Chapter Three
Emmaline’s gaze wandered past the high back on the settee in their drawing room, through the glass panes of the windows, over the iron gate, and out to the street where occasionally someone would pass.
A fashionable couple out for a stroll. A dog or a cat chasing something best not examined closely.
Something, anything, to change the sameness of her days.
Days which were supposed to be filled with delight and excitement at this most wonderful time of her life.
Ha!
“Emmaline! Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“You have no idea what I just said—”
“You are the most brilliant woman in all of London and your compatriots are stupid. They dress badly, set their hair in the wrong way, and say the most idiotic things. If only they would listen to you, then everyone would be much better off, but they are too stupid to know your value.” She turned her head until she was looking directly at her mother’s pinched, red face. “Did I miss anything?”
“You impertinent wretch!” her mother screeched, tears flooding her eyes. “How could you say such an awful thing to me? After everything I do for you! My every waking thought since the day you were born…”
The words went on. A litany of martyrdom.
Emmaline had known she would pay for speaking so bluntly to her mother, but honestly, how many hours of her life had been wasted sitting listening to her mother’s endless complaints?
She was sick of it, sick of the days of her life ticking away to no point whatsoever.
Much more of this and she would take to her paints to draw endless black lines of frustration over the canvas.
This was her third Season in London, and what was she doing? Exactly the same things she’d been doing in the country. Exactly the same thing she’d been doing nearly her entire life when she couldn’t escape into her paints. She was sitting and listening to her mother complain.
Her mother was outright sobbing now, fat tears streaming down her face.
Bloody hell, if this went on much longer, then the woman would take to her bed and make everyone miserable for the rest of the week.
It wouldn’t make a difference to Emmaline.
She was always miserable as she catered to her mother’s every whim, but there was no reason to make the staff suffer.
Still, it was excruciatingly hard to voice the words. She did it anyway. She waited for her mother to draw breath, then rushed her words.
“I’m so sorry, Mama. I’m out of sorts. This is my third Season, and no one has looked twice at me.
” That wouldn’t be enough to ease her mother’s mood.
She had to go one step further. The words that felt like hot coals in her throat, but she forced them out.
“Will you help me, Mama? I have no idea what to do to attract a man!”
That was a lie. She knew exactly how to attract a man.
After all, she’d been doing it her entire life.
All she had to do was hang on their every word, just like she did with her mother.
She listened to the erstwhile suitor, focused on whatever he wanted, and gave it to him.
Did he want praise? That was easy. Did he want someone to agree with his opinions and add on to his complaints?
She could do that in her sleep. Did he want witty cruelty aimed at someone he considered beneath them?
To her personal shame, she had done that as well even to the point of being cruel to a servant here or there.
But she’d always felt wretched afterwards and so had sworn off that particular man-enticement.
In truth, she’d sworn off all her false tricks.
They were exhausting to maintain, and worse, they were boring.
And that’s where she was: bored with everyone in her life because they were so self-involved that they never once looked beyond their narrow perspective to see anyone else.
To see her. And she would not shackle herself to a lifetime of…
well, of being married to the worst characteristics of her mother.
Meanwhile, her mother sniffed three times, each louder than the last. It wasn’t until the fourth sniff that Emmaline realized she was being inattentive.
“Oh, Mama! Did you want me to get you a fresh handkerchief?”
“Well, seeing as how I’ve soiled this one and half my dress—”
“I’ll fetch one immediately.”
She rose from her chair feeling like her shoulders were carrying an anvil apiece. When she finally gained her feet, she looked outside again, wishing for something to look different. Then froze when it did.
Was that Christopher? Arriving on a horse as if he’d rode hells to leather from God only knew where? Good God, the horse was heaving for breath!
“Mama, is that—”
“Whatever has happened? His cravat is a mess! And there are wrinkles all over his clothes.”
Yes, Lord Christopher looked done in, though that was how the man usually appeared after a night at Carlton House. She knew because Max and Chris often came here after a night carousing with the prince.
“He hasn’t shaved,” she muttered. “He usually does that before coming here.” She knew that because she never, ever forgot what Lord Christopher looked like.
