An Infamous Proposal (12 page)

“You would soon have discovered that Hunter was not for you without my help.”

“Oh, but I didn’t mean Hunter.”

“About Lord James—”

She gave him a mischievous smile. “I didn’t mean him either, Nick. Now who else could I have meant, I wonder? Why, William Bounty, to be sure.”

Nick shook his head ruefully. Of course, she was referring to the infamous proposal. Would it have been such a dreadful mistake for him to marry Emma? At that moment, with the lamplight making a halo of her curls and her face pale after her late night, he felt an urge to protect her, to cradle her in his arms and keep her safe. He made no reply. The room was quiet, save for the snap of logs burning in the grate, but it was a friendly, familiar silence.

“What was it that disgusted you so at my offer, Nick?” she asked. “I realize now that it was farouche of me, but the way you answered, so outraged. ‘Marry
you!’
you said, as though I were a light-skirt or a—I don’t know what. A yahoo. I wished I could have fallen through the floor. Yet you apparently think me good enough for your friend, Lord Sanichton.”

Again Nick felt that heat around his ears. “I expect it was just the shock of it,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting anything of the sort. I’m sorry if I offended you. I ought to have laughed and made light of it. Blame it on my inexperience.”

Why, he wondered,
had
he reacted so sharply, in a fashion that not only offended propriety but also wounded Emma deeply? Was it his demmed pride, thinking a provincial lass not good enough for him? Strange, when in well over a decade on the Town he hadn’t met a single lady of the ton to attract him. They were either too obviously after the title or too jaded to appeal to him. He had thought that Emma was after the title as well, but her continuing interest in James didn’t indicate a climber. He was only a younger son.

“I hadn’t thought you would be inexperienced at anything,” she said, again stifling a yawn.

Nick, on the other hand, was wide awake. That Emma could speak so openly about that encounter told him it held no particular significance for her. She had relegated it in her mind to a minor embarrassment. With Nick the thing seemed to grow in importance with the passing of time. It was taking on the significance of a turning point in his mind, like a man reaching his majority or leaving university. He found himself placing recent occurrences in the context of her proposal. Things happened the day before or two days after the evening Emma Capehart proposed to him.

“That experience was entirely new to me,” he said. “And extremely unpleasant, I think. I hope you have no repetitions of it. And now I must retire.”

She rose and stood a moment, uncertainly, wondering how to take her leave of him. “Thank you for everything, Nick. It’s been a lovely visit so far. Good night.”

He rose and bowed. “Good night, Emma.” He sat on after she left, sipping his wine and thinking of ways to make the visit pleasant for Emma. Perhaps Sanichton had been a mistake. The gent he ought to have put forward, of course, was Lord Ravencroft. Why hadn’t he?

Again that niggling discomfort bedeviled him. She would love Ravencroft. All the ladies were running mad for him. And with his looks and charm, he was not the least debauched. Yes, he really ought to call on Ravencroft, but there was no hurry. Then he remembered that Emma had promised the waltzes to Sanichton and felt a stab of annoyance.

He worried, too, about having put ideas in Lady Margaret’s head. It was true she always agreed with everything he said, but he had never taken it as a sign of attraction, only as feminine submissiveness. Actually, it annoyed him. He liked a lady who had a mind of her own and the courage to express it—like Emma.

For some time he sat on, filling his glass again and thinking. Was Ravencroft not just a little too fast for Emma? No, Emma would keep him in line. She could keep a lion or tiger in its place. They would make a marvelously handsome couple. Yet he disliked to think of Emma with Ravencroft. Something about it was just not right.

Among other things, Ravencroft would make it so that he’d never have the waltzes with her again. He had always looked forward to them. She wouldn’t come to him with her problems. But that was what he wanted—wasn’t it, to be rid of her? He felt a little pang of loss to envisage a future without Emma to annoy him.

Chapter Thirteen

Lord James took Emma riding in Rotten Row the next morning as planned. Lady Margaret was very happy to let her new friend borrow her mount when it was learned that Lord Hansard was not riding.

Hansard called on Sanichton and his sister regarding plans for the rout party that evening. He kept alert to discover whether Emma was right in her suspicion that Lady Margaret had a
tendre
for him.

