Chapter Three
“Oh, now this is an interesting piece of news,” Emmy said to her mother the following morning in their elegant Mayfair drawing room. “Apparently, Philippa Simpson has accepted an offer of marriage from Lord Vale, a man she once described as possessing ‘all the looks of a horny toad with none of the charm’.” She leaned back in her seat on the sage green camelback sofa and smirked at Lady Keswick over the top of the scandal sheet clasped in her hands. “It would seem the lady’s options have thinned.”
Emmy did not relish being so petty—or judgmental, for that matter—but then, she had known beautiful, conceited Philippa for years, ever since they made their come-out together, and never once had she heard the girl utter a kind word. Of course, she would never go so far as to delight in another person’s misfortune, but neither could she muster sympathy for her. She’d made her bed and now she must lie in it.
“I do wish you wouldn’t read that trash, darling,” Lady Keswick murmured from her seat at the other end of the sofa, her gaze trained on her needlepoint. “It cannot be good for an innocent young lady to fill her head with such things.”
Emmy smiled. “Come, Mother, I am not so very young, and certainly not innocent.”
Lady Keswick’s gaze shot to hers, her blue eyes wide with alarm. “I beg your pardon?”
Emmy choked on a startled laugh, even as heat flooded her cheeks. “That is not what I meant,” she assured her mother hastily. Needlessly . For heaven’s sake, she’d never even been kissed by a man before. “I only meant that I am aware of the way things work, the…required actions for procreation. And I’m glad I know. Indeed, I think all young ladies should be educated on the ways of the world.” And certainly on those which directly involved them, such as procreation and childbirth.
“I do not disagree with you, my dear,” Lady Keswick replied. “I only wish you would further your… education with less disreputable sources.”
Emmy smiled at that, her gaze dipping to the paper in her lap. “ The Tattletale is a vulgar rag, I grant you, but they know everything about everyone, and they always seem to know it first, which is precisely why I continue to read it. I like to know everything about everyone, too.”
Her mother sighed. “Yes, darling, I know you do.”
Silence settled between them as Lady Keswick returned to her needlepoint, and Emmy stared at her newspaper, unseeing, a sharp knot twisting her chest. She’d disappointed her mother again. Honestly, the feeling ought to be rote by now, yet it wasn’t, and probably never would be. A part of her still wished she could be the daughter her mother wanted, a sweet and amiable girl, the sort who married well and sprinted into motherhood with unabashed joy. The sort befitting a feminine, fanciful name like Emmaline Violet Ruelle. The name her mother had given her.
She’d realized long ago, however, that she would never be that girl, and she was satisfied with that. Mostly. She only wished her mother felt the same.
Stealing a glance at the slender, elegant woman seated beside her, she felt… what? What did she feel? Irritation? Affection? Both?
She loved her mother fiercely, and yet, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from wishing for more from the woman who’d raised her. She longed for the acceptance, the understanding, of kindred spirits, and she often wondered if she would have found in her father the kinship she’d craved from her mother for so long.
It was an exercise in futility, of course, wondering about her father. She was only three years old when he died, far too young to remember the man, or what he was like as a father, and not a single memory of him remained—not his hugs or the sound of his voice or the scent of his soap. Nothing. And she felt robbed. Robbed of his memory, of his friendship, of all that could have been.
Not that she would choose her father over her mother, of course. She would never go so far as that. She knew her mother loved her, and only wanted her to be happy, and she’d certainly indulged her more than most mothers would. Most mothers would have insisted that their daughter take a husband long before she reached the age of four-and-twenty, but Lady Keswick hadn’t. She wanted Emmy to marry, of course, but not at the expense of her happiness, and Emmy was well aware not every mother was as wonderful as hers.
Tess Whitcomb’s tear-streaked face flashed through her mind, and she frowned as once again she remembered the awful things those two odious girls had said to her. Calling her mother a whore to her face. Anger rushed through her, heating her cheeks.
Honestly, how anyone could punish, or even admonish, a person for her parents’ misdeeds was beyond her understanding. She was glad she’d been there to speak up for Miss Whitcomb. She did not like to be discourteous or unkind, but discourteous and unkind seemed to be the only way to communicate with girls like Lady Anne and Miss Peyton.
