The Harlow Hoyden (21 page)

Resenting the accuracy of this statement and the smug tone with which it was delivered, the duke said, “As a matter of fact, I am looking for Miss Portia Hedgley, who I saw arrive twenty minutes ago. We might make a match of it.”

Pearson raised a quieting finger to his lips and looked
around to see if anyone heard the duke. “You’re a bloody fool to say that aloud, Alex, even to throw me off the scent. You never know who’s listening. It would serve you right if you found yourself shackled to that toad-eating mushroom rather than admit you have a care for the Harlow Hoyden.”

Trent was in no mood for teasing, but Pearson was correct. One never did know who was listening. “I
would remind you of the same, lest you get sued by the toad-eating mushroom’s family for defamation of character. They’re just the sort to use the law courts to resolve their problems.”

Pearson agreed to this sentiment and wandered off to fetch himself a glass of wine. When he returned he was very amused to observe that the duke had changed his position. He was now facing the door. “This is the
problem with arriving on time to one of these things. As gentleman we should linger over our toilette, so that we don’t have to wait for the ladies, who always linger
longer
over theirs. It’s the very devil.” As he was saying this, he spied a pair of identical blond heads. “Finally your patience is—”

“Excuse me, Pearson,” the duke said as soon as Emma entered the room. She was dressed simply
in a dark green silk dress adorned only with delicate lace trim, but the duke thought she looked breathtaking. Her smile was wide, her dimples were out in full force, and he could hear the trickle of her laugher as he approached. He paused a moment to soak in the picture.

“Good evening, Miss Harlow,” he said, taking her gloved hand and laying a soft kiss on it. “How beautiful you look in that
gown.”

“Pooh,” said Emma dismissively, “this old thing? I’ve had it for years, and it’s never done a thing for my complexion. But doesn’t Lavinia look charming?”

Hearing this, Lavinia rolled her eyes at the duke, for she herself was wearing a dress of a similar green shade. Trent responded with a conspirational smile and greeted her with a kiss on the hand.

Emma saw the duke’s intimate smile,
though she didn’t know its cause, and took heart. Trent had to feel something special for her sister if he could smile at her like
that
. She’d been watching the two of them with an eagle’s eye for days, and she could find nothing to convince her that their affection of each other was developing. Alas, they seemed as fond of each other now as they were when they first met. But for the first time
in a week, she had hope, thanks to his smile. It would be a happy marriage for both of them. And if she had to move to Scotland or Wales or some other such place in the wild to avoid seducing her brother-in-law, then so be it. Lavinia would never know about the two of them.

Sir Windbourne made up the third member of their little party, and he greeted Trent, heedless to the drama that was playing
out before him. Emma had noticed Sir Waldo’s obliviousness earlier in the week, and she laid this sin at his feet as she did a multiple of others. What gentleman wouldn’t mind his affianced bride spending time with the most sought-after peer of the realm? Only a fool, concluded Emma, or a man so in love with his mistress that he wouldn’t care if his wife were caught in flagrante delicto with
the footman.

The orchestra struck up a quadrille, and even Emma wasn’t brazen enough to send off Trent and her sister under Sir Waldo’s beady eyes. She gave the duke a speaking look, making it very clear what she expected of him, and then she addressed a question to the baron to give the duke an opportunity to do it. “Tell me, Sir Windba—uh, Windbourne, what do you think of Jane Austen?”

“Jane
Austen?” he asked, baffled by both the question and his fiancée’s sister’s sudden interest in him. “I’ve never met the girl. Why? What does she think of me?”

Everyone laughed at this sally, except its author, who hadn’t meant to make it.

“Jane Austen is a lady author,” explained Emma. “She writes works of fiction.”

“A lady author, you say?” His posture straightened, and he raised his monocle
to his eye, as if to spot any such animal as a lady author in the underbrush. “I don’t approve of lady authors. It is my belief that women should not make spectacles by putting themselves forward in such a vulgar way—”

“Emma, why don’t you and the duke join the quadrille? I don’t believe they have started yet. Sir Waldo has many thoughts on this topic and his answer could take a great long while.”
Vinnie sent an apologetic smile to her betrothed. “Why don’t you tell me what you think, and I’ll give Emma the condensed version later.”

Because Sir Waldo was much like a tree that fell in a forest—he made a sound whether one was there to hear or not—he approved of this plan.

