Chapter 10
Benedict dropped a folio onto Vincent’s desk before he slumped into the seat opposite.
“Do you care to tell me why you requested a search for tutors of feebleminded lads in Wales?” Benedict asked, a thick brow arched to his hairline.
Sparing a moment from his work to glare at the overly nonchalant man, Vincent muttered, “Had we not agreed you would not ask about it?”
“We did.” Benedict nodded once.
“And?”
“And I’ve decided to ask,” the infuriating baron replied. “I do not recall you ever being so interested in such philanthropic ventures. So, when I found what you were asking, you must understand my curiosity.”
Vincent grunted. “Why are you so troublesome? Blackhill is the lawman, not you.”
“He is, but Finch is not as nosey as I am,” Benedict wiggled his brows. “I am deservedly allowed to ask why the sudden interest?”
“It’s for… someone,” he said cagily.
“Someone,” Benedict leaned in. “And do I know this someone?”
“No,” Vincent gave him a sharp look that swiftly got ignored. “And stop asking.”
Damnation, would the man just give up?
As he scanned the words of his speech for Parliament the next morning and tried to focus on the points he wanted to hammer home, he could not ignore the memory of Benjamin and his struggles.
Knowing that he had taken away the chance for another young man to grow into something great, ate away at him.
He knew that his brother would have scolded him from the grave if he did anything differently.
Even worse, ruining a young woman would have incited his fury. A kind, brotherly fury, but fury nonetheless. His shoulders were heavy with the weight of his actions, but the thin light on the horizon was that he knew now, and he could do something about it.
He knew society would be scandalized if he had suddenly taken her and her family and put them up where she’d be fine for the rest of her life, so that was out of the question for now.
“Is that someone repaying you in kind?” Benedict fished.
“No,” he said, while flipping a page. “It is purely philanthropical.”
“Ah… so the plot thickens. Since when do you help anyone without reciprocation?” Benedict pushed.
Pressing a hand to his eyes, Vincent groaned, “Devil and damn. You’re like a hound with a bone, aren’t you?”
“Yes, especially when that bone has meat on it,” Benedict grinned. He must have spotted the aggravation on Vincent’s face, for he lifted his hands in mock surrender.
“But… discretion is the better part of valor, and with that said, I will leave that alone. If any more steam comes from your ears, I may come to regret my entire existence.”
“Wise man,” Vincent muttered as he struck through a line. “Now, how is your romance with the Shrew going?”
Benedict’s jaw dropped. “What are—I have no inkling of what you are speaking of.”
“So you were not escorting Lady Patience Stenton through Blackhill’s maze?” Vincent asked with a pointedly arched brow.
The baron jumped up so fast, the chair scraped against the floor, jarring enough that Vincent winced. “I will be taking my leave now.”
“Give Lady Shrew my regards,” Vincent said as he flicked to the last page of his speech. He hated debating on the budget, but he was sure he had enough to positively skewer the other side of the aisle.
The moment the door slammed shut behind Benedict, Vincent reached for the folio and ran down the lists of names. As much as he’d promised to keep in touch with Emma, he had not disclosed just what he would be in touch with.
He was sure Emma wanted to get her brother the help he needed, but he was positive she did not have the resources or know how to find who or what that could be.
With a name and fitting qualifications in front of him, Vincent reached for a plain card and wrote out a note to Emma. It was going on this afternoon’s gift, and for once, it was not going to be flowers, nor was it going to be money.
Dropping the card, he retrieved a small box that held a delicate hairpin, shaped in the elegant twist of a Chinese orchid. The symbolism of resilience and beauty reminded him of her.
He tucked the card inside and closed the box, then sent for a footman who went away with the item in moments. Sitting back, he let his eyes land on the folio, “It is not about one good turn anymore.
“You saved my life; now let me save yours.”
“Is anything amiss, Lady Emma? You seem very preoccupied.”
“Oh, um, it’s nothing.” With a guilty swallow, Emma directed her gaze back to Lord Ashton.
“My apologies, I am unused to all this… attention.” Emma swallowed over the gazes flying to them from all angles of the Park.
Seated under a sprawling tree in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, with the eyes of every passerby slicing under her skin, the ladies in particular—Emma felt as if she’d been plucked from the banks of the river nearby and thrown into the deepest spot.
A lot of ladies levied appreciative glances at her companion while giving her the cut.
She couldn’t blame them for noticing the lord.