She hadn’t since she first met him eight years ago when he had spent a summer with them in the country.
And he, the cur, had completely ignored her.
She’d run through all her adolescent wiles—twice—to no avail.
Something was different about him today.
Certainly, the sun still turned his straw locks gold, his legs still ate up the ground with athletic ease, and his broad shoulders still looked strong enough to hold up the sky.
But today there was an extra measure of excitement.
A grin—or was it a grimace?—that dismissed the exhaustion from his face and gave his step extra urgency.
Her mother made it to her feet and together they stood at the parlor door. It wouldn’t do for them to appear to wait for him, so her mother liked to pretend she was just stepping through the parlor door when the front door opened.
They waited three heartbeats for the knocker to sound. And another three for their butler Chiverton to pull the door open. And then Mama took two delicate steps into the hallway, speaking as if in the middle of a conversation.
“I won’t forget how Miss Appleton drank up all the punch last time. Very declasse—” She made a little gasp. “Why Lord Christopher! When did you get here?”
The man bounced toward them, his eyes alight with anticipation. “Good morning, Your Grace!” He kissed her hand with exquisite flourish. “And Lady Emmaline, you are a vision.”
He went to kiss her hand, and more fool her, she was already holding it out to him.
Why couldn’t she stop throwing herself at him?
“It’s afternoon, Lord Christopher,” she said with a dampening air.
It was uncalled for, but she was out of sorts today and he was an easy target simply because nothing she did ever touched him.
“Is it?” he drawled. “I hadn’t noticed. I was too busy, you see, managing an influx of Chinese into Carlton House.”
“Chinese!” her mother gasped, grabbing his lure with both hands. “I must know more!”
“Indeed, you must,” he said, “for you are directly involved.”
“Me!” Mama cried, as she pressed her hands to her bosom. “But whyever would I—I mean, I don’t know—You must explain at once!”
He leaned forward. “I shall explain everything, but first you must direct every spare room in the house to be aired and readied for guests. Every one, including, I suspect the servants’ quarters.
I fear you shall need every bed. And notify your cook.
Once the news gets out, I expect you shall have visitors aplenty and must feed them tarts or tea or something. ”
“Visitors!” Mama exclaimed with breathy enthusiasm. “But the Season has barely started. We’ve only attended one ball and—”
“You shall be the talk of the ton, I fear. This shall be a nine-day sensation.”
“A what!” Alarm filtered into the woman’s tone. It was a delight to be a one-day sensation, but nine days? That was a little much.
“You see…” he said with a dramatic pause, but Emmaline had had enough.
“Oh, spit it out!”
He arched a brow in her direction. Her mother did, too, although the woman added a stern admonishment. “Emmaline, what has happened to your manners?”
What had happened? What always happened.
Lord Christopher showed up and acted as he always did—like a damned fool—playing into everyone’s worst traits.
In her mother’s case, it was her sense of the dramatic, and so he held them both enthralled as easily as any magician on stage.
But if there were things to be done, scandal to be managed, then they needed to know it without all the folderal.
And so she would tell him in no uncertain terms. But instead of chastising him, she blurted out her fears.
“Has something happened to Max? Is he hurt?”
“Or is it his reputation?” her mother gasped. “Did he do something outré at Carlton House?”
That fear was almost laughable. What would be considered outrageous at Carlton House? The place was already infamous.
Lord Christopher’s expression softened, as did his voice. “Max has certainly stepped in it, but he is not hurt. At least not until Lady Kimberly finds out.”
“Finds out what?” Emmaline demanded.
The horrible man rocked back on his heels, straightened to his full height, and pitched his voice so that everyone—including the servants—would hear every word. “The prince has commanded that Max marry a Chinese concubine!”
Emmaline stared at the man. He didn’t appear crazy.
Indeed, he appeared exactly like himself with an impish grin and dancing eyes.
She knew he was smarter than he appeared, knew that he loved knowing things that others did not, and most important of all, she knew that he was not one to lie or create dramatic falsehoods just for the attention.