An Infamous Proposal (5 page)

“But that’s ridiculous! He’s very well connected. He knows everyone.”

“Introductions don’t cost anything. A handsome face, a little brass, and ingenuity are all that’s required. He’s penniless.”

“I believe you are mistaken about his finances, but if my fortune is to be captured by someone, then I should prefer it be a gentleman who is at least amusing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” he said angrily. “You know perfectly well it won’t do. Good God, he’d squander your estate within the year and have you begging in the streets. It is clear you intend to marry someone, but you don’t have to settle for the likes of Hunter. William Bounty would be a better match. Any gentleman would be glad to have you.”

“So I am universally appealing to every gentleman except yourself?” she said, with a sharp look. “It happens I do not want another—a country bumpkin sort of husband like William,” she said, coloring in embarrassment. John had been a countrified gentleman. “I want a dashing fellow who is at home amid the ton. When I married John he said he would take me to London, but every time I mentioned it, he found some excuse and only bought me another bonnet or piece of jewelry instead.” She pouted in memory.

Nicholas had noticed the quantity of clothes and jewelry Emma bought and despised her for it. He realized now that they had been consolation prizes.

“I expect he was afraid to take you to London,” he said. “He feared you would set up a flirtation.”

Her nostrils pinched in annoyance. “If you mean I would be unfaithful to my husband, pray have the courage of your convictions and say so. I always flirted with you. He didn’t mind that. And don’t you dare say I would ever be unfaithful!”

“I didn’t say you would. I said John probably feared it. He was a deal older than you, after all. About London, Emma, I think you overestimate its pleasures.”

“I notice you never miss a Season!”

“True, but like most gentlemen, I spend the greater part of the year on my estate.”

“Well, I want someone who would be at home in either place, like you. I don’t mean you!” she added hastily.

“I have fallen in your esteem since the other evening, then?” he asked mischievously.

“Don’t crow so loud, milord. You’ll lay an egg. Nothing makes a gentleman so unattractive to a lady as making her look a perfect fool by refusing her offer—unless it is constantly throwing it in her face. I thought we were to forget it.”

“I wonder if I wasn’t overhasty in my refusal,” he said playfully. “Perhaps I was only playing hard to get.”

“If that was the case, then you made a grave error in judgment. And I hardly think you would do that—where ladies are concerned. But it is kind of you to try to assuage my wounded pride.”

“And not your broken heart?”

“Oh, my heart is not so fragile as all that.”

“Well, I would like to do more than assuage your wounded pride, Emma,” he said.

She looked at him with a startled question in her eyes. Good God! Was he going to accept after all?

Nicholas had some inkling of her thoughts and spoke on hastily to prevent any more misunderstandings. “You mentioned the lack of a father or guardian to oversee your match.”

Emma’s racing heart slowed to a thud. “I’m not sure I want a match at this time,” she said.

“You soon will. I am offering my services to vet the candidates.”

She considered this a moment. It would certainly separate the wheat from the chaff to have Nicholas look them over. If Derek Hunter was really a fortune hunter, he had most assuredly taken her in with his fine talk of all his noble friends.

“You want to insure I marry someone who will make you a good neighbor, in other words,” she said, undeceived by his offer of assistance.

“And you a good husband,” he said. “Our interests are not mutually exclusive. They overlap on this point. We both want a good manager running Whitehern.”

“Actually, it’s not a bad idea, since I am a regular greenhead,” she said reluctantly. “Very well, you can begin by having a chat with Mr. Hunter.”

As that was exactly what Nicholas had in mind, he agreed. He would send a note, asking Hunter to join him for a ride the next morning.

When Mr. Hunter raised the stakes to two shillings a point and relieved Emma of seven pounds that evening at cards, she began to suspect he was no better than he should be. She remembered his having said he had spoken to Dr. Johnson, and that he had been shooting in Scotland in the morning and hunting at Badminton in the afternoon. He only wanted to drop a noble name into the conversation.

She noticed, too, that the delights of London that Mr. Hunter spoke of were all open to the public. He had balked at attending any private parties. Plays and Vauxhall Gardens required only the price of admission. Perhaps it
was
a good idea to have Nick look over her potential suitors.