And someone as sweet as Miss Whitcomb would have difficulty behaving that way, even in her own defense, which made her easy prey for the predatory bullies of the ton .
At least she had a protective older brother to look after her, she thought, as Mr. Whitcomb’s dark, flashing eyes shot through her mind once again. A thrill whispered up her spine as she remembered the fierce set of his angular jaw, the low growl of his voice as he demanded to know what she’d done to his sister. The way it had gentled when he’d asked Miss Whitcomb if she was all right.
Even scowling, he was an exceptionally handsome man, and she’d thought of him more than once since meeting him, which was positively absurd . For heaven’s sake, she’d spent all of two minutes in his company and knew next to nothing about him. But then, perhaps that was part of his appeal. She did love a mystery.
What does he look like when he smiles?
A sigh escaped her lips before she could catch it, and she frowned her displeasure with herself. She was being ridiculous.
With a determined snap of the paper in her hands, she forced her attention on the printed words, her gaze snagging on a familiar name. “Oh, I wish Sophie and Olivia were here to read this,” she said, her brows rising. “Viscount Whiteside is rumored to be betrothed to Maria Gibbons. The two were seen together at Gunter’s late last week.”
Lord Whiteside was one of Olivia’s many, many rejected suitors, and Maria Gibbons had once pursued Sophie’s husband, James.
“How lovely for them,” Lady Keswick said with an approving smile. “I think they will make a good match.”
“So do I,” Emmy said. “They are both very sweet, and equally, very feather-brained.”
Her mother shot her a reproving glance. “That is not very nice, Emmaline.”
“But neither is it untrue,” she quipped, extending a forefinger in the air.
“Perhaps,” Lady Keswick returned. “But just because it might be true does not mean it must be said.” She sighed. “I do wish you wouldn’t voice every single thought that enters your mind, darling.”
“I don’t,” Emmy said, flashing her an impish grin. “Most of my thoughts aren’t fit for ladies’ ears.”
Her mother dipped her head over her needlepoint, her lips trembling with suppressed mirth even as she heaved another exasperated sigh, looking very much like a mother who had no idea what to do with her wayward child.
It was a reaction Emmy had earned nearly every day of her life.
Humming softly, she returned to her paper but had only read a handful of words when a soft scratch sounded at the door.
Winters, their long-time butler of indiscriminate age and unimpeachable calm, stepped into the room and announced, “Callers have arrived, my lady. Mr. Alexander Whitcomb and Miss Tess Whitcomb.”
“Oh,” Lady Keswick said with surprise in her voice. “Well, do show them in, Winters.”
The butler gave a curt nod then turned on his heel and quit the room.
Emmy rose to her feet beside her mother, pleasure washing over her at the prospect of seeing Miss Whitcomb again. She wanted to assure herself that the girl was well, of course, after last night’s unfortunate incident, but she also wanted to see her because she truly wished to know her better. She had a feeling the two of them could be friends if given the chance.
Her feelings about seeing Mister Whitcomb again were not so clear.
Footsteps could be heard clacking up the corridor and a moment later, Miss Whitcomb and her brother stepped through the door and into the sunny drawing room.
“Miss Whitcomb, how good it is to see you again,” Emmy said, moving forward to take her hands in hers. “How are you faring today?”
Miss Whitcomb gave her a shy smile, and Emmy was relieved to see that it even reached her light brown eyes. “I am well, thank you,” she said. “And thank you again for your interference last evening.”
Emmy grinned and gave her hands a little squeeze. “It isn’t often I am thanked for my interference,” she teased. “But you are very welcome, indeed.”
She turned her gaze on Mr. Whitcomb and gave him a nod of greeting. “And good afternoon to you, Mr. Whitcomb,” she said with her friendliest smile. “We have not been officially introduced, but after last night, it hardly seems strictly necessary.”
He bowed his head, and then his hazel eyes met hers, direct yet frustratingly inscrutable. “Lady Emmaline. Honored to make your acquaintance.”
For pity’s sake, did the man never smile?
