Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
E mma stopped midsentence, her quill hovering over the paper, and pondered a mystery that had gnawed at her all week.
Not old.
Soon, not a bachelor.
Not the controlling monster she’d first imagined.
Not the bumbling fool, either.
The Duke of Clearford was something else entirely, and it made Emma’s palms sweat. It distracted her, turning her usually well-organized notes into a jumble of contradictions. This would never do.
She must focus. Quill to paper, mind to task. What had she been writing? Ah! She scribbled quickly across the page, replacing the duke’s stern expression with his sister’s happy one.
Lady Felicity was a sweet girl who needed a man to show her and tell her where his loyalties lay. She needed a fellow who would look at her with his heart in his eyes, who would offer tiny touches of adoration the way her sisters’ husbands did. She needed, as well, someone who was not entirely serious, a gentleman who enjoyed a game of cards or charades, but also one who would be strong and honest. She would need a man who supported her silently, without need for praise. Like her brother did.
She closed her notebook and stood up so quickly the chair teetered backward but didn’t fall. She marched to the window and set her palm and forehead against the cool glass. Her gaze wandered to the garden, to the statue, the only witness of the kiss she’d shared with Clearford. He’d put his lips against hers, knowing he would be courting another. He was a rogue. Duke Clearly Rakish.
Not when he spoke with her, though. When he’d sat beside her in Hyde Park, devastation rolling through him as he’d learned about the self-doubt of womanhood, he’d been more lost soul than rake. Duke Clearly Caring.
A sharp rap on the door. “Emma? May I come in?” Aunt Georgie asked.
“Please do.”
The door opened, and Aunt Georgie smiled, clasping something to her chest. “Are you ready for your meeting with Clearford?”
“Aye.”
“Excellent.” Aunt Georgie sat on the edge of Emma’s bed, settling three objects on her lap—a letter, a book, and a book-shaped parcel. She held the letter out to Emma. “First, a letter from your father arrived.”
Emma took it. He’d want to know how she progressed with Felicity. She placed it on the writing desk, her stomach flipping. She’d answer it later. “And those?” She sat next to Aunt Georgie on the bed.
“I’ve come to give you something and to ask a favor.”
“Oh. You need give me nothing. I am grateful for your warm welcome.”
“Bah. That is nothing. What else would I do? What I give you is important.” She handed Emma the book, a brown rectangle with gold lettering on the spine.
“ The School of Venus ? What is this?” She had an inkling.
“An education, my dear. What do you know about a woman’s body?”
Emma jumped to her feet, dropping the book to the mattress like a hot coal. “Aunt!”
“Bah. If you are shocked, your need to read that is greater than I thought. I do not know if your mother told you the necessities. And I know your father did not. It does not seem as if you have had any older woman to guide you in such things. Do you possess a married friend or a matron who has mentored you?”
“No.” The word a hesitation filled with a mix of dread and… anticipation. What other shocks would a no produce?
“I thought not. Now be honest. How much do you know? About men and women and sexual pleasure.”
Emma choked. “I, um, I know enough. I know how babies are conceived, how a man’s, um…” Oh God. She looked out the window, up at the ceiling. Nothing helpful in either place. “How he fits into her .” Mortifying.
But Aunt Georgie chuckled, took her hands, and led her back to the bed. “Sit, sit, darling girl, and wipe away that embarrassment. Talk about it often enough and it won’t seem so daunting. Learn enough, and you’ll look forward to it instead of dreading it. That”—she picked the book back up and placed it in Emma’s lap—“is what this is for. It might even improve your matchmaking.”
There was that. “I’ll never need it personally, though.”
“So you say, but I don’t give up hope easily. The Earl of Westgrove has many dashing sons. Some of them married, some still on the market. They have the manners of brutes, the looks of charming rakes, but the married ones treat their wives quite well. I could introduce you.”
“No, no thank you, but”—Emma flattened her palm against the book—“thank you for this. I think I will find it fascinating. I admit to an unladylike curiosity. I have never sought out answers to my questions, though. A lady’s reputation is fragile, as you know.”