Chapter Six

When Soames handed Hunter a note that evening, Hunter took it nervously, expecting a dun at best and at worst a challenge due to a certain card game last week. He fanned his fingers in such a way that no bystander could get a glance at the note. It would be difficult to say whether he was more astonished or flattered to read that Lord Hansard would be pleased if Mr. Hunter would do him the honor of riding with him the next morning.

It took him a moment to compose his voice into its usual bored drawl to relay the message to the ladies.

“Lord Hansard wants me to ride out with him tomorrow,” he said. “Decent of him. Can’t say I remember meeting the fellow. Must have been at one of my clubs—Brooke’s, very likely.” Mr. Hunter was familiar with the facade of Brooke’s and knew it was the sort of club where gentlemen like Lord Hansard might be met, if only a fellow were allowed in.

“I expect it’s a compliment to Emma,” Miss Foxworth explained. “Lord Hansard is a bosom bow of Emma’s.”

“The pity of it is, my mount hasn’t arrived. I asked my man to send it on. A dashed fine Arabian gelding.”

“You must use John’s mount again,” Emma said at once.

At least Hunter had no concern for his riding skills. He was a bruising rider, and with Sir John’s handsome mount beneath him, he made a suitable-looking partner for Hansard when they rode out the next morning.

One glance at him was enough for Nick to see why Emma had succumbed to the fellow’s charms. Hunter didn’t try his name-dropping stunts with a nobleman who would actually know the people concerned. The talk was of boxing matches and horse races, until Hansard redirected it to crops and herds and farming matters, at which time Nick did most of the talking. Hunter listened and learned.

“What would a spread like Whitehern be worth?” he asked, in a nonchalant voice.

“Around thirty thousand,” Nick replied.

Hunter swallowed his delight and ran his eyes over the lush acres. “Plenty of land to raise a few horses as well,” he said.

“Are you interested in horse breeding?” Nick asked.

“Race horses are my weakness.”

E’er long Nick was being inundated with a tide of ill-informed horse-breeding lore. He found Hunter amusing company—and the worst possible match for Emma. It was clear as a pikestaff that what Hunter had in mind was to sell off the herd of cattle and turn Whitehern into a horse-breeding farm.

After riding for nearly two hours, they stopped at Waterdown for a glass of ale and exchanged a friendly farewell, before Hunter returned to Whitehern for lunch.

“Did you have a nice ride, Derek?” Miss Foxworth asked.

“An excellent ride. Hansard’s a decent chap. I liked him.”

Emma was glad Nick hadn’t said or done anything to offend her guest. She was also extremely curious to hear Nick’s account of the ride. But before this occurred, Hunter took her for a spin in his curricle that afternoon. He was an accomplished fiddler, but the sort who had to pass every rig on the road. It was a matter of pride that he set a pace of sixteen miles an hour, no matter how bumpy the road, how much dust he raised, or how often his passenger begged him to slow down.

“You call this fast?” he laughed, and whipped up the team to an even more reckless speed.

No conversation was possible at such a pace. When they alighted in the village, all windblown and breathless, to stroll along the High Street, Mr. Hunter evinced no interest in ancient architecture or the pretty little church. His two subjects of conversation were horse breeding and horse races.

It was as if water had been building up behind a dam those few days he had spent in being civil, and now it all came gushing out to inundate her. Mr. Hunter had caught a whiff of accomplishing his life’s dream, and he could no more stop talking than he could stop breathing. His bored drawl gave way to excited chatter.

“That’s very expensive though, is it not?” Emma asked.

“Aye, it is, but there’s money in it. Spend a sprat to catch a mackerel. You could start in a small way right at Whitehern. That west pasture would make a dandy training track. It’s already as close to being flat as makes no difference.”

He went on to outline how this might be done, by smoothing it out, covering the lush pasture in sand, building fences, and such things. It seemed a special barn would also be required. “You could fell the trees from your own forest. It wouldn’t cost a sou, but for the bit of labor. Your tenant farmers could throw the barn up for you.”

“Very interesting, but I know nothing about horse racing,” she said.

