Chapter One #3
“If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured, reaching around Lord Wolverton to the table, “I have to find one of my students who’s feeling unwell. Oh, and here—hold out your hand.”
He feigned a look of fright. “Are you going to spank my knuckles with a spoon?”
“As much as you probably deserve it, no. Do as you’re told.”
He did. And she dropped three pretty marzipan comfits into his gloved palm. “How did you do that?” he asked in surprise, glancing back at the cake.
She arched her brow. “One learns to be sneaky when one has a reputation for propriety.”
He broke into a grin. “Truly? I’ve always operated on the opposite principle.”
“Ah.”
He popped two comfits into his mouth and offered her the third. “Open your mouth.”
“No, I couldn’t—” He slipped the sweet between her parted lips, his forefinger lingering on her cheek for a moment. Emma suddenly found it impossible to swallow. Her mouth tingled.
He straightened. “You’re Emma, aren’t you? I couldn’t remember at first. My name is—”
Emma bit her underlip, backing away. Perhaps he was simply lonely and desired conversation. Or shy—no, he wasn’t shy at all. “I know who you are, my lord,” she said in a parting whisper. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself in London.”
“You’ve heard of me then?”
She sighed.
“I’m not as bad as everyone says,” he called after her.
She laughed, glancing back at him. “I’ll wager you’re not as good as you should be, either.”
She escaped into the hall and headed up the small staircase to the ladies’ retiring room, hoping that by now Miss Butterfield’s stomach could survive the short ride home back home to her brother’s town house.
To her surprise she was still smiling from her encounter with Lord Wolverton.
She hadn’t expected him to be so candidly disarming.
It was preferable to make a discreet and early exit. She was a little miffed that Sir William had vanished without a by-your-leave, but then perhaps he had been waylaid by a political friend. William was a true defender of the undertrodden and donated much of his time to charities.
Waylaid.
She recognized his erudite voice, the voice that could move the conscience of Parliament, drifting from the niche at the end of the hall.
The sharp report of a slap and the indignant but elucidating outburst of a chambermaid followed.
Emma found herself torn between making a hasty exit and confronting the son of prattlement who had pretended to court her.
“I will not do the improper with you, you twiddle poop,” the young girl insisted. “And I’ll thank you to keep your trinkets in your trousers.”
Emma swallowed her distaste and turned swiftly before either party could see her. She’d heard enough. She gripped the iron railing and started back down the stairs.
What a bitter discovery. Sir William had seemed to be such an upstanding gentleman. What a disappointment, she thought wryly, to realize he was willing to stand up for anyone, and at a wedding. She could never look the pretender in the face again.
“Emma!” he said in shock as, apparently, he caught sight of her.
She glanced back unthinkingly, grateful that his trinkets were not in view, although his disheveled state spoke for itself.
The maidservant squeezed around him, her gaze averted.
“She accosted me,” he blurted out at the filthy look Emma gave him. “Bold little baggage shoved me into the wall and demanded I surrender my—”
“—trinkets,” Emma said in a soft voice. “Yes, I heard. I wish I hadn’t.”
“It ain’t true, ma’am,” the maidservant whispered, straightening her crooked white cap. “I was only doin’ me work.”
“I know.” Emma glanced at Sir William with repugnance.
His attractive face seemed flushed from drink and suddenly mean-spirited, not at all mature.
He defended the downtrodden, which meant he’d earned the right to take advantage of the working class?
How had she missed the signs? Good manners did not always go with a good heart.
“Leave quietly,” she said to the maid. “The day is not ruined yet. Brush your hair and behave as though nothing has happened.”
Sir William reached for Emma’s arm. She recoiled. The maidservant hesitated, for another man had just pounded up the service stairs at the end of the hall behind them.
“Do not touch me,” Emma warned William in a low voice.
“We can all pretend this never happened, Emma,” he said carefully, grasping her hand. “You and I have a future together.”
“Get your filthy mitts off her,” the maidservant said, slowly moving to Emma’s side. “She’s a lady.”
Sir William’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “This entire affair is a misunderstanding. I wandered into the hall by mistake. You and I are going to be married, Emma.”
“We most certainly are not,” she said indignantly.
She tugged her hand from his. He caught it again and closed his fingers over hers. “Shall we announce it now? It would be a very romantic way to end a wedding.”
“I’ll get help,” the maidservant whispered, jabbing one last pin in her cap. “Don’t you worry about this little weasel.”