A Proper Companion (28 page)

Robert eased the pressure on the twisted arm and
released his hand from Pentwick's head. Pentwick twisted his head
to the side with a grimace. A thin line of blood trickled from the
corner of his mouth down his chin. His breath came in gasps. "I
engaged . .. agents ... to keep an eye on the girl."

"Why?" Robert raised the twisted arm ever so
slightly, causing Pentwick's cheek to press more firmly into the
floor. Pentwick's face contorted in pain.

"They were to make certain," Pentwick gasped, "that
no man . .. became involved enough ... to offer her marriage." He
stopped as a cough choked his voice. Robert eased up on the arm
once more.

"But the chit made it easy," Pentwick continued
finally, wheezing and puffing as he tried to speak. "Kept to her
proper role ... governess ... companion ... Never put herself
forward ... Came close only the one time ... That reverend fellow
... in Wiltshire .. . Easily bought off.. . Four more years .. .
Damn her! ... That's all I needed."

He stopped to catch his breath, and one bloodshot
gray eye rolled up to look at his captor. Robert glared down at
him, his eyes black with fury, and twisted the arm tighter.
Pentwick's gray eye snapped shut. When his breathing had at last
calmed, his tongue licked at the blood on his lip, and he finally
continued to speak.

"I was desperate, can't you understand?" he said in
a pathetic, plaintive voice.

Robert snorted in disgust and released his hold on
the man. He crawled over Pentwick but remained crouched at his
side.

Pentwick attempted to rise, but groaned as his arms,
apparently numb, collapsed beneath him. He rolled over slightly
onto one shoulder and looked up at Lord Bradleigh.

"I couldn't let that little nobody get her hands on
all that money," he continued. "It should have been mine, don't you
see? It should have been mine! Father had no right—" He stopped as
his voice cracked on what sounded like a sob. He took a deep breath
and continued. "If only she hadn't taken employment with your
grandmother. If only she hadn't come to London. I knew it was
dangerous for her to come here. Too good-looking to be ignored. And
now that Sedgewick fellow looks to be interested." After easing
himself up onto one elbow, the feeling returned to his arms, and he
began to speak with more confidence. "By God," he said, "I was
furious when I heard she was to come to Town. I had paid my Bath
agent good money to prevent anything like this from happening. But
with both you and the dowager countess close by, he couldn't—"

Suddenly his elbow was knocked down, the armed
grabbed and forcefully twisted behind his back once again.

"Who was the agent in Bath?" Bradleigh demanded as
he twisted the arm higher and higher until Pentwick cried out in
pain. "Who was it?"

"It was Whittaker," Pentwick gasped. "Percy
Whittaker."

Bradleigh released his arm, shoved his shoulders and
face to the floor, stood up, and calmly stepped over him.

"Mr. Huntspill will be in touch with your banker and
your solicitor." Bradleigh brushed at his coat and pantaloons. "We
will see ourselves out. James?"

Huntspill, who had quietly observed the entire scene
without uttering a word, rose from his chair and preceded
Bradleighj out the study door, clucking and shaking his head.

Lord Pentwick heard the front door close and
painfully pulled himself up from the floor. "Metcalf!" he
bellowed.

The butler appeared almost immediately. "Yes, my
lord?"

"Send Hugh to me at once!"

"Where might I find Miss Townsend, Claypool?" Robert
handed his hat and gloves to the butler. He was anxious to tell her
the good news. Perhaps it would make up for his behavior last
night.

"I believe she is still in the ballroom, my
lord."

"And how goes the preparation for tonight's ball,
Claypool?" Robert looked over the butler's shoulder to see two
footmen heading down the hall almost collide with a housemaid
heading up the hall. "It certainly looks busy."

"Indeed, my lord, it has been somewhat of a bustle
all day. But Mrs. Claypool and Miss Townsend seem to have
everything in hand."

"Good," said Robert. "Then I'll just pop downstairs
and see if I can have a word with Miss Townsend."

