Chapter 8
“Is this not glorious?” Harriet declared as she and Emma made their way up the picturesque walkway away from the rest of their group, while holding her lead for her pristine black furred pup, Fitzgerald the Fourth. “This house is tip-top.”
Fluffy clouds decorated the blue sky, and the rolling lawns and flowering hedges were pristine; stately elms lined the distant property line.
A few boys were playing cricket on the outfield of the grounds, and tents had been erected with seating for matriarchs and young children to rest whenever they had the fancy.
Under the nearest tent, a trio of flamboyantly dressed matrons were fanning themselves and speaking over each other about the Phantom, London’s latest obsession, one of them clutching a well-creased broadsheet like evidence at a trial.
“I feel underdressed,” Emma said, trying not to brush a hand down her simple, blue day gown, which, though plain, sat lovely on her figure. “I should have worn something more… ornamented.”
“Nonsense!” Harriet exclaimed, twisting her head as the light from her brass butterfly pin briefly blinded Emma. With her soft ash blond hair and curved brow, Harriet was the picture of dainty elegance. “You’re perfectly fine.”
“Still…” Emma sighed. “I am still the outcast. I have to try harder than the others.”
“You do not,” Harriet scolded. “The other ladies simply do not know how to treat you now that you’re not one of them.”
Emma cast a bemused glance at her friend. “Not one of them? Pray tell, what am I then? Have I sprouted two heads and not been made aware of it? Perhaps I’ve grown wings, or are there horns on my head?”
Harriet was not aware—or at least Emma believed so—but she saw the way others would subtly turn away or grow quiet whenever they came near.
“Even if you had, you circulate amongst the ton,” Harriet said matter-of-factly. “I am fairly sure most of those who whisper when you pass are simply miffed that you danced with Lord Ashton while they did not.”
So, she did notice too. I stand corrected.
Fitzgerald nosed at the flowers along the cobblestone path, stopping now and again to sniff at a wildflower.
“And if Charlotte were here, she would have told you the same thing—in albeit more blunt terms,” Harriet said. “Besides, I am fairly sure Lord Ashton will want to share your company again.”
“I do hope so too,” Emma breathed, while forcing herself not to think about that man with the dark hair and smoky, mist-filled eyes.
Vincent.
His name is Vincent.
“And from how you’ve described your interactions with him, I doubt he’ll care about trivial things such as trimmings on your dress or baubles in your hair. As he should.” Harriet nodded decidedly.
Buoyed that her friend had such warm encouragements, Emma looked around, hoping to spy the golden haired adonis. “He is handsome, isn’t he?”
“Powerful. Rich. Elegant and ever so handsome.” Harriet smiled secretly. “Like a prince.”
They paused to admire a long line of yellow rose bushes when the arched tones of Lady Modesty Ashdown called out. “Is that Lady Emma I see?”
“Oh god,” Emma groaned, turning her back. “I’ve walked into the valley of death.”
Harriet spun her back around as the trio of ladies approached. Ladies Modesty, Eleanor and Fleur, advanced, all three of them dressed in pastel copies of the latest fashion plate gowns.
Years ago, when she had first voyaged into her debut ball, Lady Modesty had taken one scathing look at her outdated gown and instantly stamped her as unfit to be in the presence of proper ladies. She had then recruited her friends to follow suit.
Blonde and blue-eyed, Lady Modesty fluttered her silk fan, her face as sharp and angular as a viper’s. “I am surprised to see you. For some reason, I expected you’d eloped with a country squire.”
Emma pasted a smile on her face and curtsied to the titled ladies while she ignored their razor-sharp smirks. “I’m pleased to see you again, Lady Modesty and your faithful retinues. And I hate to disappoint, but I am not yet wedded.”
Lady Eleanor’s smile slipped, and Emma felt a sliver of triumph that the dig of them being submissive pets had landed.
“May I compliment you on your gown?” she added.
“It’s all rather lovely, isn’t it?” Lady Modesty smiled, flaunting her perfectly white, even teeth before she twirled her spring blush skirts. “Modiste Bellotti went above and beyond with this piece.
