Chapter 8 #2
“I-I don’t wish to keep you from your guests, my lord. If I could just have a moment, I’m certain I shall be fine.”
“Nonsense.” Martindale’s voice drew closer, then the settee dipped. Certainly the pungent scent of orange blossoms rained over Emerson’s senses. “You no longer have a man to look after you. I’ll ring for my wife—”
“Truly, my lord. I insist you not involve your wife. I’m humiliated enough.” Her voice held an indestructible filament Emerson couldn’t name. An actress she was not if she was vying for a distressed damsel.
Silence ensued.
A second later, his whalebone stays creaked—something Emerson easily detected, considering how well acquainted he was with the devices he sold to merchants for the vain and titled.
Martindale caved with a sigh, giving testament to a long marriage, Emerson suspected.
“All right, my dear. If you insist on this madness, I shall limit my plea to one of your brothers-in-law. Which one shall be up to you.”
Emerson envisioned the standoff—each with their arms folded across their bodies—which only brought to mind Lady Stanford’s cleavage on proud display in that red gown she wore. Not at all appropriate for a widow who should be observing mourning. A merry widow was different, however.
“I suppose Huntley shall suffice. Lord knows the man is strong enough to cart a wild animal down the stairs,” she muttered. “But—” She raised her voice. “Lady Huntley is not to accompany him.”
“Not to…” Martindale let out another sigh, this one, frustrated, sounded farther away. He’d moved to the door. “And how do you propose I manage that, Lady Stanford? I take it you know your sister.”
Emerson was hard pressed not to laugh. Of course, that could change in a heartbeat should he be discovered.
“What of Stockton, my lord?”
Emerson froze. What the devil was she up to?
Martindale sputtered. His disbelief bounded against the walls while Emerson’s slithered along the Aubusson rug beneath his forehead. “Pardon?”
“Is Baron Stockton in attendance?” The innocence in her tone took Emerson aback. He wanted to shake her senseless, then kiss her.
“I-I shall see. You’ll be all right? Here, alone?”
“Of course, my lord,” she said with a demureness Emerson wished he were witnessing face-to-face.
The door latched shut, his footsteps non existent in the hall hushed by the thick carpet.
A second later. “Mr. Whitmore, are you still about?”
Emerson shot to his feet and stormed around the settee in a flash. “You little fool.” But he was speaking to her lovely backside.
She’d jumped to her feet and was hurrying to the door. “I’m leaving by way of the servant stairs, sir. You should leave too.”
Right. “Yes, that is quite clear.” Emerson stepped around her to the door and cracked it. All was quiet. “Hurry, now.”
There were no mishaps, short of dodging a few of the kitchen staff bustling about, to make it out a side door and into the garden.
“Where is your carriage?” he asked her.
“Follow me,” she said.
He did down a long procession of waiting conveyances to the very end. “Good God,” he muttered.
“Don’t worry,” she told him. “I was quite late, so it shall be easy enough to disentangle from the hordes. What of yours?”
“I came by foot,” he said. “It’s not far from Manchester Square. I shall ride with you to your home and walk from there.”
She went to dispute the situation, but he stopped her by sweeping her off her feet and into his arms. “What are you doing?” she hissed.
“You’ve turned your ankle, remember?”
Lady Stanford groaned.
“Which one is it?”
“Why does that matter?” she muttered. “The left, I supposed.”
Emerson grinned. “Not your ankle, my lady. Your carriage.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. There.” She pointed. “The one on the end.”
“What is your man’s name?”
“Lady Stanford?” The young man from atop the carriage had spotted them.
“Yes, it’s Lady Stanford,” Emerson answered for her.
She moved her face into his shoulder and moaned.
“What happened?” The man jumped to the ground and had the carriage door open and the steps flipped out just as Emerson reached them.
“Your mistress tripped and twisted her ankle. It’s nothing serious, but we didn’t wish to take any chances,” Emerson said smoothly. “What is your name?”
“Dobbs, sir.”
“Excellent, Dobbs. Let us see Lady Stanford to her door whereby then I shall take my leave.”
Lady Stanford’s body shook in his arms. He hoped she wasn’t one of those felines who resorted to tears at inopportune moments.
“Of course, sir.”
Emerson helped her into the carriage, then sat on the seat facing backward as the door closed and the carriage rocked with the replacement of the steps. He studied her in the dark, which made it impossible to see her expression. “You’re not sobbing, are you?”
“He certainly didn’t hesitate to do your bidding, did he?” she said by way of answer, laughter shaking her voice.
So, not crying.
