The Mister I Married (Romancing the Rogue #3)

Chapter One

LONDON, EARLY MAY 1822

Lady Emmaline Keswick —Emmy to her familiars—knew as well as the next person that frowning openly in a crowded ballroom was generally, well, frowned upon. Sometimes, however, like now, a frown was the only appropriate reaction one could possibly give.

“Unscrupulous rat,” she muttered under her breath as she crossed her arms over the beaded bodice of her ivory satin gown in yet another social faux pas.

Much too annoyed to feel guilty over it, her gaze riveted on the couple gliding across Mrs. Dalrymple’s glossy parquet floor, keeping time with the orchestra’s Vienna waltz.

The rat in question, Lord Harry Monroe, a viscount and unrepentant fortune-hunter, smiled down at his dance partner as if she were the loveliest creature he’d ever laid eyes on, eliciting a pretty blush from the auburn-haired girl that was visible even from across the room.

Emmy huffed out a breath of disgust. Not because she disagreed—she’d met Miss Tess Whitcomb only a sennight ago, but the girl seemed everything sweet and lovely and any man would be lucky to win her hand in marriage.

No, her disgust lay solely with Lord Monroe. The man was not to be trusted, and she knew she must warn Miss Whitcomb at the earliest opportunity. This was the young lady’s first London Season, so she would not have seen the viscount’s repeated attempts at ensnaring a bride last year—any bride, so long as she came with a sizable dowry. That he hadn’t yet managed to tempt—or trap—some unsuspecting innocent into marriage was no small miracle and Emmy simply could not stand back and watch while Miss Whitcomb fell victim to his so-called charms.

“Darling, do wipe that frown from your lips,” Lady Lavinia Keswick whispered as she sidled up beside Emmy, startling her from her reverie. “You look like an unhappy infant on the verge of a temper tantrum. It is not an attractive expression.”

Emmy hastily dropped her arms to her sides and smoothed her features before turning to meet her mother’s disapproving blue gaze. “Apologies, Mother,” she said with appropriate regret in her voice. “I forgot myself. Lord Monroe is here this evening, and it appears he has set his sights on Miss Whitcomb.”

Lady Keswick sighed as she tugged at her gloves, the lavender silk a perfect match to her gown and the beaded clips adorning her dark brown hair. “And I suppose it is too much to hope that this displeases you because you want the gentleman for yourself?”

Emmy blanched. “Gads, I would rather eat dirt.”

Her mother’s delicate black brows dipped. “Please, dear, do watch your language. Slang is not becoming in a genteel young lady.”

This was undoubtedly true, but Emmy had never been as genteel as she ought to be and never would. Saying so would be a waste of breath, however, for she knew her mother would never cease wishing she were a better lady than she was.

“It displeases me because his interest in her is not what she wants it to be,” she said, ignoring her mother’s scolding as she so often did. “He only wants her for her dowry.”

“It is not unusual for a gentleman to marry for money, as you well know,” Lady Keswick replied. “And their union would make her a viscountess. That is no small boon.”

“But Miss Whitcomb is so young and sweet.” Her gaze sought out the young woman on the dance floor, still peering up at Lord Monroe with a shy smile on her lips. “It is obvious she is hoping for a love match and her innocence makes her especially vulnerable to fortune-hunters like him. I do not wish to see her harmed.”

Lady Keswick sighed again. “I suppose there would be no point in my asking you to mind your own business.”

Emmy shot her mother an impish smile. “None whatsoever.”

She never had been very good at minding her own business, probably because she considered everyone’s business her own.

She liked knowing things, liked putting her knowledge to good use and helping people where she could. Some would describe her as an interfering gossip—indeed, she’d been called just that on more than one occasion—but she could not agree with this opinion. Nor did she care. She never shared information for the pure pleasure of it and she only interfered when she was certain her interference was necessary to prevent disaster.

“Honestly, Emmaline,” Lady Keswick said, “if even a fraction of the time you spend on other girls’ futures was spent on your own, you would be married with children by now.”