“Then again, I don’t think I have to reference the craft. I am sure you’re intimately familiar with such inner workings,” Lady Modesty finished sharply, eyes dancing with wicked glee.
Of course they know I am a part-time seamstress.
Still, Emma felt her ears burn.
Once again, she regretted not wearing a better dress. Compared to the other ladies around, her dress was a gunny sack with glorified stitching.
“Lady Emma,” Lord Ashton’s voice blasted her out of the standoff with her tormentors, and she spun to face him. “I have been looking all over for you.”
He smiled at her, his wild blond hair gleaming, his eyes warm.
He was so virile and handsome in his stark evening attire that her heart hiccupped.
His grey jacket and trousers were exquisitely tailored, molding to his long, sinewed lines.
Above the rustic bronze waistcoat, his cravat held a perfect knot.
He paused to bow to the group. “My ladies. I hate to interrupt your conversation, but please allow me the indulgence of stealing her away for a moment.”
“Harriet—”
“Go,” her friend hissed, giving her a shooing movement with both hands, “I’ll follow at a pace behind you.”
“Is this your pup, my lady?” Lord Ashton asked of her.
“He is,” Harriet beamed. “If you want to pet him, he is docile and mannered. Unlike some companies I find myself in—” Harriet’s eyes flickered to the three. “Fitzgerald, sit.”
“A moment,” Lord Ashton crouched to scratch the pooch’s ears the second the pooch’s rump hit the ground. A warm smile bloomed on his face as he rubbed a velvety muzzle. “I love dogs. I had four of them in Spain.”
He stood and brushed his hands off, then extended his arm, “My lady. Would you care for a turn about the gardens?”
Relieved, Emma accepted. “I’d love that, my lord.”
The other women glared at her, their fans beating up a hurricane in the air as the marquess took his leave of the group, and Emma felt daggered glances on her nape as he led her into the gardens.
“Forgive me if I am wrong,” he whispered, leaning in a little. “But those ladies did not seem too courteous to you.”
“Very perceptive of you, my lord,” she giggled. “They have taken a liking to tease and torment me.”
“And why is that?” He stopped at a rose bush, this one blooming red.
She reached out to touch a flower. “It’s a few reasons, I suppose. The primary one being that, unlike them, who only have to worry about the latest trends in fashion, I have a profession. A lady with a profession is a faux pas in the le beau ton.”
She did not dare to peek up at him, as she was not ready to see any look of disgust from his ordinarily buoyant face.
“Then there is the issue of the scandal of my father losing his wealth, or the last one, which I have heard many a times, apparently, there is nothing more common or vulgar than red hair and freckles.”
She reached for the flower and smothered a yelp at the sudden, sharp sting in her forefinger. Drat. Cursed thorns.
“Here,” Ashton whipped out a handkerchief from his jacket and wrapped her finger up. “Put some pressure on it.”
“T-thank you.” Emma held the soft cloth fast to her finger and was startled again when Ashton plucked the rose and slid it behind her ear.
Pink warmed her face. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Of course I did,” he smiled. “It does pale in comparison to your beauty. And those chits are mean because they’re jealous,” he said flatly.
She jerked to a stop. “J—jealous? O-of what?”
Leaning by a hedge bush not too far from where the two were meandering, Vincent muttered, “I can answer that for you.”
Although he did not know the young woman from Adam, he felt pressed to do so. So far, he did know the young woman was a hard worker, meticulous, quiet, and dropped into the Temple of the Muses once every two months to get a new book.
He figured that she had no love lost for Duke Highminster, and for that, he had to do something to gain her trust. Days ago, he’d decided to fabricate a new identity to make amends—but he’d discarded that thought almost immediately.
No one made a firm bond on the base of deception.
With that decision made, he was still at a loss on how to sway her to his side—which was why he’d taken to skulking by trees and shadows like a specter.
“Jealous of what?” Emma sounded truly baffled. “I am a seamstress, hardly a princess.”
Vincent couldn’t believe his ears. Was this what the ladies of the ton had driven her to believe? That because she had a profession, she was lower than them?