He shrugged. “Why shouldn’t he?” He stared in her direction, wishing his eyes were better suited to the gloom. “What is your given name?”
“Rose.”
“A rose by any other name…” he murmured.
Her small laugh erupted. “Has thorns,” she informed him.
“Do you mind if I call you Rose?”
“Only if I am allotted the same privilege.”
“My name is Emerson.” I am not smitten. “Do you have children, Rose?” He liked how easily her name fell from his lips.
She stared out the window. “I was not so blessed.”
The ride to her home was indeed a short one. No time for even one small kiss. A good thing perhaps because Lord knew if he got his hands on her, he wasn’t sure he could stop with her delectable mouth.
The carriage slowed then again, rocked with the driver’s actions. The door opened, and Emerson started to rise, but Lady Stanford stopped him. “I can take it from here, Mr. Whitmore.”
“Emerson,” he corrected. “But your ank—”
She shot him a smirk.
He responded with one of his own and stepped outside quickly and pulled her into his arms. “You seem to believe yourself in charge, Rose,” he whispered in her ear.
The door opened just as he reached it. “My, my. Such efficient servants you employ, madam.”
“My lady?”
“I’m fine, Winston,” Rose said. “Up the stairs, Mr. Whitmore. First door on the right.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t say two flights up.”
“It was tempting, but I would likely never get you out of my home.”
The house was dark. Clean but dark. Upstairs, first door on the right, Emerson swooped inside and dropped his package on a small divan. This wasn’t the drawing room, he decided. He spotted a pile of black draperies in a corner.
“For mourning.”
He glanced at her to see her watching him. “You’re in mourning? I was confused by your red dress.”
She rose from the settee and sauntered to a small table with spirits.
She poured out a couple of glasses of something.
“I should be. I’m”—she curled her fingers in the air—“‘flouting my duty.’ A direct quote from one of my sisters. About the time my temper rises, I’m stayed by her other remarks on how my late husband did not deserve me.
” She picked up the glasses and strolled up to him and held one out.
“Thank you.” He took a sip and nearly choked. Hiding a wince, he made a mental note to send over a case of his finest stock of French brandy. “And did he?”
Her glass was poised at her lips. “Did he what?”
“Deserve you.”
“Most definitely not.” She spoke with that upper crest hauteur he’d noticed the night of the masquerade.
The statement had him wanting to beg for more information, but now was not the time. “This material you are in dire need for…”
“Ah. My sister and sister-in-law are the benefactors of a home for unfortunate young women. They need dresses.”
“Er, unfortunate—I don’t follow.” Emerson managed to finish off the awful brandy without gagging.
“Hope House, they’ve dubbed it.” She held up her empty glass. “This is quite abhorrent, isn’t it?”
He opted not to respond to that. “I believe I have heard of their works. But why do you refer to those you are assisting as unfortunate?”
“Oh, the girls are not unfortunate. Their situations are.” She frowned. “Or were, I should have said.”
He confiscated her glass and set them both on a nearby table. “In what way?”
“They’ve been horribly abused. Some are even with child.
” She went to the windows and looked out over the dark night.
“One young woman who was believed to have been carrying Stanford’s offspring was attacked and has since perished.
” Her voice had dropped, and he had to strain to hear.
“I had to do something to help. I accused my sister of killing my husband. I told her it was normal for a man to take a mistress and one should just do her duty and turn away from an unloving—worse, a disrespectful—husband. It was no wonder she hated me.”
Emerson was stunned. Who could possibly dislike this magnificent woman? “Who hated you?” he asked, matching his tone to hers. Low. Unintrusive.
But he caught her reflection in the window and she blinked, appearing to come out of a trance. She shook her head. “Forgive me, Mr. Whitmore. I shouldn’t be ruminating.” She turned a bright smile on him. “Not aloud anyway.”
“You were to call me Emerson as I recall.”
Her smile faltered. “Of course. Emerson.” She flung a hand toward the door, but he caught it within his own and tugged her to him.
He ached to kiss away the distress she attempted to disguise behind her smile. But again, now was not the time. It would appear he had all day tomorrow.
“You should go,” she said, somewhat prickly.
He gave her hands a light squeeze. “Of course. I’ll see you in the morning. Ten o’clock. Wear something dark.” He leaned in and breathed in the bright spring fragrance of her hair. “By the bye, you smell nothing like roses. I’ve learned much this evening.”
“Oh?”
He grinned. “Orange blossoms do not have thorns.”
She pushed away from him, giving him that teethy smile. “Perhaps I’m what you might call…a hybrid.”