Emmy turned toward the sofa to reclaim her seat, exasperated by the man’s impassive demeanor but trying not to be. After all, what did it matter if his manner was less than amiable? He was a handsome man, yes—even more so in the daytime, when she could properly see his thick brown hair and firm jaw, the impressive shoulders filling out his dark blue day coat, not to mention those thighs, as big as tree trunks, straining against his tan cotton trousers…
She forced her gaze to the floor and swallowed. Saints be, Emmy. Enough.
It was his sister she cared to know better, not him, and she resolved to put him and his thighs out of her mind.
“May we offer you two a cup of tea?” she asked as she perched on the sofa and gestured for their guests to take the chairs opposite.
“We have lemonade, as well, if you prefer,” Lady Keswick said, sitting down beside Emmy. “It is an unusually warm day today.”
Miss Whitcomb smiled as she settled into her chair and arranged her ivory skirts about her knees. “Thank you. Tea would be lovely.”
Mr. Whitcomb took his seat last, looking more than a trifle uncomfortable as he lowered himself onto the spindly-legged chair. “Nothing for me, thank you,” he said, just before the chair let out a squeak of protest.
Emmy bit back a smile. The chair was sturdier than it appeared, but Mr. Whitcomb was not a small man, and she knew from her brother, who was of similar size, that it was not a comfortable seat for a tall person. Which was precisely why Griffin refused to sit in it.
“Here you are, Miss Whitcomb,” Lady Keswick said, handing the young lady a cup and saucer.
“Thank you,” Miss Whitcomb murmured, before taking a sip of the steaming brew. “Our aunt asked me to convey her regrets to you, Lady Keswick, and to you, as well, Lady Emmaline. She would have joined us today, but she awoke with an aching head this morning and is confined to her bed.”
“Oh, that is too bad,” Emmy said sincerely as she reached for a lemon biscuit. “Mrs. Lawrence is an absolute delight. I should have liked to visit with her, of course, and I do hope she is well again soon.”
The foursome—well, three of the four, anyway—spent the next several minutes chatting about everything and nothing, drinking tea and eating biscuits and having an all-around pleasant time. At least, Emmy thought they were all having a pleasant time. With Mr. Whitcomb, it was impossible to tell. He mostly sat in silence in his uncomfortable chair, providing an occasional grunt or nod of his head, unsmiling and unreadable.
Emmy disliked unreadable people. Or, at least, she disliked being around them. They made her uncomfortable, as if they were hiding something, which invariably made her want to unearth whatever it was they were hiding. It was most irritating. It was a good thing she was ignoring him.
“Oh, look at the time,” Lady Keswick said with a glance at the timepiece clipped to the bodice of her pale pink gown. “Emmy, we had best be off on our walk soon while the weather is still agreeable.” She turned to their guests with a wide, warm, worrying smile. “Would you two care to join us for a stroll through the park?”
“Oh, we would love to!” Miss Whitcomb said, clasping her hands in her lap as if to contain her excitement. “Wouldn’t we, Alex?”
Mr. Whitcomb met his sister’s gaze, and Emmy had the distinct feeling he wanted to refuse her, but after a moment’s pause, he capitulated. “Of course we would,” he said mildly, and then, as if remembering his manners, he turned to Emmy’s mother and said, “Thank you for the invitation, Lady Keswick.”
“Oh, excellent,” the lady replied, her eyes gleaming in a way that made Emmy’s own eyes narrow. “Shall we go now?”
Lady Keswick rose to her feet and the others followed suit, heading for the drawing room door.
“There was never any talk of a walk in the park,” Emmy whispered to her mother.
“Wasn’t there?” she asked, all innocence. “I could have sworn we discussed it yesterday.”
“There was no such discussion, as you well know.” Emmy’s brows dipped. “Please tell me you are not matchmaking, Mother.”
But Lady Keswick’s only response was an enigmatic smile.
Alex followed the trio of women down the townhouse steps to the pavement below, suppressing a sigh as he tugged at the brim of his beaver hat to shield his eyes from the glaring afternoon sun.
“What a glorious day,” Lady Keswick announced with a cheerful smile before popping open her frilly white parasol. She turned left and led the foursome up Grosvenor Street’s bustling pavement, leaving Alex and Lady Emmaline to follow after her and Tess, whom she’d commandeered by the elbow.
