Chapter 29
The carriage ride to Arundel House at Grosvenor Square, as short as it was, felt torturous, but Emma managed to keep her unrest under the guise of reading.
Or hoped she did, at least.
Across from her, Vincent sat barricaded behind the Gazette, one black glove turning each page with galling peace. They had exchanged a few stiff pleasantries when they entered, and since then, only the rattle of wheels and the miserable rustle of pages filled the carriage.
Halfway through the journey, unable to bear another paragraph, Emma shut the book around her finger. “Is there a reason we’re going to the townhouse instead of the countryside estate?”
“There is a garden party at Hawthorne Park, hosted by Dame Attenborough,” Vincent murmured, without giving her the grace of his attention. “It would be social suicide not to attend, given what’s come before. After that, we can consider going to the country.”
“I… see.” Emma rubbed her thumb into the book’s spine. “You don’t sound particularly enthused.”
“I am not.” The newspaper gave a small, irritated snap as he turned the page. “But I would rather not see my name dragged across the scandal sheets for the rest of next week.”
The book pinched her finger.
Is that his way of telling me not to embarrass him again?
“There doesn’t seem to be a single thing one can do to not end on those dastardly pages,” Emma agreed coyly.
The moment she uttered those words, she could feel his gaze land on her skin and scalpel under it. She could almost feel the ire emanating from him, and her stomach curdled with her own hypocrisy. His gaze soon fell back to the papers, and she could finally breathe again.
I need to fix this. But how? Anything I might do would only make it worse…
After a while, Vincent gave the Gazette a slight shake, “Have you started on your proposal for this school of yours?”
At last, a topic she could touch without the ensuing shame drawing blood.
Relief swept in, followed by eagerness. “I have, actually. I used some of the books in the library to find some legal precedent to support my claim. There was little to find, but since the school would be privately owned, like a finishing school or a boys’ academy, I don’t foresee the law being an obstacle. ”
His brows drew together over the papers, “You didn’t look through the catalogue in my study?”
“No,” she murmured. “It felt… too much like trespassing.”
“Emma,” his tone held rife disappointment, “You have free access to everything you need in there.”
“I—” she paused, cheeks bright. “T-thank you.”
Once again, silence shadowed the carriage as Emma tried to translate her emotions into words but failed.
The vehicle drew up at the Grosvenor Square townhouse that Emma found to be as elegantly understated as the house in St. John’s Wood.
Inside, marble floors shone beneath a sweep of black-and-white tiles, and rosewood panelling gleamed along the hall.
A footman led her past burgundy silk walls hung with landscapes so fine she was almost afraid to breathe near them.
Her new chambers waited upstairs.
The bed was impossible to miss, a vast four-poster dressed in white silk and feather pillows, standing beneath peach-papered walls and polished ashwood furniture. It looked fit for a duchess, which was perhaps why Emma felt so suddenly out of place in it.
A knock had her turning to the door, her heart leaping with hope that Vincent was there so they could finally address the brittle air between them—only to immediately feel her breath swoop out of her body.
“Welcome, Your Grace,” Lilian curtsied. “Would you like a bath or a meal?”
“Both,” she sighed while peeking at the doorway behind the maid. “And then a nap.”
The next day, Emma and Vincent arrived to find the garden party already in full flourish.
Dame Attenborough’s house commanded a generous sweep of land abutting Royal Richmond Park, and the al fresco affair had been arranged behind the great Italianate manor, where pale stone terraces stepped down toward lawns crowded with tents, liveried footmen, and ladies bright as spilled bonbons beneath their parasols.
The two were greeted by their hostess, Dame Attenborough, a short, petite woman whose preference for the color chartreuse and ostrich feathers was shown not only in her wardrobe but in the house as well.
“Your Graces,” the lady curtsied, the feathers on her turban trembling perilously.
“I am without words that you have chosen to attend and to bless my humble home. Please, enjoy yourselves at the picnic. Also, I must advise you stay clear of my newly acquired peacock—though the bolder among you may find their company more pleasurable than some of the guests,” she finished with a snicker.
Emma and Vincent shared a look before Vincent said, “Newly transported from the wild, I assume?”