As he descended the stairs to the ballroom, he saw
Emily surrounded by workmen, footmen, and housemaids, apparently
giving orders as she pointed first in one direction, then another.
He stood for a moment and smiled as he watched her. She looked
deliciously disheveled, with her hair falling out of its tight knot
and what looked like a smudge on one cheek. She had obviously been
working hard, probably all day. Well, she wouldn't have to work so
hard anymore, once she learned of her inheritance. Robert suddenly
felt almost giddy with the news. He couldn't wait to tell her.

He approached her from behind as she gave
orders—something about candles—to one last footman. "Emily?"

"Yes?" she said distractedly as she turned to face
him. "Oh!" She seemed startled when she saw who he was. It
apparently hadn't occurred to her that none of the staff would
address her as "Emily." Her mouth kept the shape of an O for a
moment, and she blushed crimson from her neck to her hairline. Her
eyes were wide, and Robert sensed in them a combination of
confusion, consternation, and alarm. He was almost overcome with
the need to reassure her. The idea that she might actually be
afraid of him made his stomach turn. He wanted to touch her but
knew he should not.

"May I have a word with you?" he asked in a soft
voice.

"Oh," she repeated. "I don't think so. Not just now.
I'm quite busy, as you see. If you will excuse me." She spun
abruptly away from him.

"Emily, please," he implored. "I must speak with
you."

She turned slowly to face him. "I'm sorry, my lord.
I'd rather you didn't." Her eyes darted everywhere but couldn't
seem to meet his own. She was obviously embarrassed.

"Perhaps later?" he persisted. "It's really quite
important."

She stared at the floor, her hands twisting a piece
of foolscap. "My lord, if it's about last night, I'd prefer we did
not speak of it. I think it is best forgotten."

"Forgotten? I'm afraid it will be very difficult—
nay, impossible—for me to forget, Emily. But you are correct. It
was wrong. It should not have happened. Let us not mention it
again."

She nodded her head, never looking up to meet his
eyes, and turned away from him once more.

"But that is not what I wished to speak to you
about, Emily," he said. "It is something much more important."

When she turned around this time, she met his eyes
with a questioning look.

"Yes.
Much
more important. Can you come
upstairs for a moment?"

"I'm sorry, my lord. This is not a good time."

"Well... perhaps later. After dinner?"

"There is the ball, my lord."

"Of course. Well, then, it will have to be tomorrow
morning. But not a moment later!" he said in a mock scold while
wagging a finger before her nose, hoping to tease her out of her
awkwardness with him.

She returned a weak smile. "Tomorrow, then."

She turned away once again and headed toward a group
of workmen carrying huge bushels of some kind of blue flower. It
was only then that Robert became aware of the remarkable
transformation taking place in his ballroom. Everything, or almost
everything, was blue. There were blue flowers everywhere, in
quantities that were almost obscene. The walls were draped in blue
satin—a shade that echoed the formal livery worn by his footmen.
Even the special orchestra dais—where had that come from?—was
painted blue. The effect, even in the bright light of afternoon,
was extraordinary. It would be stunning in candlelight.

A smile spread across his face as he noticed the
topiaries. Dozens of fancifully trimmed box trees in, of course,
blue tubs were arranged in a most ingenious pattern throughout the
ballroom, creating little alcoves and surrounding screens and
seating areas. It was delightful. He wondered whose clever idea
this was— his grandmother's or Emily's? In any case, it was sure to
be a success.

He only wished his engagement would be as successful
as his engagement ball.

Later that evening as he dressed for the ball,
Robert found himself continually distracted by thoughts of Emily
and their few moments of abandon in the library last night.
Regardless of how wrong he knew their embrace had been, it had felt
entirely right. In fact, nothing had ever felt quite so right.

He stood still while Luckett tied his cravat into a
perfect waterfall.

"I'll wear the diamond stickpin, Luckett. The large
one that was my father's. It is, after all, a special
occasion."

Luckett cleared his throat. "I thought the sapphire
pin would do best, my lord."