If they knew she had quite possibly saved my life, I’d wager their minds would change in an instant.
“Unkindness usually stems from jealousy,” the man by her side said. “Most ladies are taught their only contributions to society are their beauty, not anything they can create with their hands, minds, or hearts.”
Vincent had to reluctantly agree.
“I would argue that your beauty, spirit, and uniqueness also offend them. If someone is malicious, your best reply is to hold your head up high and smile,” the fellow added.
Christ, who is this man? Lord Byron’s missing half-brother?
“You are too kind, my lord,” Emma said. “I do hope the ton doesn’t change you.”
“They can try, but I am very, very stubborn. At eight, I climbed an elm tree and stayed there for three days just because the other lads said I couldn’t.”
Emma’s giggle struck an annoyed chord inside Vincent—but he realized it was not her that irritated him; it was the lord she was with. He was entirely too charming, and he did not like that.
Instantly, he was suspicious of this man and vowed to find out everything about this—
“Lord Ashton,” Emma said abruptly. “I want to thank you for inviting me to your house party on Thursday. But I—I-”
“If you are trying to tell me, or rather warn me, that I will be sorry for choosing to spend my time with you over another lady who has more pull than you do, please save your breath,” Lord Ashton laughed. “As I said, I am stubborn. You will not dissuade me so easily.”
Vincent clenched his jaw. He did not like this man—at all.
Which struck him oddly.
He was jealous, which was out of the norm for him. No one and nothing got him jealous—but now, he felt the sudden urge to bust past the maze bushes and rip this Ashton’s hands off her.
He pushed away from the hedge bush, needing to leave before he did something foolish—but had to stop when he heard Benedict speak from another side of the maze.
“You cannot possibly think so, my good lady.” Benedict’s sour tone came from somewhere to his left.
“And why is that?” Lady Patience Stenton’s prim voice replied. “Women should have the opportunity to own a business that doesn’t peddle flummery.”
“Like what?” Benedict’s voice was high with mockery. “A gaming hell? A stud barn? A gold mine?”
Grinding his teeth, Vincent decided that the best thing he could do was to leave and find Emma at another time. He did not want the risk of one of his mutual associates speaking his title by accident, with Emma within fifty feet of him.
Skirting the garden party, he ducked into the house and headed straight to the foyer to get his coat.
He knew Keaton would be fuming, but he had to avoid both him and Benedict because he knew they would drag him into the middle of the party if they had the chance.
After he left, he would send Keaton a note explaining a reasonable cause for his sudden exit and hope the testy man believed him.
That plan was crushed as he got to the front door to find his friend there, greeting an older couple.
“Devil take it,” Vincent swore under his breath. While Keaton was busy, he grabbed his coat.
“You’re leaving?” Keaton did not seem pleased when he turned and found Vincent half-disguised by his grey morning coat, but Vincent had expected that.
Tugging his coat down, he nodded, “As much as I regret leaving early, needs must, old boy. My apologies.”
Jaw flexing in irritation, Keaton asked, “Can you not spare five minutes to socialize with your friends and join me in celebrating?”
He was tugging his cuffs down when he asked, “Celebrating what?”
“The Lord Chancellor gave me his nomination for the magistrate position,” Keaton said stiffly. “I hoped you’d stay and celebrate this notch up in my career.”
Guilt did cut Vincent in half, but his self-preservation and the need to stick to his plan to sway Emma to believe he had not targeted her family maliciously were more profound.
“I apologize,” he said. “I truly do, but I do need to go. I will explain more sometime this week, but I must leave.”
Unhappy, Keaton scowled but nodded, “It better be a damn good explanation for you to leave like this. And you will be buying my liquor for a week.”
“Deal,” Vincent said, then ducked out of the house, headed down to where his carriage waited, and swung inside, pleased when he saw the driver hurrying out to the carriage house, holding his cap down from the wind.
“Where to, Your Grace?” he asked.
“Arundel House,” Vincent said, while unconsciously reaching under his coat to touch his stomach, “for now.”
As the carriage went off, he loosened his cravat and tugged the window shading down. Why had he really come here? What did he truly want with Emma?