“I do know. But sometimes a lady must take risks.” She stood, snagging the parcel off the bed and holding it out to Emma. “Will you do me a favor? I found this book while searching for the Venus . I have had it for an age, but it belonged to the duke’s mother, and as you are going over there shortly, I thought you might leave it in the sisters’ sitting room? It is across the hall from their brother’s study. You can sneak in and place it right near the large wardrobe there. They’ll find it and know what to do with it.”
Emma took it. It felt less like a hot coal than the one weighing heavy in her lap. “Of course. I am happy to help.”
Aunt Georgie cupped her face. “Thank you, my dear. And if you should have any questions about what you learn in the Venus , I am more than happy to answer them.”
“I, uh, yes. Thank you for that as well.”
Aunt Georgie left but not before she winked.
And Emma prepared to leave, too, hiding The School of Venus deep in the bowels of her trunk and stoutly refusing to look at the letter glaring at her from the desk as she donned her pelisse. She would have nothing to write to her father until she visited the duke, anyway.
If she succeeded in matching Lady Felicity—and she would succeed—it would be her first successful love match. The duke would pay her father well in, at the very least, a social connection and a hearty recommendation to others in need of matchmaking.
And perhaps The School of Venus would help. Amorous attraction, love, they were not the same, but they could go hand in hand.
She marched across the square and knocked on the duke’s door. On the wave of an inhale, she closed her eyes, found there the memory of a shadowed garden and a man looking at her like she was the only woman on earth. She was supposed to forget.
But his words whispered through her veins.
“I’m not convinced you’re real. I conjured you.”
“To fall in love with?”
“Yes. Perhaps. For one night.”
The door creaked, snapping her eyes open.
“Lady Emma?” the butler asked.
“Yes.” She blinked the night away and reentered the sunny present.
“The duke is ready to see you.”
But she was not ready to see him, not with his words mingling in her mind with Aunt Georgie’s book, an unexpectedly potent combination. “I…” I am unwell. There is an emergency. Someone’s died. I am terrified of meeting the duke with the notion of pleasure crowding my mind, so I will not be meeting with him today, thank you. “Aye.” She stepped into the house.
Jacobs headed for the stairs.
“Where are we going? Isn’t the duke’s study down here?” Emma peered down the hallway she’d walked down the first time she’d met him. Well, the second.
“He’s not there this morning. He asked to meet you in the gallery above. Shall I tell him you request a different location?”
“No, no. The gallery will do.” The paintings would give her something to look at other than him, but she’d have to leave Aunt Georgie’s parcel in the sitting room on her way out.
Jacobs led her upstairs, and as they reached the top of the first floor, she heard a curious sound. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk . In regular intervals.
No, not curious. She’d heard it before, and in the silence between the sound of a blade slicing into something solid, Jacobs opened a door and ushered her in.
Clearford stood with his back to her, tall and poised, blade-ready hand raised near his face, muscle bunched beneath the fine linen of his shirtsleeves.
Shirtsleeves, waistcoat, cravat. No jacket. And beneath the waistcoat a rather perfectly rounded…
She should not be looking at backsides. Curse Aunt Georgie for putting such heated notions into her head.
Clearford’s body flinched, and his arm whipped out, and the blade sailed so quickly across the room, she barely saw it, only heard the thunk as it buried itself deep in the… half a tree?... that seemed to grow on the wall at the other end of the gallery.
“Is that a tree?” she asked.
Clearford paused while reaching for another knife and spun around, his arm dropping against his side. The corner of his mouth kicked up. “It is. Several. You are late.”
“My aunt detained me. She asked me to give you this. It used to belong to your mother. I’m supposed to leave it in the sitting room downstairs.”
“You can put it there, and I’ll take care of it.” He pointed to a low table with a large box of knives.
Should she be concerned?
She placed the book gingerly beside the box. “Now… back to the trees…”
“In the country, I throw at specifically designed targets, thick slabs of wood. If I miss, the knife goes into the grass or a tree. Here, a missed throw sends the knife into the paintings or the floor or the wall. We cannot very well toss knives at a tree in the garden or in Hyde Park. So… I have a few new trees felled, halved, and carted up here when needed. We line the wall with them. The center ones usually require replacing sooner than the outer ones.”
“That’s extravagant.”