“Oh, of course.” The dame straightened her turban, whose plume nearly doubled her height. “They are still adjusting, poor beauties. My lady, what a lovely dress! The bodice quite reminds me of the uniform my late husband wore during the war.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your husband,” Emma commiserated, dipping her head. “But I thank you for the compliment.”
The dress, a stylish navy ensemble embellished à la militaire was one Emma had made sure to refashion in her quiet mornings at St. John’s Wood, because the notion of walking amongst the ton again felt more like marching beneath cannon fire.
It just so happened to be of use sooner than anticipated at Hawthorne Park.
The bodice was fashioned after a double-breasted frock coat, with gold trefoil embroidery for epaulettes and a smart row of buttons gleaming from throat to waist. The skirts belled from her hips and swept behind her in a short train that mimicked the frock coat.
“Madam,” Vincent offered, inclining his head.
They left the room and, following a footman, headed out onto the lawns, where tables for two and four had been arranged beneath four broad tents. A string quartet provided a semblance of a ballroom’s ambiance to the sweltering summer day while liveried servants delivered trays of refreshments.
“Did you happen to make use of the books I had brought over from St. John’s Wood?” Vincent asked while keeping his head straight.
“I did,” she glanced at him and noted he had tied his hair away with a leather thong, baring his sharp jaw and sharper mannerisms. “When you find the time to read over my proposal, I hope you’ll find it cogent.”
“I know I will,” Vincent reassured. “You were always the more intelligent, Emma—”
“Emma! Emma darling!” Harriet’s voice had her pulling away from Vincent just in time to be seized by a riot of peach ruffles, blond curls, and lily perfume.
“Hatti—umph!”
Her face disappeared into Harriet’s bouffant.
“I have missed you so!” Harriet professed, drawing back, eyes bright and misted over with happy tears. “My days are so dull without you—Lottie is such a bore these days.”
Amused despite herself, Emma brushed a crushed curl from her cheek. “Is your brother back in town?”
“Yesterday,” Harriet wrinkled her nose, “though he, too, remains a terrible bore. You are so fortunate with James, he’s so adorable. Oh, my manners!” Turning at once, she dipped a curtsy toward Vincent. “Pardon me, Your Grace. Mama would faint at my uncouthness.”
He inclined his head, “’Tis no harm, Lady Harriet.”
“Would you mind terribly if I borrowed Emma for a turn about the green? Lord Keaton had been asking about you, anyway.”
Something flashed in his eyes, quick as a blade catching sun—something almost like possessiveness—but in the next moment it was smoothed over, and he merely nodded, “Take all the time you need.”
Emma was scarcely five feet away from Vincent before Harriet threw a cheerful farewell over her shoulder and drew Emma nearer. She looked happy in her new yellow frock, all buttercup muslin and white ribbons, the colour making her hair gleam like spun gold beneath her bonnet.
Her bosom friend hooked their arms together. “You must tell me, how is married life?”
Emma took a moment to think, “Married life is most… odd,” she replied honestly.
Harriet tucked a stray lock behind her ear. “In what way?”
“Well,” Emma murmured, glancing back once toward Vincent before catching herself.
“I almost never see him now. I had not understood that a duke did so much work, you know. We see them through this… veil, I suppose, all titles and privilege and houses large enough to lose a parish in. But he is called upon for everything.”
“Heavy is the head that wears the coronet,” Harriet said sagely. “But your marriage cannot be so odd. Mama only speaks to Papa to complain about her—”
“Delicate nerves.”
“And Papa only speaks to Mama when he means to cut her pin money or lament that his boy will drag our name into the gutter with his philandering.”
Emma giggled. “Does he mean your pup, Fitzgerald, or your brother Paul?”
“Either or.” Harriet gave a little shrug. “Though I must confess, I had hoped to hear nights of romantic dinners and secrets shared at moonlight.”
“We married to save face,” Emma reminded.
“How dreadfully uninspiring.”
“It is certainly not the fairy tale those horrid romance novels sell us, that’s for sure,” Emma sighed.
Even as she said it, memory betrayed her. Vincent’s bed. The heat of him at her back. His arm heavy around her waist by the pond. The comfort of it, the strange sweetness, the way she had slept tucked against him as though she had always belonged there.
