Cardiff Siblings 01 - Seven Minutes in Devon (8 page)

The man couldn’t be a total
degenerate, since he wasn’t looking at Morgan’s scars as though she
was a leper. Better than could be said for a few of the others
present who’d already had their introductions. Finding appropriate
ladies and gentlemen for his sister to interact with would have to
become Aidan’s new personal mission, given the scarcity of people
who could look upon her without wincing.

“
It’s a pleasure to make
your acquaintance, my lord,” Morgan said. With each new person who
came to her, her enthusiasm grew. She couldn’t see the disgust on
their faces. She couldn’t know better than to think they were all
as eager to meet her as she was to meet them. Her naïveté was both
a blessing and a curse.

“
Hardly as pleasant as
making yours, my lady.” The smooth-talking man bent his dark-haired
head low, leaning in as though to share a conspiratorial moment. “I
can assure you, I’m a far better person to know than my
brother.”

She laughed, drawing several
scandalized eyes around the room. “And is your brother here? I
can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction, so I can’t
speak to the truth of your claim.”

Slowly but surely, the others who,
moments ago, had been so scandalized by her daring to laugh,
resumed their own conversations and forgot about Morgan at least
for the time being.

For several moments, Aidan stood there
watching the two without really hearing them. His participation
seemed unnecessary, and he was not one to interject himself where
he was not wanted.

Watching her thus felt so odd. Morgan
acted as though she’d hardly spent a day outside the influence of
society. She was talking with ease, even flirting, however much
Aidan hated to be present to witness such a thing. She seemed
natural in this setting, despite her disfiguration and blindness
and isolation. How natural would she seem if she were aware of the
hushed voices and averted gazes that followed her every
movement?

Blast, but he had to learn how to
trust her again. How to let her go.

Since she was otherwise occupied with
Muldaire, Aidan allowed his attention to stray to Miss Hathaway
again.

A blond-haired gentleman walked over
to her. Who was he again? Aidan remembered meeting him, but he’d
already almost banished him from his mind. Sir…something or other.
A man with kind eyes and a gentle spirit…one of the few like
Muldaire who had not blanched upon realization of Morgan’s
disfigurement. Perhaps he was a man Aidan ought to encourage in
that regard.

But no. He’d already encouraged
Stoneham to take an interest in Morgan, which was more than enough
of such a thing for one lifetime, and it had not resulted
favorably.

Never again.

He needed to let Morgan make her own
choices, do as she wished. She didn’t need his
involvement.

Still, he did not like seeing the man
with Miss Hathaway, which was quite a bothersome discovery. She set
aside her book—something she’d rarely ever done three years ago—and
smiled up at the gentleman. They talked, and her face became
animated, her eyes alight with enthusiasm which did not appear to
be feigned.

Her response left Aidan seething, for
whatever inexplicable reason. He hated that she had such an ability
to bring out the worst in him—the anger which went so far beyond
mere anger as to touch upon rage. He hated that simply her presence
here was enough to take such control over him, rendering him a
vengeful, loathsome shell of a man. Well, more of one than he
already was. It left him feeling inhuman.

At his sides, his fists clenched until
his knuckles must have turned white. Then he forced his attention
away from Miss Hathaway and back to Morgan and Lord Muldaire.
Morgan deserved his attention far more than Miss Hathaway
did.

After a few minutes, another man who
looked almost the same as Muldaire, though with a certain harshness
to his presence that the marquess did not possess—clearly a
brother—and a third, with many of the same features but less of the
darkness, drew alongside them. Morgan’s head turned to the side, as
though she could sense their presence even though she could not see
them.

Muldaire glanced over at the intruders
with a hint of a scowl, but made a polite introduction. “Lady
Morgan, have you met my brother, Lord Jacob Deering? And our
cousin, Mr. Charles Deering.”

She smiled again, all lightness and
goodness and air—all of the things Aidan was not. “It is a
pleasure, gentlemen.”

Aidan thought it anything but a
pleasure, particularly with the dark look that had passed between
the brothers, yet he held his tongue—almost bit down on it, so as
not to say anything untoward. For Morgan’s sake, even if she did
seem to no longer need his help as much as she had for so long. He
didn’t want to draw any more attention to her than she already drew
upon herself.

At least none of these men seemed
overly concerned about his sister’s appearance.

Blessedly, a moment later, David
interrupted them. “Won’t you all join us in the drawing room? It is
time for tea.”

Serena Weston, with her sharp nose and
high cheekbones and perfect English rose complexion, smiled kindly
down at Emma. “Might I join you?” She spoke softly as though to
avoid drawing much notice, yet her voice almost lilted in the
crowded drawing room despite her efforts. It rose and fell, like
the music of a harp. What was more, everything in her eyes said she
was equally as lovely inside as her voice and appearance were on
the outside.

Emma could stand to have more kind,
lovely people in her life during this house party. She needed their
positivity in order to negate the less savory sensations she
received from Mr. Cardiff’s stares.

She nodded and moved over, making room
upon the silk brocade sofa. Then she set her book on the occasional
table beside her, vowing silently to ignore it for the rest of the
evening. She’d made a promise to Vanessa, and so she would follow
through with it. Besides, if she was going to catch a husband…well,
being lost in a story wouldn’t exactly help with that endeavor. As
the room had filled with David and Vanessa’s guests, none of the
others had come over to sit with her—not until Miss Weston arrived.
Emma had been worried that, even with her proper gown and coiffure,
and with trying to comport herself as a proper lady ought to do,
she still wasn’t coming out successfully with her plans. She needed
to be present in the here and now.

