don’t fear a rival there, I trust, my dear Julia.”

Julia Melrose said sharply, “Alasdair’s opinion of Emma Beaumont has to be heard to be believed. He’s forced into this odious position as her trustee.” Her trilling laugh sounded again, but at a distance as if she was moving away. “Believe me, my friends, he can’t wait until she finds herself a husband and he’s free of her.”

There was a short silence, then Lady Bellingham said, “I think our dear Julia expected Lord Alasdair to come up to scratch well before now.”

“Oh, that one will never marry Julia,” the other woman said. “Why should he indeed, when she’s so anxious to give him what he wants without a ring?” Both women laughed uproariously, as only the privacy of the retiring room allowed them. Their laughter and voices faded as they followed in Lady Melrose’s wake.

Emma emerged from the screen, white with hurt and anger. So Alasdair discussed her with Lady Melrose. He’d told his mistress about her racing curricle. Told her he couldn’t wait to be rid of his responsibilities to her. What else did he tell her? Did he discuss how she made love? Did he compare her with his mistress?
With all his other mistresses?

She felt dizzy and sat down on a thimble-footed stool before the mirror. Her face was very pale. Her head spun.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” a hovering attendant asked anxiously.

“Could you bring me a glass of water, please?” The retiring room seemed very hot and a strange heaviness was creeping up the back of her neck.

Emma took the glass the attendant brought her and pressed its coolness against her forehead. She began to feel a little better in body if not in spirit. How could Alasdair have discussed her with his mistress? It was the ultimate insult. She’d accepted the fact of the other women in his life. She would never trust him again, but she’d made some kind of mental and emotional accommodation whereby she could take advantage of the good things in their relationship and not risk hurt. Or so she’d thought.

But just the thought of him talking her over with another woman made her burn with fury. She drank the water and tentatively stood up, smoothing down her skirts. All her pleasure in the day was gone; every scrap of the delicious languor of fulfillment was banished. She felt drained, emptied of all emotions except anger and disillusion.

She left the retiring room and was immediately assailed by the heavy odors of perfume, of overheated bodies. Even the music seemed unnaturally loud. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself.

“Emma, what is it? You’re pale as a ghost.” Alasdair appeared out of the mist that was clouding her eyes.

She rubbed at her eyes, trying to clear away the mist, but it didn’t help. “I feel sick,” she said, hearing how plaintive and almost childlike she sounded. She didn’t want Alasdair anywhere near her, but suddenly she hadn’t the strength to tell him so.

He had fetched Maria, summoned the carriage,
wrapped her in her cloak, and supported her to the carriage in what seemed a very short time. She lay back against the squabs, closing her eyes, drifting in and out of sleep.

“I knew she should never have gone out this evening,” Maria said to Alasdair as he handed her into the carriage after Emma. “After getting caught in the storm. I do so hope it isn’t a quinsy.”

“Emma’s barely had a day’s illness in her life,” Alasdair said, but he was unable to hide his own unease, and the guilty feeling that he had in some way been responsible for Emma’s drenching that afternoon. It was ridiculous to feel so, of course; he hadn’t had control over the weather. But he felt it nevertheless.

“Send me word how she is in the morning,” he directed Maria, leaning into the carriage as she sat down opposite Emma. “And don’t hesitate to send for Dr. Baillie.”

“No, indeed not. I shall send for him in the night if necessary.” Maria leaned over and touched Emma’s forehead. “She doesn’t seem feverish. I think she’s asleep.”

Alasdair closed the door and stepped back to the flagway, signaling to the coachman to drive on. He frowned as the carriage bowled away.
Asleep.
Why in the world would she fall asleep in the middle of a ball? Unless, of course, it was a symptom of some illness. He thought of typhoid and shuddered.