Not that his sister seemed to mind. Indeed, she looked as pleased as punch, chattering on about something or other, her free hand gesturing animatedly to punctuate her words while the marchioness smiled her encouragement.
The sight sent a wash of contentment over him, relieving some of his irritation over this unplanned—and unwelcome—walk.
Perhaps Tess had been right when she’d suggested they pay a call on Lady Emmaline today. Being seen out and about with a marchioness would certainly do his sister’s reputation a fair bit of good. And if she should befriend said marchioness’s daughter in the process, well, so much the better.
His gaze found the back of Lady Emmaline’s straw bonnet, and he watched her for a moment as she said something which made the other ladies laugh. A niggling of guilt slipped up his spine, but he shoved it away.
He was hardly the first man to foster an association for the benefits it could bring, but even so, it did not sit entirely well with him. He was not a mercenary man by nature, preferring to be open and honest wherever he could.
All the same, his family was the most important thing in his life, and he would do whatever he could to ensure his sister’s happiness.
Including encouraging friendships that would improve her social standing.
He sighed. Best get this apology over and done with then, eh?
“Lady Emmaline?”
He quickened his pace to reach her side, and she turned to look at him, surprise lighting her large gray eyes, the uncommon shade accentuated by the muted purple of her gown.
“Yes, Mr. Whitcomb?”
He cleared his throat, flicking a glance at his sister and the marchioness to ensure they weren’t listening, and then he said, “I…owe you an apology.”
Her dark brows flicked up and her wide mouth parted slightly. “Oh?”
He cleared his throat again. “For my…gruffness last night.”
“Oh.” She blinked at him before turning to face forward again.
The seconds ticked by, with only the low murmur of chatter ahead and the clatter of carriage wheels on the street to break the silence, until…
“Well?”
Alex glanced over to find her watching him with those big, inquisitive eyes, and it took him a moment to realize what it was she was asking of him.
Wanted the words, did she?
He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, then finally, with a lift of one shoulder, said, “I apologize.”
She stared at him for a very long moment and then her gaze fell to her feet as she huffed out an unmistakably vexed sigh. “Well, that might be the most unsatisfying apology I have ever received,” she said pertly. “However, I know how difficult it can be for a man to admit to his mistakes, so I will not hold it against you. For your sister’s sake, at least.”
Humor tugged at Alex’s lips. “Thank you, Lady Emmaline,” he said softly. “You are a benevolent soul, indeed.”
Her gaze shot to his as a smile slowly dawned on her heart-shaped face, revealing a dimple in each cheek and making her gray eyes shine. It was an utterly infectious smile, artless yet disarming, and Alex found himself unable to resist it, his own lips curling up in an answering grin.
Their gazes held for a moment, and then her eyes flicked to his mouth before she turned away again and cleared her throat. “Speaking of your sister,” she said, her tone growing serious, “how is she doing? Is she truly all right after what happened last evening?”
Alex nodded, his gaze settling on Tess, who was giggling at something Lady Keswick seemed to be pointing out to her. Glancing up ahead, he spotted what had caught their eye: a chocolate poodle out for a stroll, wearing a bonnet and booties the same shade as its owner’s canary yellow gown.
“Yes, I think she is,” he said, battling an amused smile. “At least, she claims to be.”
And he believed her, for the most part. But he also knew how much last night’s encounter had upset her and he’d half-expected her to come to him and ask to leave London and go home to Berkshire. That she still wished to remain only confirmed her strength and determination, and while a part of him had secretly hoped she would ask to leave, he couldn’t help feeling proud, too. His little sister was growing into a smart, stalwart young woman.
“I’m glad,” Lady Emmaline said. “I hope what was said to her last night did not upset her too much. Those two”—she wriggled her fingers as if searching for the right word—“ miscreants are not worthy of her time.”