But Miss Weston had chosen to sit with
her. Perhaps all hope was not already lost. Perhaps Emma could
pretend to be a proper young miss who might be interesting to a
gentleman for long enough to fool him into a besotted state. She
couldn’t allow herself to think about the alternative. If she were
to fail so spectacularly as that, much as she’d always done, this
would quickly become a very, very long house party.

“
I love that shade of
yellow on you,” Miss Weston said as she took a seat. “You look as
lovely as a daffodil. I can’t wear that particular hue unless I
want everyone who sees me to cast up their accounts from the sheer
horror of my complexion.”

Emma tried but failed to hold back a
smile. “I rather doubt that.”

“
Oh, truly.” Miss Weston
took Emma’s hand in hers. “I would never lie about such a thing.”
She leaned closer and dropped her tone to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Father’s forbidden me to ever wear a yellow gown again. He says it
turns my skin a sickly shade of green, and he thinks it will mar my
chances of obtaining the match he desires. Which will be difficult
enough, given that he’s in trade.” Her pert nose wrinkled
slightly.

The way she said it, with
her very specific facial reactions, one would think Miss Weston
felt ashamed of her father’s need to work for his living. But when
Emma looked more closely at the girl, she found no self-reproach
evident in her eyes. Her lips
were
downturned, however, and she
did
try to avert her gaze.

And then it became clear.

Miss Weston was trying to
make it appear that she was embarrassed, so that she would be
accepted by those within this set, but she wasn’t
actually
ashamed in the
slightest.

Nor would Emma be if placed in Miss
Weston’s circumstance. Her own father had been a farmer all his
life, and had only been knighted upon a chance occurrence on the
occasion that the King had needed a place to sleep when the local
inn had burned to the ground. If not for that unexpected event,
neither Emma nor Vanessa would have had the opportunities they’d
been granted. There would be no house parties and peers and social
engagements. There would only be the hope of finding some kindly
country gentleman to marry or going into service.

Still, it was rather unfashionable
amongst this set to have the necessity to work. Money was to be
handed down from generation to generation, not earned through one’s
labors. Because of the strictures of society, Emma could well
understand the reasons for her new companion’s attempts to seem
discomfited by her father’s livelihood.

How truly refreshing to discover
someone who would reveal such plain truths, whether it was intended
or not.

“
That may be, Miss Weston,”
she murmured. “But I doubt it. With your beauty, you’ll have
countless beaux falling at your feet before the end of tomorrow, if
not sooner.”

Miss Weston pursed her lips in a very
matter-of-fact sort of way. “Well, perhaps with my dowry I
might.”

Morgan finally came in on Mr.
Cardiff’s arm. He scanned the room, passing his eyes over every
person present, as though determining where it might be safe to
take his sister. His gaze burned when his eyes locked momentarily
with Emma’s, but he quickly moved on. He would never allow Morgan
to be in Emma’s presence, if he could avoid it. He’d made that
perfectly clear on numerous occasions.

When he guided her toward a group of
the other young ladies, those same ladies who’d looked at Emma with
disdain before moving on to sit on the opposite side of the room,
Miss Weston squeezed Emma’s hand. “Would you mind if Lady Morgan
sat with us as well? I think I would like to get to know her. She
seems so very nice, and I’m sure she could use a few
friends.”

Emma had only managed to say, “I
wouldn’t mind at all, but—” when Miss Weston darted to her
feet.

“
Lady Morgan? Would you
care to sit with Miss Hathaway and me?” Her previously soft voice
carried throughout the room, and silence descended all around them
as everyone turned to stare at Morgan.

Their stares caused Mr. Cardiff’s gaze
to burn more darkly. His lips set into a thin line and his jaw
hardened, and he gripped his sister’s elbow as though to guide her
out of the room.

But Morgan apparently had other plans.
“I’d be delighted,” she said with a true smile. Heedless of the
heated whispers sounding around her, Morgan headed toward them. Her
brother tightened his grip on her elbow, but she shook him free and
kept coming.

When she paused nearby and held out
her arm for Morgan to take, Emma felt the weight of Mr. Cardiff’s
stare settling on her. It never left her as she helped Morgan to
sit between her and Miss Weston. It never diminished as they struck
up a conversation.

The rest of the guests
resumed their own discussions and began, yet again, to ignore the
three ladies. At the same moment, Mr. Cardiff took up a seat near
the massive window in perfect position to keep an eye on everyone
and everything taking place in the drawing room, yet it seemed most
of his focus lay on Emma and her friends. Despite Morgan’s growing
animation, the palpable tension of Mr. Cardiff’s full attention
upon them fell over Emma as though to swallow her whole. It seemed
to be more on
her
than it was on
them
.

A flash of heat raced to her face, and
she fought to ignore it. Why was he always staring at her? What was
it that always drew his attention? Were he another gentleman, she
might welcome it. But since it was Mr. Cardiff, she’d prefer he
turn it elsewhere.

She had no business feeling warm and
tingly from any gentleman’s attentions, let alone those of a man
such as he. Warm and tingly feelings would be perfectly acceptable
once she was well and truly married, and not a moment
before.