“Do you know what they’re saying about you and Marquess Windham?” Harriet asked, dipping her voice.
“I have heard.” Emma’s stomach dropped with a violent swoop. “And it was my mistake.”
“What do you m—Gadzooks!” Harriet jerked to a stop, which forced Emma to stop as well.
Following her friend’s gaze, she saw him.
Marquess Windham.
He was surrounded by three other lords, but his flaxen hair was a beacon that drew her eye. A forest-green tailcoat sat smoothly over his shoulders, while his tan waistcoat and buff trousers molded to his frame and gave him the golden, easy polish that had once felt so safe.
“Shall we turn back?” Harriet whispered.
“No,” Emma answered, lifting her chin. “Let’s continue.”
Harriet, blessed creature she was, started chattering at once about bonnets, ices, and everything else that came to her mind as they strolled by, and Emma felt a gaze rest heavily on the back of her neck, which she knew for once was not Vincent’s.
They made a turn along the lawn, and as they walked back, Emma spied a tall hedge maze off to the left. Maybe later on, she could find a moment of peace in there.
“What do you mean, it was your fault?” Harriet asked once they were away from the growing crowd. Even so, Emma remained painfully aware of the whispers behind fans and the avid glances that followed her like burrs catching on muslin.
“I wrote to him,” she admitted. “He wrote first, and I answered in hopes of politely rebuffing him. Then, apparently, he got drunk and shouted it for half of London to hear. It was the worst possible time for me to be foolish.”
Harriet gave her a long, steady look. “Did His Grace offer you a pathway to leave the marriage if you wanted?”
“Yes,” Emma replied, startled, though she supposed she shouldn’t have been. Harriet could chatter through an entire musicale and still hear the one note out of tune. “He pressed upon me an annulment all throughout our honeymoon. Then Ashton wrote to me, and in a moment of weakness, I wrote back.”
“I… see.” Harriet glanced once toward the lemonade stand where Windham still stood among his glittering little court. “Surely His Grace can understand your error.”
“He understands part of it,” Emma murmured, searching for Vincent over the stretch of green. “But I still hurt him, and I don’t know how to mend it.”
“I think we ought to find some shade first,” Harriet sighed. “It’s growing beastly hot.”
They crossed to one of the quieter tents, where the striped canvas cast a blessed patch of cool over the grass and only a few guests lingered among the tables. Emma sank into a chair and drew her first proper breath in what felt like an hour while Harriet went off to fetch lemonade.
Still, she could not find Vincent.
Where was he?
Looking back toward the refreshment table, Emma spotted a lady, thin, tall, with cheeks sunken from age and slate grey hair poking out from her leghorn, bearing down on Harriet.
The two shared what could only be pleasantries, and Emma was prone to ignore them, but then the lady glanced over at her, and the disdain in her ice-blue eyes had Emma’s spine snapping straight. The lady waved the jeweled knob of her walking stick as if it were a musket, and Emma grew concerned.
She rose and crept closer to the two, only to hear the woman mumble, “I have been meaning to say something about your friendship with Her Grace. So I tell you this for your own good; she is too common by half, and if you keep association with her, yours will too be tainted.”
“Tainted?” Harriet asked, lemonade forgotten in her hand. “Whatever do you mean, Lady Atwood?”
“I shall not soil your ears with all I’ve heard,” Lady Atwood said, leaning closer, clearly delighted to soil them a little.
“The whole Town is abuzz. Married scarcely a fortnight, and already she is encouraging a former suitor. Everyone has put two and two together, my dear. Loose morals do not become respectable because one drapes them in a duchess’s silk. ”
Harriet looked at the woman for a long moment. “How curious. I remember Mama saying much the same was said of you when your husband, Lord Atwood, the Viscount Walcot, was ousted as being a bigamist.”
The older lady went plum-red. “You impudent girl.” She harrumphed and spun around, hobbled off to the other tent, and immediately struck up another conversation, undoubtedly gossiping about Harriet next.
“You did not have to do that,” Emma told her friend as she came to her side.
Handing her the cold glass, Harriet tutted, “Do not fret. I know who you are, and I shan’t be bullied into abandoning you. Especially now when you need a friend more than ever.”
Hugging her, Emma whispered, “Thank you.”