"Eh?" Robert was distracted yet again by the thought
of how special indeed was the occasion. How often did one spend
half a fortune celebrating a betrothal to a young girl one hardly
knew and couldn't seem to care for?

"Have you seen the ballroom, my lord?" Luckett held
out die sapphire pin.

Robert took the stickpin and smiled. "Of course. You
are right as always, Luckett. How would I ever get along without
you?"

"I shudder to think, my lord," the valet muttered as
he turned to brush nonexistent lint off the black evening coat
before holding it out so that Robert could ease into its perfect
fit.

The dinner party, attended mostly by family, went
off without incident. Robert blessed his good fortune in having
such a garrulous group of relatives. He hoped their boisterous
repartee masked his own silent distraction.

If only Emily hadn't looked so beautiful tonight, he
might have felt less miserable. But then, she had looked beautiful
in that shabby dark thing she had worn last night, so what did he
expect? Tonight she was in emerald green silk shot with gold thread
that shimmered enticingly as she moved. The color perfectly matched
her eyes. It was a simple, unadorned dress, without fussy ornament
or trimming. But the line and fabric were quite striking in an
understated elegance which was sure to draw many an admiring
glance. The bodice was cut lower than any dress he'd seen her wear,
revealing the tops of firm, full breasts. Robert found his eyes
often drawn to that golden expanse of bosom, and felt a tightness
in his groin as he remembered their soft fullness pressed against
his chest.

Dear God, he must get a grip on himself. Tonight was
not the night for regrets or self-pity, no matter how miserable he
actually felt. He must play host to hundreds of Society's best,
make them welcome and accept their good wishes. He could fall into
despair later, if necessary. But tonight he must be on his best
public behavior. One thing was certain: he would not dance with
Emily. In fact, he would avoid her as much as possible. He would
give his full attention, or at least what attention he could
muster, to Augusta. This was
her
night, after all.

He wrenched his eyes from Emily and turned toward
Augusta, who was seated next to him. She was glaring at him with
such a waspish expression that he blinked in surprise. Had his
observation of Emily been so obvious? He must learn to be more
prudent. He was resigned, as well as honor-bound, to go through
with his commitment to Augusta. There was no sense in making it any
worse by encouraging petulant jealousy. Of course, he did not
believe for a minute it was jealousy that provoked Augusta, but
rather his lack of attention, or, more precisely, his obvious
attention to another woman. Whether jealousy or neglect, the result
was the same, and he had no desire to be tied to a woman who was in
a perpetual snit over his own less than circumspect behavior. He
sighed deeply as he realized, yet again, how carefully he must
tread now that he was to be married.

After dinner he offered his arm to his betrothed and
led her to the receiving line at the top of the stairs. He looked
down at Augusta, exquisitely lovely in ice blue satin, and thought
how unfair it all was for her. She deserved better than his
indifference. It was almost cruel to marry this beautiful young
innocent when he knew he would always love another.

She looked up at him at that moment, and he smiled
at her. She smiled back, but not with the chilly control he had
come to expect. Instead she gave a thin smile full of wistful
resignation. A hint of sadness flickered across her eyes before she
turned to greet their first guests with her usual cool dignity.

* * *

Emily surveyed the ballroom with pride. The setting
was glorious, and she knew she had had no small role in its
creation. Rival hostesses were agog with envy over the unusual
colors and clever arrangement of space. The dowager must be
bursting with glee at her triumph.

It was difficult, after having spent the day making
sure everything was just so, to give herself up to the enjoyment of
the ball itself. She had danced a few times already, but was more
often than not preoccupied with the smooth running of the ball,
although she realized the staff was well in hand and her help was
no longer required.

Emily knew in her heart that this obsession with
details was simply another attempt to escape from the unwelcome
thoughts of Robert that constantly threatened to distract her. It
had actually worked all morning and afternoon as she kept up a
frantic pace to ensure the readiness of the ballroom. She had
forgotten him altogether for several hours.

Until he had shown up and wanted to talk to her.

Why did he press her? Couldn't he see how humiliated
and embarrassed she was? Couldn't he understand her need to forget
last night entirely?