“I wouldn’t bother if it was merely me throwing. I hit the center every time. But my sisters like to practice. And their aim can be… less than perfect. Not Juney’s. She’s quite talented.” The other corner of his mouth kicked up. “You may leave, Jacobs.”
As the butler disappeared, Emma said, “But what about your aunt? You promised me she would chaperone.”
He picked up a blade and pointed it over her shoulder. “Meet Aunt Millicent.”
When she followed its line, she discovered a short sofa resting against the wall behind her. A woman whose gray coiffure could only be called chaotic draped across it, snoring. “Poor dear. Her neck is at an awful angle.”
“I’ll fix her.” He knelt in front of the sleeping lady and nestled a pillow beneath her head. She snorted once but did not wake. “Sleep well, Aunt Millie.”
He stood and prowled back toward Emma, reaching for the knives but watching her.
“Shouldn’t you wake her?” Emma asked.
The duke shrugged. “She needs her rest. She has boxing lessons this afternoon, and then it’s off to chaperone the girls at a ball this evening. You are attending, I assume.”
Emma nodded. “Yes. Lady Macintosh is particular friends with Lady Coldpepper, the hostess. But… back to the boxing.”
“Your sisters arrived earlier this morning.”
“Could we remain on a single topic for more than a breath?”
He looked up from choosing a blade. “If it’s an important one. And the subject of our sisters is more important than Aunt Millicent’s boxing lessons. They’ve become friendly. Our sisters. Have you noticed?”
“Difficult not to. Either your three are over at Lady Macintosh’s house or my three are over here. Do you object?”
“Not at all. I find myself quite glad. Particularly for June and Gertrude. Being so much younger than their sisters, they have often felt alone. I do not know why they have not found friends before now. But now that is one worry I need not consider. Thank you.”
“I had nothing to do with it.” She crept closer to him—close enough their arms almost touched—and peeked into his box. Silver blades with sharp points and wooden handles, satin from use.
“You have had the charge of your sisters for some time now, haven’t you?”
“Aye.”
“Then you are the one who fashioned them into the type of ladies my sisters enjoy spending time with. Thank you.”
She gripped the edge of the table. His gratitude warmed her from the inside out. She didn’t want to be warmed by him. “You’re being nice to me today.”
He turned sharply, and his eyes flashed lightning. “Have I been anything other than nice to you?”
“I suppose when I provoke you.” She dropped her gaze back to the knife box. “These are beautiful.” Each implement no more than six or seven inches. White hilts. Ivory? Tips deadly.
“Nowill knives. They belonged to my father.”
“Did he teach you?”
He snapped the box shut and strode toward a table near the windows. There were two chairs on either side, and he gestured for her to sit as he did so opposite her. “Yes, he did. Now, what can you teach me? About Felicity and her prospects.”
Sinking into the chair, she folded her hands atop one another on the table. “They are quite good. In the last six days, I’ve noted three gentlemen with a distinct interest in her. You can rest assured that the loss of one suitor has not tainted the interest of the others. All are of acceptable family backgrounds. All handsome gentlemen who have treated her with respect.”
“Does any one of them seem to favor her more than others?”
“Not particularly.”
“Does she favor any one of them more than the other?”
Emma curled her fingers into her palms. “Not particularly.”
“You sound frustrated.” He placed his forearm on the table, his hand resting a few inches from her own. His naked hand. His naked forearm, shirtsleeves rolled above his elbow. Veins snaked up his muscled arm, and dark crisp hair brushed upward into the cuff of his sleeves. His hand… she’d held it, knew those long fingers to be strong as well. Clearly society had the right of it—men should never bare their forearms to women’s sight. Much too tempting, much too quick to boil a woman’s blood. Emma’s blood at least.
“I am frustrated,” she snapped. Not frustrated enough for bad manners. Had a bit of a man’s arm truly unnerved her so? “Apologies. It is only that for a woman willing to be matched, she does not seem terribly inspired. Natural, I suppose, if her heart was broken.”
“Perhaps…” His fingers twitched. “But no. Continue. What other observations do you have for me.”
“I think not. I’d rather know what you were about to say.”
“You told me not to interfere.”
Of course, she would find the first man to listen to her seriously, intriguing enough to break her own rules. “I’m too curious now. You must tell me.”