Saints be. Emmy’s nose wrinkled up in displeasure. She loathed being called Emmaline—a fact her mother well knew—but she loathed even more these dratted lectures on finding a husband and starting a family. Another fact her mother well knew yet chose to ignore.

“Mother, please. Do not—”

“You’re four-and twenty, Emmy,” Lady Keswick went on in a lowered voice, though Emmy didn’t see the point in whispering. The ballroom was so loud it was unlikely anyone would overhear them, and even if someone did, her mother’s desire to marry her off was no secret. “You should be married by now. All your friends have married. Even your brother has a wife now, and I never thought that day would come.” She slid a sidelong glance at Emmy. “I’m beginning to think your wedding day will never come.”

Emmy dropped her gaze to her feet, hoping the pose would make her appear contrite while she attempted to rein in her temper. She’d heard this lecture a thousand times before, and would undoubtedly hear it a thousand times more, or at least until she married.

Or fled the country, whichever came first.

Still, even though she knew she should be used to her mother’s lectures, she wasn’t, and probably never would be.

Her older brother Griffin, the Marquess of Keswick, had just recently married one of her dearest friends, Olivia, and only a few months before that, her other good friend, Sophie, had married James, one of Griffin’s long-time friends. It had all been something of a whirlwind, seeing her two dearest friends fall in love and marry last year within months of each other. She was thrilled for them, of course, but attending two weddings within the same half-year—one of which was her brother’s—had only served to make Lady Keswick even more desperate to see her daughter married, too.

“My wedding day will come after I’ve met the right man, Mother,” Emmy said softly, lifting her head to meet her mother’s gaze. “I do not wish to marry the wrong one.”

“But isn’t it possible you’ve already met the right man?” Lady Keswick asked. “He might even be in this very room with us.”

Emmy stopped just short of snorting her skepticism. “I assure you, he is not.”

“I don’t know how you can say that with such certainty when you barely know any of the eligible gentlemen in Town. If you would only give them a chance—”

“I have given them a chance.” A negligible one, yes, but a chance all the same.

“You have not,” her mother argued. “Not a proper one. Only think of that nice Lord Truesdale. He would offer for you tomorrow if you would show him even the slightest encouragement.”

Emmy pursed her lips. “Lord Truesdale is a nincompoop.”

“He is an earl ,” Lady Keswick huffed, “and an amiable one at that. You could do worse.”

Frustration flooded Emmy’s body, tensing her limbs and heating her cheeks. Of course she could do worse. She could probably do far worse, but was it really so terrible to yearn for far better?

It was true, she was no raving beauty like her friend Olivia—or her mother, for that matter, whose loveliness had not faded one bit, even as she approached her fiftieth birthday.

But while Emmy was not beautiful, neither was she a warty hag. She was reasonably intelligent, occasionally clever and always kind, and she deserved a husband who was her equal, someone she enjoyed being with and talking to. Was that truly too much to hope for?

“Forgive me, Mother, but I must excuse myself for a moment,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. “I have just noticed a tear in my hem, and I must see it repaired before it worsens.”

Avoiding her mother’s gaze, she turned and walked away, her steps quick under the weight of her mother’s surely disapproving stare boring holes in her back. This was hardly a proud moment for her—she was literally running away from the conversation—but she didn’t care. She could not take even one more word on the topic of marriage, not if she had any hope of holding onto her temper.

Forcing a small smile to her lips, she weaved her way through the crush of bodies toward the exit, frustration still coursing through her veins. Honestly, one would think marriage was the sole reason she’d been put on this earth. Would it really be so terrible if she didn’t marry? It was generally believed to be a woman’s lot in life, to marry and bear children, but surely there was more to life than that? More to her than that?

She let go of her smile as she moved into the dim corridor, leaving the heat and noise of the ballroom behind her. Her steps slowed to a halt, and she breathed deeply, willing her thudding heart to slow. She had nothing against marriage as an institution. She had seen the happiness it could bring, the family it could lead to.

But it could also bring unhappiness, couldn’t it? And that was the crux of her worries. There were no guarantees in life, and marriage was a gamble, even when it began with love. Wouldn’t it be wiser to wait until she found a man who made her feel at least a little hopeful that their future together would be good?