“I agree,” Alex murmured, before stepping onto the street to allow the poodle and its mistress to pass. “I only hope their suspicions are not shared by everyone here. If I’d thought people would believe Tess was—”
He cut himself off, unable to voice the word aloud. Illegitimate. Such an unassuming word on its own, but when applied to a person, it took on a whole new meaning. An ugly one. The lords and ladies of the ton were an unforgiving lot, and any person born on the wrong side of the blanket would be cast out without so much as a regretful smile.
“I do not think anyone honestly believes your sister is…” Lady Emmaline trailed off with a flick of her hand, apparently just as reluctant as he was to use the word. “ I don’t believe it, nor do I care. And neither does my mother, for that matter.”
Alex nodded, grateful for her support, though not entirely convinced by her optimism. He’d been reluctant to bring Tess to London, fearing society would judge her for their mother’s behavior, but it had never occurred to him they might suspect she was not her father’s daughter.
Perhaps it should have. Their mother had run off with a man who was not her husband, and such scandalous behavior did tend to make imaginations—and tongues—run wild. Even if there was no evidence to support the suspicion.
“I think it’s nice, by the way, how much you care about your sister,” Lady Emmaline said with a glance at him. “She is fortunate to have you.”
He gave her a tight smile, even as the compliment sent a bolt of guilt straight through him. “I tried to warn her that coming here might not be what she hoped it would be, but she insisted on coming. If I’d known, I would have—” He broke off with a quiet laugh and shook his head. “Who am I fooling? Even if I’d known, Tess would still have wanted to come, and I still would have given in.”
Lady Emmaline chuckled. “She is a sweet girl. I imagine it is quite difficult to deny her anything.”
“Nearly impossible,” he replied. “I only hope she never realizes it.”
“I suspect she already does.”
He flicked a glance at her. “Do you?”
She shrugged one shoulder as he’d done earlier, her smile rueful. “Your sister is sweet, but she is also astute. Just be grateful she does not abuse her power.”
Alex cocked a brow. “You’ve formed your opinion of my sister rather quickly, considering you only met her a fortnight ago.” Not that she was wrong, of course. Tess was sweet and astute.
“I am astute, as well,” she replied with equanimity.
Alex suppressed a smile. He liked her forthright manner, and the subtle confidence that surrounded her. He liked her more and more by the moment.
“I noticed that,” he said, “which is part of the reason why I think Tess would benefit from your friendship. She needs another woman in her life, one who would influence her in a positive way.”
She eyed him. “And you believe I would fill that role?”
“I do,” he said. “And others, I think, would agree with me. Everybody seems to like you and respect you.”
“Well, I am the sister of a marquess.”
“The gracious and charming sister of a marquess,” he corrected, sliding her a sidelong glance as he said it.
Her response was not what he expected. She laughed.
And it wasn’t the feather-light giggle of a practiced flirt or the restrained titter of a modest maiden. It was a proper laugh, loud, throaty, and gloriously unfettered. He drank in the sight of it even as he fought to contain his own laughter, though he hadn’t a clue what was so funny.
“For shame, Mr. Whitcomb,” she scolded, her voice still tinged with laughter. “I am neither gracious nor charming, and the most important rule for cajolery is to ensure there is at least a driblet of truth to it.” She laid the tips of her fingers on his forearm, her touch humming along his skin even through his velvet day coat, and he nearly stumbled on the pavement.
“Fortunately for you,” she went on, “I had already decided to help your sister.”
Her hand fell away from his arm and Alex actually felt his muscles relax. What the devil was the matter with him? All this dirty London air must have gone to head.
“Thank you, Lady Emmaline,” he said, his voice an embarrassing rasp. He cleared his throat. Get it together, man.
“Please, call me Emmy,” she said with a beseeching smile. “I detest Emmaline.”
“Emmy, then.” The nickname suited her far better. He liked it. “And I’m Alex.”
Her smile widened and then she faced forward again, and the two fell into a companionable silence as they walked beneath the warm spring sun. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, his gaze trained on the street ahead, satisfaction swelling in his chest.
He’d never met a woman quite like Lady Emmaline—Emmy, rather—but he liked her honesty, her forthright and friendly nature, and he was glad to have her on his family’s side.
Tess could use a champion, a friend , and if anyone could help make her first London Season a success, it would undoubtedly be Emmy Keswick.