Soon he was convinced it was true. The signs were subtle, but they were undeniably there. It was something in the way Lady Margaret looked at him, with soft smiles and frequent questions for his opinion, and her constant agreement with his every suggestion.

“We thought four musicians enough for a simple rout party. Did you like the fellows who played for Miss Berry’s do?”

“Yes, excellent,” he said.

“Then we shall have them. And I thought orgeat for your aunt and Miss Foxworth.... Does Miss Foxworth like orgeat?”

“I expect so. I know Aunt Gertrude does.”

“I shall have some orgeat. About the music, Hansard, Horatio tells me Lady Capehart likes the waltz.”

“Some waltzes would be nice.”

“I, too, like the waltz,” she said, smiling and waiting for the expected request.

Hansard dutifully asked her for the waltzes, and she accepted eagerly. Oh yes, Lady Margaret certainly had him in her eye. It was sharp of Emma to have seen it. He would have to dampen Margaret’s enthusiasm before it got out of hand. Their being apart for the summer would do it. In the autumn he would lengthen his distance from Sanichton and his sister.

With all this on his mind, Hansard was already in an uncertain temper when he returned to Berkeley Square. His mood did not improve when the hour for James and Emma’s return passed with no sign of them.

“They have lit out for Gretna Green, depend upon it!” Lady Gertrude exclaimed in delight. “James hinted as much the day they arrived.”

“They were mounted. They would hardly head off to Scotland on horseback,” Hansard said.

“A ruse to allay our suspicions until they are well beyond reach,” Miss Foxworth pointed out. “They would hire a rig some place outside of London to throw us off the scent.”

When Hansard remembered his chat with Emma the evening before, he couldn’t believe she had eloped. Why would she? She was her own guardian. John had not placed any man in charge of her, no doubt thinking her papa more than adequate for the role. Was Emma so sly she had conducted that conversation to deflect suspicion of her scheme?

He called for his mount and pelted to Rotten Row, to discover if they had even been there at all. He arrived just as Bow Street was about to lead the pair of miscreants off to charge them with public mischief. The joyful lifting of his heart at seeing that Emma had not eloped lessened his wrath at her imminent arrest.

And when Emma turned a grateful smile on him and cried, “Hansard! Thank God you have come!” what little anger he had managed to muster dwindled to something akin to amusement.

“What seems to be the problem, Officer?” he asked.

The officer tipped his hat in recognition of a leader of the ton. “Your lordship. Lord James and his young lady have caused a public mischief by galloping in Rotten Row and upsetting the old Duchess of Dearne. Her nag bolted on her, causing Her Grace to slide to the ground.”

“It’s soft falling. She didn’t hurt herself,” James said dismissingly.

“You know perfectly well the pace is kept to a walk in Rotten Row,” Hansard scolded.

“And so I told him, your lordship,” the officer threw in.

“Emma didn’t know it,” James said. “When she struck up a canter, I had to overtake her.”

“Why didn’t you tell her before you began your ride?” Nick asked.

“I thought she knew. Everyone knows. I’m surprised you or Sanichton didn’t tell her.”

“How is Her Grace?” Nick asked the officer.

“She cut up pretty stiff, which is why I felt I ought to take Lord James into custody. If you can straighten it out with her, I’ll be glad to give up my commission on the arrest and let it pass.” He looked hopefully to see if his lordship was of a mind to provide compensation.

A golden coin was passed between them. “Lady Capehart will write an apology to Her Grace,” he said.

A much-chastened Lady Capehart followed Hansard out of the park at a strict walk.

“I’m sorry, Nick. I had no idea one could only walk. What is the point of that? There is no exercise in walking your mount.”

“The point is to see and be seen,” James told her. “I wanted to show you off to the ton. I said I would make you famous, Emma. By nightfall your name will be known to everyone.”

Emma cast a wary glance at Nick and was greatly relieved to see he was trying not to laugh. Served the demmed duchess right! The toplofty lady had snubbed a country cousin of Nick’s the Season just past. A word by her whispered in Princess Esterhazy’s ear had ruined another friend’s hope of getting into Almack’s. And worst of all, she was a Whig. Nick felt obliged to ring a peel over the pair during lunch, but they both knew his heart wasn’t in it. Immediately after lunch the note of apology was written and dispatched, along with a bouquet of flowers.