After all, marriage would alter her life irrevocably, and if she was going to make that leap, that enormous change which would lay her own future in the hands of another, it would take more than a kindly, dim-witted earl to tempt her. No matter how desperate her mother was to marry her off.

Shoving the frustrating thoughts from her mind, she glanced to her left then her right, searching the faintly-lit corridor for the ladies’ retiring room. Spotting it, she headed left down the hallway, her yellow satin slippers shushing softly on the smooth marble floor. She had nearly reached her intended destination when a sound caught her ear—the low murmur of female voices.

She stilled, straining to hear, but the words were too low to make out, so she moved closer, following the sound down a separate corridor until she was close enough to hear. The hushed voices were coming from a small alcove, though she could not see who they belonged to. She hovered out of view, hidden behind a potted fig tree, and listened.

“…and we are only telling you this to spare your pride, Miss Whitcomb,” a low voice was saying, nasally and cool. “Lord Monroe danced with you tonight because he wants your dowry, nothing more.”

A second voice chimed in, this one higher in pitch and treacle sweet. “This is, no doubt, difficult for you to hear, but we are only trying to help you. This is your first Season, after all, and we should hate to see you embarrass yourself. Isn’t that so, Lady Anne?”

Emmy frowned. She knew these voices and whom they belonged to, and in all the time she’d known Lady Anne Hughes and Miss Delia Peyton, she’d never heard of either one doing anything which did not serve her own ends. Whatever the reason was for this little chat with Miss Whitcomb, it was not to offer the girl a helping hand.

“Indeed it is,” Lady Anne said, her voice even more nasally in her insincerity. “And it was so courageous of you to make your debut, Miss Whitcomb, considering your family’s…history. I know if I were in your place, I could never be so bold.”

“Nor I,” echoed Miss Peyton. “Why, I would rather die than see the pity and derision on everybody’s faces, and yet, here you are, as if it is nothing. You are so brave .” She said the word as if it meant something else, something dirty and wrong.

“I am not so very brave,” Miss Whitcomb said, and the misery in her voice made Emmy’s chest ache.

“Of course you are, poor thing,” Miss Peyton cooed. “If I had a mother as shameful as yours, I wouldn’t be able to show my face anywhere.”

“And knowing her scandalous blood flows through your veins…” Lady Anne tsked. “It must be terribly trying for you.”

That was it. The final straw. Emmy had heard enough.

She swooped into the alcove like an avenging angel, and drawled, “I shouldn’t be so quick to judge if I were you, Lady Anne. After all, haven’t you a great-uncle on your father’s side who was once a patient at Bethlem Hospital? And as for you, Miss Peyton”—she turned her gaze on the scowling brunette—“I believe I heard something about a distant cousin who was hanged for high treason against the Crown?” She gave her head a pitying shake. “Very naughty, indeed.”

Miss Peyton crossed her arms over her chest and gave a haughty sniff, but she made no effort to defend herself.

Lady Anne, the bolder of the two, gave Emmy a cold smile. “Come, Lady Emmaline, you know as well as I that an eccentric great-uncle is nothing to having a whore for a mother.”

Miss Whitcomb’s mouth fell open with a gasp. “My mother was not a whore!”

“She abandoned her own family to run away with one of your father’s servants,” Lady Anne said flatly, arching her brows with sanctimonious disdain.

“She was in love,” Miss Whitcomb defended. “She only did what she felt was right.”

“But it was wrong ,” Lady Anne replied. “And, in the end, she paid dearly for her sins.”

Miss Whitcomb’s lips parted but no words emerged, the allusion to her mother’s death a shocking unkindness.

“You know, Lady Anne,” Emmy said softly, drawing the girl’s ice blue gaze, “I have always found you to be petty and spoiled, but I never thought you cruel. I can only assume it is jealousy making you behave in this manner, as it is no secret—at least, not to me—that you have long wanted Lord Monroe for yourself.” She cocked her head to one side. “How unfortunate that you have neither the money nor the charms to tempt him.”