“Do you ever defer to anyone?”
“Not if I can help it. Does it bother you?”
“Not in the least.”
Thrilling, that, to have a powerful man respect her independence, her curiosity and intellect. She leaned forward, her hands sliding across the table, nudging his hand and sparking red across his cheeks. She yanked her arms into her lap. “Do tell me. Please? Your observations and questions may offer insight.”
He stood and faced the window, raked a hand through his hair. “When I was studying courtship, I seemed to have one rule that proved useful.”
“Only one?”
“Yes,” he growled. “But it was a good one. Never woo the wrong lady.”
She scratched at the fabric of her skirts. “That is rather good. Quite true, actually. A marriage between two mismatched minds is a disaster.”
He faced her, something like shock making his mouth softer. “Thank you.” He shook the shock away and leaned against the window frame, crossing his arms over his chest, revealing it to be quite a broad span of muscle. “The devil of it is… how does a chap know which lady is right and which is wrong? I never quite figured that part out, and every time I thought I knew who the right chap for one of my sisters was”—he threw his arms out wide—“I was wrong!” He hung his head for a breath, and when he looked at her once more, a lock of hair had come loose and hung over his eye. “What I am trying to say is that perhaps if one of the gentlemen showed more interest in her, she’d show more interest in him. But perhaps they cannot because they do not know if she is the right woman for them.”
Oh. Oh my. This man was confusion itself. A sweet sort of confused that reminded her a bit of a puppy dog.
With a bit of a growl, he swung toward the box of blades, swept one up, and tossed it without looking.
A sweet, confused puppy with deadly aim. Right.
When he did not join her again but began to fiddle with the knives, she joined him.
“Those are all excellent queries and concerns, Your Grace.”
He grunted as he lifted another knife, tossed it in the air, caught it by the blade, and sent it flying toward the tree. Thunk —it hit the very center.
She stood behind him, hands clasped behind her back. “Never woo the wrong lady. It’s excellent advice.”
He whipped around, throwing his arms out wide. “It is! Yet I’m nothing but a joke.”
She cleared her throat. “I do remember you offering some other rule. About no flowers. And another about no kissing until marriage?”
“Flowers are unoriginal. And what if the lady is allergic?”
“Ah. I see.”
“And what am I supposed to say about kissing? Tell me, Lady Emma, what could I say that would not shock the ton ? That it’s the first thing a fellow should do? That it is actually quite essential to knowing which lady is right?”
“Hm.”
He grabbed another blade, sent it flying. “ Hm does not help. Quite vague,” he grumbled.
“I was ruminating. About the kissing. You are correct that you could not openly promote such behavior. You could have simply said nothing.” Her turn to pick up a blade, balancing it on her palm. Not as heavy as she’d thought it would be. “But more than that, I’m curious about how crucial kissing is to a match. I myself have never suggested a kiss for determining compatibility before.”
“Why are we always talking about kissing?” he mumbled. Then he sighed and said louder, “A point of agreement between us. What do you suggest, then?”
“Conversation. Particularly of subjects the couple disagrees on. If they can maneuver through a bramble patch successfully, there is much hope for their future.” She wrapped her hand around the knife’s hilt.
“Makes sense.” He stepped closer. “You’re holding it wrong. May I?”
She nodded.
And he grasped her wrist with one hand, the knife with the other. Thank God for her gloves. She’d been skin to skin with him before, and it had been a dream, a warmth of heaven running through her blood that she was supposed to forget.
“Thumb on the hilt like this,” he said, moving that digit away from her fingertips and settling it onto the soft wood. “Excellent. Would you like to throw?”
“We-we’re not finished talking about Lady Felicity.”
“Perhaps we are. Perhaps we need time to consider the matter of kissing and the right woman. And knowing.” Each word brought him closer to her until his arm wrapped around her shoulder while his opposite hand still gently grasped her wrist. He guided her to stand centered with the tree trunk at the end of the room.
Think about kissing and knowing with his arm around her, with the lean muscles bunched and taut and steadying? With his breath on her neck and his voice so low in her ear, she could think of nothing else. Yes, she could do that.
But it had nothing to do with Lady Felicity.