Clad in a bright blue jacket, sterling white cravat, and tan breeches, he was undeniably avant-garde and eye-catching. The sun glinted off the rich golden hair curling over his ears and framed his face with irreverent, masculine perfection.
She ought to be overflowing with joy to be out in the open with Lord Ashton—but she was not.
Instead, she could not help going back to that night with Vincent, when he’d held her fast, sealed his lips to hers, and stamped his presence on her soul. A week later, it had not faded.
The worst part of it was that it kept interrupting her prime opportunities to endear herself to the lord.
She knew why Vincent was affecting her so; the emotions he had drawn out of her were so profound and so intense.
The feelings he had filled her with were beyond anything she’d expected from her first kiss.
Nothing that she had felt that night had she ever come across in any of the novels she’d read—even the salacious ones she’d snuck peeks at in Hatchard’s Bookstore.
“You needn’t fear the roving eyes,” Ashton’s words cut through her still roaming thoughts. “Here, let me teach you a trick I’ve mastered in the few weeks I have been here. This is the hour to see and be seen, yes?”
Emma nodded.
“Which means, everyone is rivalling for the most credulous spot. Take those two ladies over there—” He nodded to a set of ladies in jewel-toned dresses and hats that defied gravity in height and breadth.
Both ladies had hats with a plumage of peacock feathers going two feet high and three feet wide.
“Instead of thinking about how they are judging you, be concerned with how many poor peacocks had to die for those monitories.”
A real, humored laugh punched out of her throat, and Emma found herself losing the steel in her spine and leaning into Ashton. “Oh, goodness. They took the whole menagerie.”
“And then some,” Ashton laughed. He then nodded to a trio of dandies down the lane, “What do you think about them?”
She cocked her head. “They robbed the rainbow. If they added any more color, they might join the menagerie of peacocks we saw earlier.”
The next hour passed quickly with people-watching and trading tidbits of their lives in between. With every small truth she admitted, Emma was paralyzed with fear that in the next second, Ashton would deem her utterly unsuitable, tip his hat to her, and send her on her merry way.
However, he seemed engrossed in her silly stories from the two years she’d been at boarding school.
“I’ve been informed there is a sublime-flavored ice shop at Berkeley Square,” Lord Ashton said. “Would you like to experience it with me?”
“I would love to,” Emma smiled.
A few minutes later, as the carriage set off, Emma spared a look at the maid Ashton had graciously carried along as their chaperone.
The ride to Berkeley Square was short, and the driver paused at the doorway for Ashton to hop out. He held out his hand, “My lady?”
Taking it, she stepped out, pleased when her old half boots met the pavement without the heels wobbling.
I could exchange some of the next payment from Vincent to get new boots, too.
He tucked her arm under his. “Have I complimented you on your lovely ensemble today?”
She smiled. “Once or thrice, but I would not regret hearing it again?”
Half the night before, she had spent three hours freshening up her favorite dress made of dark blue taffeta; she had refreshed the lace and adorned the collar and cuffs with intricate floral embroidery, starched it, and ironed it.
Three hours of work was nothing compared to the time she spent on her clients’ corsets alone.
They entered the establishment, and the warm scents of spices and aromas washed over her.
“I’ve never had an ice before,” she admitted.
“I have,” he replied happily. “I knew it as Italian sorbetto at first, and it was lovely, using only fresh lemons, sugar, and water. What do you fancy you’d like?”
“Orange, I think,” she guessed.
“I will get the white coffee,” he said, leaning into her ear. “We’ll share.”
He was as perfect as the knot in his cravat, and Emma knew he should be her heart’s desire—he certainly was the catch every mama wanted their girl to have. So why was her mind replacing Ashton’s blond hair with midnight tousles and his bright, open gaze with a shrouded, secretive, broody one?
Stop it, Emma. Don’t be a ninny and daydream over a man who puts the sphinx to shame. You have a chance in a lifetime with Ashton. Take it.
“Woolgathering again, my lady?” Ashton teased.
Her face flamed as she took the ice sundae-style in the delicate tasse à glace.
Focus!
“My apologies,” she said, and mustered a half smile while internally admonishing herself for the next lie, “I was thinking about a project at the modistes that I am lagging on. It’s a hazard of a lady with a profession, I’m afraid.”
His laugh was forgiving, and his gaze understanding. “I understand. Would you like to go to the park as we try these dishes?”
“I’d love to,” she replied.