Chapter Twenty #2
No matter, Emma was determined to behave decently toward her husband’s former sweetheart. As Adrian’s wife, a woman of noble birth, she would be compassionate, a gracious winner as it were. She would also, in the most polite manner possible, make it absolutely clear that Adrian was taken for life.
At least this was the advice she repeated to herself hours later as she met Hermia outside her room on the way to supper.
Hermia had dressed in full evening regalia, a crepe turban ornamented with a plume of peacock feathers and a gold evening gown underlaid with layers of cream lace. A spidery gauze shawl dangled over one plump shoulder. “How do I look?” she inquired. “And do be honest.”
“You shall catch every eye at the table,” Emma answered.
“Hmph. I have just heard from the housekeeper that Serena indeed is a raving beauty. I don’t believe it, of course, for housekeepers are seldom truthful.”
Emma paused. She was underdressed, as usual, in a long-sleeved bisque-satin evening gown with a silk-flowered hem. “Raving beauty or not,” she said. “It would be an insult for us to be late to meet her.”
Hermia slowed pace as they approached the dining hall. “She has waited for almost a decade.”
“I know,” Emma murmured.
“Perhaps because no one else would have her,” Hermia added, more from defending Emma than unkindness.
Emma held back a smile. “You are indeed a stouthearted lady, Hermia.”
“A woman of a certain age acquires an understanding of human actions,” Hermia explained with a dismissive smile. “I will even go so far as to predict that Serena has a malicious nature.”
Emma laughed in disbelief. Hermia’s predictions were as reliable as a gypsy fair girl’s. “Oh, really?”
“Those of us with obvious beauty must strive to develop strength of character.”
“Did I hear myself mentioned?” Odham asked behind them, offering each lady an arm. “Strength of—”
“Shallow,” Hermia went on. “Vapid. And, most likely, selfish.”
Odham blinked. “Well, obviously you were not discussing me.”
Adrian emerged from his father’s study, somber, lean, and attractive in black evening attire. “Is everyone ready to eat? I’m famished.”
Emma examined her husband with unhidden pleasure. “Aren’t we waiting for our guest?”
He brushed her cheek with a kiss. “Serena? I believe she sent word she’d be late.”
“I told you.” Hermia nodded her turban-adorned head in satisfaction. “That is a sign of thoughtlessness if ever there was one.”
The meal of oxtail soup, roast pheasant, and leg of mutton was once again served to perfection on a pristine white tablecloth.
Emma might as well have been eating bits of chalk for all she enjoyed the painstakingly prepared courses.
It was too petty of her, she realized, to allow Hermia’s predictions to unsettle her.
Lady Serena was almost an hour late.
And when she finally did arrive, everyone in the dining hall—including the six attentive footmen—looked up in silent expectation toward the door.
“A dramatic entrance,” Hermia murmured smugly. “Planned to the minute.”
A dramatic entrance. Serena managed that and more as she swept into the room. She stood tall and statuesque to Emma’s diminutive frame, a brunette, with dark eyes and the enchanting laugh of one who knows she is beautiful. She captivated the attention of everyone in the hall.
“Gollumpus!” she squealed with delight as Adrian rose politely from his chair to acknowledge her.
And then, fortunately before Emma was prompted to say something uncharitable, such as, “Nice of you to join us for dessert,” Serena fairly galloped across the room and thumped Adrian on the back with a blow that would have knocked a normal male under the table.
He coughed, raising his brow. “I suppose I deserved that.”
“And about ten more,” she said gleefully before she glanced around the table. “So sorry we’re late. Lady Hellfire needed a good worming, and then the vicar had to change his shirt.” She stared past Adrian at Emma in surprise. “Don’t tell me that’s your wife—”
He grinned. “I won’t. But she is.”
Hermia nearly dropped her wine goblet.
Emma managed to set her glass down beside her plate. Where in the etiquette manual was this sort of thing covered? “Yes, I am his wife and I’m so very pleased to make your—”
“Well, blow me over with a feather,” Serena said with a guffaw. “I can see straight off that she’s too good for you, Adrian. For one thing she’s dainty as a dewdrop, and she’s got manners. Did you take her captive in one of your harems?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “How did you guess? I brought back a few pirates for you to play with, too.”
Serena poked him in the arm. “I don’t need a pirate. I’ve got the vicar now.”
“Who’s the vicar?” he asked with a derisive smile. “Another horsey?”