Nothing was said of the contretemps when Lady Margaret called in the afternoon to take Lady Capehart shopping. During a delightful forage at the shops, Emma purchased new kid gloves, three pairs of silk stockings in various shades unobtainable in the country, a handsome new reticule, and a shawl for Miss Foxworth. Then it was back to Berkeley Square for dinner and to prepare for the rout party.

James had no intention of missing this do. He had rigged himself out in the height of fashion in a cinnamon jacket that well suited his complexion. The tumble of lace at his throat held a brown diamond the same shade as his eyes. His bow, when Emma came downstairs, was a model of exquisite grace.

He lifted Emma’s fingers to his lips and exclaimed, “You put Aphrodite herself to the blush, Emma.”

Emma thought she looked well in a gown of cream-colored Italian crape, gathered up around the hem with silk rosebuds. Other buds were tucked in among her raven curls.

“This is my London debut,” she said. “I must look my best.”

“Your worst would be better than any other lady there,” he said gallantly.

But for all James’s airs and graces and flattery, Emma found herself preferring Hansard’s style. His modest jacket of dark green velvet clung to a set of broad shoulders. An equally modest emerald gleamed in his cravat. No fall of lace was considered necessary for a simple rout party.

“You look very nice, Emma,” he said. His smile was the better compliment. A glow of pleasure lit his dark eyes.

As they drove to Sanichton’s mansion, he mentioned some of the guests who would be there to meet her. “Tip of the ton,” he said. “I tremble to mention it, but er—country manners won’t do here. You and I are accustomed to speaking our minds. As you are especially interested in being at home in both societies, I shall mention only that discretion is the better choice amongst new acquaintances.”

“I shall try not to disgrace you, Nick. I appreciate all the trouble you’ve taken on my behalf.”

James emitted an occasional “Bah!” to show his disgust with the conversation.

Sanichton’s mansion on Manchester Square was as grand as Nick had promised—and as imposing and lacking in welcome as a government building. Emma caught Nick’s eye studying her as he pointed it out.

“Very impressive,” she said, but there was no admiration in her voice.

James, on the
qui vive
for treachery, declared, “It’s only brick and stones and wood. True love is happy in a hut.”

“Only until the snow flies,” Emma said.

Their host welcomed them into a vast hallway done in carved oak and brown marble. Emma wondered why it was so gloomy for there was no lack of lamps. He introduced Emma with a very proprietary air to the other guests who had come before them. The guests were all from the cream of Society. There was hardly one amongst them who lacked a title. There was even a duke, fortunately not the husband of the Duchess of Dearne. Emma was aware of watchful eyes and raised eyebrows as Sanichton’s friends examined her.

She found her tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth, not knowing what to say, but Sanichton filled any embarrassing pauses until she recovered her social feet. Once she discovered it was not herself these people were interested in but the estate her late husband had left her, she could relax. They were suitably impressed with Whitehern, and if she had been a hurly-burly girl, they would have found no objection to her.

James was indignant when he discovered that Sanichton had got in first for the waltzes. “In that case, you shall have the first set with me, Emma,” he declared, in such an aggrieved tone that she was not of a mind to dispute it.

He was very poor company as he whined and complained like a boy throughout the cotillion. “I took it for granted the waltzes were mine,” he said. “I hadn’t thought it necessary to make application for them like a stranger, after all we have been to each other.”

“We’ve only known each other a week, James. There is no understanding between us.”

“Sanichton has got at you with his title and gold. I’m disappointed in you, Emma.”

“Yet you came to Whitehern to court me because of my gold.”

“That was different. I’m only a younger son.”

“Isn’t it time you grew up?” she suggested.

“They’ve ruined you. You’re no longer the free spirit I fell in love with. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised to see you donning a court gown and making your curtsy come spring.”

“A fate worse than death.”

“If only you meant it!” he said with a kindling eye.

The waltzes with Sanichton were more enjoyable, yet they lacked that carefree spirit of her waltzes with James, or even Nick. He kept time to the music, he didn’t step on her toes, but the dance never took flight.