He slid a winsome smile in her direction. “Of course, you’d have to have a fellow who knew what he was doing to help you,” he said, and was soon ranting about joining the Jockey Club and winning races at Ascot. Before they reached home Emma knew precisely what was in Hunter’s mind. He hadn’t stopped in front of the jewelry shop and gazed at the engagement rings for no reason. It was her estate that was to be turned into another Chevely Park, and her money that was to finance the race horses.

Mr. Hunter couldn’t settle down to playing cards with the ladies that evening. He was too excited. When he suggested taking a spin into the village after dinner, Emma didn’t try to stop him.

“A chap I know will be stopping at the inn on his way to his estate,” he lied. “We’ll have a few wets. I shan’t be late, but don’t wait up for me.”

“Don’t rush yourself,” Emma said, very politely. “I’m sure you must find it dull, here in the country.”

For herself, she found the peace and quiet welcome after so many hours of Mr. Hunter’s incessant chatter. She felt, as well, that Nick might come that evening to report on his ride with her guest. Shortly before nine the door knocker sounded, and Soames announced, “Lord Hansard.”

Lord Hansard stepped into the saloon. His understated elegance showed to even better advantage than usual, with the memory of Mr. Hunter’s gaudy paste ruby and extravagant cravat still in Emma’s mind. Hansard peered around to see if Hunter was there, then entered to make his bows to the ladies. His voice had the calming effect of a mild zephyr after the tumultuous raptures of Mr. Hunter on the glories of race horses.

After a few moments of general conversation, Nick directed a questioning look at Emma. She rose and said, “Nick has come to help me with some estate matters, Miss Foxworth. We’ll go into the study, so we shan’t disturb you.”

Miss Foxworth smiled and picked up her novel.

“Well, what is your verdict?” Emma asked when they were seated on the bergère chairs by the grate, with a glass of wine at their elbows.

“I liked him,” Nick said.

Emma’s gray eyes opened wider. “Really!”

“As a person, he’s good-natured and entertaining—and, of course, handsome.” He looked at her appraisingly.

“That would be of interest to you, of course!”

“Only in so much as it would concern you. He would do well enough for the lower strata of London Society, but I doubt he would make a satisfactory country husband for the rest of the year.” He watched her closely to see her reaction. Emma displayed no disappointment at his verdict.

“He’s bored with us already. He went into the village to meet a friend, or so he said.”

“I wondered where he was. But actually I was speaking of his husbandry, not his making you a satisfactory husband in a social sense. If I read him aright, his intention is to root out the herd and raise race horses.”

“Heresy indeed to a cow lover like yourself. Every horse is to be a Derby winner, though! You must own that would be exciting.”

He looked at her in alarm, until he saw the laughter lurking in her dark eyes. “I see he has discussed his plans with you.”

“Certainly he has, ad nauseam. He thinks I would show them all the way in a box at Ascot. He was wondering if you would sponsor him into the Jockey Club. I don’t even want to know what
that
would cost me.”

“May I assume, then, that you will refuse the offer he is planning to make—and in the not-too-distant future, if I am any judge of a man’s intentions?”

“Of course I shan’t marry him, but I hope he doesn’t offer until after our trip to London. I’m looking forward to that.”

Nicholas felt a stab of annoyance, followed by an urge to offer to take Emma and Miss Foxworth to London himself. Except that he had invited Cousin James for that visit, and he could hardly be away when he arrived.

“What would your papa say if he discovered you had gone jaunting off to London?” he asked.

“I can’t think he would find out, but if he asked, I could say I took Miss Foxworth to visit a special doctor.”

“Lying to your papa?” he chided.

“I could ask her to visit a doctor. Only if Papa asks. I’m sure he won’t. I had a note from him today. He says Aunt Hildegarde has had the cold that’s going around, so she doesn’t fear catching Miss Foxworth’s dose. In fact, Hildegarde is in unusual good health and can come to me at any time. I shall have to invent a monsoon in the neighborhood. So horrid for a chronic invalid—all that water.”

“I am disappointed in you, Emma,” he said sternly.

She made a childish pout and said, “You don’t know Hildegarde.”

“I know the type. She will have subscribed to the local journals to see if your name is in them, and to discover potential husbands for you. You’ll never get away with a monsoon. That would be national news. You must make it a domestic disaster, something that wouldn’t be reported in the local journals.”