Lady Anne’s pointed chin shot up and she glared down her nose at Emmy, but she made no argument. Probably because there was none to be made. Emmy spoke the truth, and while the words had brought her no pleasure, she did not regret saying them.

Lady Anne gave a toss of her blond curls and stalked away, Miss Peyton trailing after her like the good little minion she was.

Emmy turned to Miss Whitcomb and reached out to gently grip her shoulder. “Are you all right?” she asked softly, noting the high color in the girl’s usually-pale cheeks.

Miss Whitcomb’s light brown eyes met hers and she nodded, though the stilted gesture seemed less than certain. “Thank you for coming to my rescue,” she said. “When Lady Anne asked to speak with me privately, I had no idea she would be so…” She flicked a hand out, searching for the word.

“So ghastly?” Emmy supplied. “Those two enjoy being horrible. Please don’t pay them any mind. They are not worthy of your attention.”

Miss Whitcomb nodded again, jostling her dark auburn ringlets as she nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully. “Is what they said about Lord Monroe true? Is he only interested in my dowry?”

Emmy pressed her lips together, hesitating. “It is no secret that he is in need of funds. He’s been openly hunting for a rich bride since last Season.”

Miss Whitcomb sighed. “That is unfortunate. He was the only gentleman to show any interest in me since I came to London.”

“I’m sure that isn’t true,” Emmy said.

Miss Whitcomb was a lovely girl with intelligent brown eyes, a kind smile, and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. There was no reason she should not be pursued by eligible men. Eligible, intelligent men who were not foolish enough to hold her mother’s actions against her.

“Believe me, it is,” Miss Whitcomb said with another sigh. “It seems I should have given more credence to my brother’s warnings, after all. He tried to tell me that coming to London would not be easy, and it appears he was right. As usual.”

Emmy had to smile at her vexed tone. She knew all too well how irritating it could be when one’s brother proved to be right about…well, about anything, really.

“I do not believe I have met your brother.”

“Oh, right. He wasn’t there the night you and I first met, was he?” Miss Whitcomb smiled. “He is not overly fond of social gatherings, or of being social at all, but he is the best of brothers and very good to me.” Her smile dimmed a bit. “He did not want to bring me to London for the Season. He said coming here was a bad idea, but I begged and cajoled and finally he capitulated. I was so certain all would be well, and that no one would even remember what our mother had done. After all, it happened so very long ago…” She trailed off with a shake of her head.

Emmy’s heart squeezed with compassion. “This town never completely forgets a scandal, no matter how old it is.”

Especially when the scandal in question involved a beautiful woman abandoning her much older husband for one of his own servants. Such a scandal was simply too salacious to be forgotten.

“That is what my brother said to me,” Miss Whitcomb said wearily. “I should have listened to him. I should have—” She broke off with a little sniffle, her gaze lowering to the floor. “I should have—”

“Tess?”

Miss Whitcomb’s head came up at the sound of the deep male voice, and her eyes filled with tears as she choked out, “Alex!”

Emmy watched as she bolted past her and threw herself into the gentleman’s arms, a gentleman who was tall, dark-haired and obviously Miss Whitcomb’s aforementioned brother.

“Are you all right?” he asked his sister, concern tightening his voice. “What happened?” His gaze shot to Emmy, hard and unwavering. “What the devil did you say to upset my sister?”

Shock hit her like a boulder and her lips parted of their own accord, though no words emerged, only a garbled grunt of protest. “I…”

“Alex, no!” Miss Whitcomb scolded, pulling back to gaze up at her brother. “Lady Emmaline is not to blame for this. Indeed, she helped me—”

“It is quite all right, Miss Whitcomb,” Emmy broke in, finally regaining the use of her tongue. “Your brother is only looking out for you as any good sibling ought.” She offered Mr. Whitcomb her friendliest smile—one he did not return—before turning back to his sister. “I shall leave you now. Do try to enjoy the rest of your evening, hm?”

Miss Whitcomb nodded, her lips curving into a wobbly smile. “Thank you, Lady Emmaline,” she said. “I shall never forget your kindness tonight.”