“He’s my fiancé,” she replied. “In fact, if your wife doesn’t mind me stealing her thunder, he and I thought we might announce our engagement here tonight.
And discuss plans for the charity assembly to raise funds for the village school.
” She made a belated curtsy in Emma’s direction.
“All jesting aside, Lady Wolverton, I welcome you on behalf of the parish. I do hope you and I can become friends and work together for the good of Scarfield.”
Emma’s eyes misted over with an emotional if un-seemly response of tears. To be loved by a man of good heart, to be helpful to the disheartened was everything she could ask of life. And she had no rival for Adrian’s affection.
Her obligation to the academy must still be met, and the move to the country would benefit everyone. She would never stop worrying about her infamous Boscastle family in London.
But—she was needed here, too. The duke needed his son. Florence needed a husband. And Cedric surely needed a wife.
There followed a merry evening of nibbling on stewed pears with white cheese, Moselle and Bordeaux wines imbibed in a spirit of celebration.
The vicar arrived shortly after Serena and apologized that Lady Hellfire had made him late.
Odham expressed his deep concern over her ladyship’s health until Hermia gently elbowed him and explained that Hellfire was a horse, not a woman.
And although the duke appeared to weary long before his company, he appeared contented when he excused himself for the night.
Emma walked with him to the staircase.
“I don’t deserve this happiness, I know,” he said, smiling at her.
“If the gifts we are granted came only by our merit, I think we would all be beggars, your grace.”
He nodded. “Perhaps he does deserve you. God willing he will not make the same mistakes that I have when it comes to love.”
“Fraud,” Emma said the moment she and Adrian stood alone in their bedchamber.
“I beg your pardon.”
“Your table manners are impeccable.”
“Are you complaining?” he asked in mock astonishment.
“Not about your manners, only about your devious nature. You who pleaded for me to instruct you. You were elegance incarnate from your finger bowl to the filbert pudding.”
He unknotted his cravat, smiling at her. “What if I said I was merely watching what you did?”
“I wouldn’t believe you. And by the way, Adrian, Serena is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met.”
He winced. “And one of the most boisterous. I told you she didn’t want to marry me. She knows me too well.”
“Or not well enough.”
He unhooked the back of her gown with his free hand. Within moments the bisque-satin dropped to her feet. Her undergarments followed.
“By the way, Emma, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.” He kissed the vulnerable curve between her shoulder and collarbone. “Haven’t I made that point clear to you?”
Adrian awoke before dawn and walked to the bluff overlooking the estate.
Years ago he had often escaped here during one of his father’s tirades.
Pretending he was a conqueror who commanded an invincible army, he would plot to storm the house and overthrow the duke.
Foolishly he had hoped to liberate not only himself but his mother’s ghost.
A strong wind rose from the southeast, fighting his stance. He fought harder. He always had. And now—now he wanted peace. He could still walk away. Emma would fuss and insist he meet his duty, but in the end she would support his decision.
He’d sworn he wouldn’t stay.
He’d sworn he didn’t care what anyone thought of him. He had come back in part to prove to his father that he’d lived a full life without benefit of family or his aristocratic background.
But suddenly he wondered whether Emma had been right all along. He was the duke’s son, heir not only to his father’s wealth and position, but also to his obligations.
He was no longer a child playing conqueror. He stared across the estate, at the mist-enshrouded lake, the cattle grazing on the hills, and the village beyond. The golden stone manor house dominated the land as it always had. But it too showed signs of age and neglect.
Home.
It wasn’t home.
Home was the warrior angel climbing up the hill to meet him, waving his coat in her hands and shouting that he would catch his death standing out here in his shirtsleeves, and didn’t he feel the wind?
He took the coat from her hands and wrapped it around her. She was still fussing about something when he pulled her into his arms.
Scarfield needed a guardian.
The guardian needed Emma Boscastle.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked her, resting his chin on her head.
She wriggled out of his arms. “I’ll say. I have just gotten a letter from London.”
“From?”
“Charlotte and Heath. ‘No need to worry,’ they assured me.”
“Which of course means—”
“—there’s something to worry about.”
He guided her down the hill, his body shielding hers from the wind. “I don’t know why you would assume that.”
“Well, Adrian, Miss Peppertree has threatened to resign.”
“But she hasn’t?”
“Who knows? I’ve been warned not to believe anything I read in the papers about the academy and Audrey Watson’s house.”
“Who’s Audrey Watson?” he asked curiously. “I think I’ve heard her name before.”