“I feel awful,” said Emma, casting one last lingering glance over her shoulder. “She shouldn’t have to listen to that
pedant tell her
again
why she mustn’t write. I assure you, once is enough. I can’t understand what she sees in him. Did you see the way she interrupted him? She knew a long-winded speech was coming and sought to save us. Why won’t she save herself? Indeed, was it my imagination or did she even seem a little embarrassed? How can she marry a man who embarrasses her? She will have to spend the rest
of her life apologizing for him. Take it from me, it’s hard enough going through life apologizing for one’s own behavior. I shudder to think what it’s like to have to—” Feeling the cool air brush her arms, Emma ceased her senseless chatter and looked around her. The dance floor was not outside. “Where are we?”

“On the balcony. We need to talk,” said the duke in an inflexible tone.

One did
not use inflexibility with the Harlow Hoyden. “No, we do not,” she said and spun around. The duke grabbed her hand and held her in place.

“If you return to the ballroom before I’m done talking, I will lift you up and carry you back outside,” he threatened. “Now have a seat and do not make a spectacle of yourself.”

Seething with anger, Emma sat down on the cold marble bench. She hotly resented
his words. She would make a spectacle if she wanted, but she would not accept blame for a spectacle
he
created. “Very well,” she conceded while giving thought to her options. Despite his black expression, she was convinced he was bluffing. There was no way the impeccable Duke of Trent would embarrass a lady and himself with such a brutish display. To do so would mean supplying the
ton
with a year’s
worth of scandal broth. She knew the duke well enough to realize that he would not relish being on the tip of every gossipmonger’s tongue for a full twelve months. Having thought it through, Emma decided to stay and listen. If the interview became too disagreeable, she would simply walk away, reasonably sure that he wouldn’t dare to follow.

Standing above her, the duke saw her calculating the
odds. It was what he expected from her and one of the things he respected most.

“Lavinia was telling me about your ride through the park yesterday,” Emma said, determined that if there were to be a conversation then she herself would direct it. “She informed me that you were joined by a Mr. Matthew Hardy. She said he’s also a member of the horticultural society. Who is this Mr. Hardy?” she
asked suspiciously.

“He is a friend,” explained the duke.

“A friend? And why have we never heard of him before? Could it be, sir, that you seek to free yourself from your commitment to my sister by substituting him for you? Despite what you think, the Harlow sisters do not find the members of the horticultural society interchangeable.”

This was not what the duke wanted to talk about, but
he felt compelled to defend himself. “First of all, I do not have a commitment to your sister, I have a commitment to
you
. A commitment, I might add, that I have followed through with to little avail. Miss Harlow doesn’t view me in any capacity other than friend and fellow gardener, which is a good thing since I will be mar—”

“Haven’t you
kissed
her yet?” she demanded impatiently.

“Kissed
her?” he repeated, horrified by the thought. He didn’t want to kiss anyone but Emma, especially not his future sister-in-law. “Look, I don’t want to talk about Lav—”

“You are a damnable fool, Trent,” she said, cutting him off quite viciously. “All you need to do to make a female fall in line is kiss her.”

The duke struggled to hold on to his temper. Somehow this conversation had gone terribly
wrong. He wanted to talk of their marriage, not his and Lavinia’s or Lavinia and Sir Waldo’s. “After all that’s happened between us, you still want me to kiss your sister?”

Emma’s heart screamed in protest, but she’d never made a practice of listening to her heart. She recalled that smile he had directed at Lavinia when they’d first walked in. If it wasn’t the smile of a man in love, it was
at least an indication of caring and friendship. Emma knew that something as complicated as love did not happened overnight, but she was confident that given time, Lavinia and the duke would develop warmer feelings for each other
.
They would raise children and orchids and be very happy—as long as Emma didn’t ruin it.

“Yes,” she said in a soft voice after a very long pause, during which the duke
held his breath, “after all that’s happened between us, I still want you to kiss my sister.”

The duke sighed, feeling the heart flow out of him. He was prepared to fight her willfulness and obstinacy and the sheer bullheadedness that he had come to love, but he had no words to overcome her indifference. The Duke of Trent was many things, but despite the Harlow Hoyden’s opinion of him, he was
not a fool. Only fools refused to see what was right in front of their eyes and only fools took up lost causes. If Emma had given any indication—a speaking glance or a sigh or even a moment of uncertainty—then he would have pursued the topic until he was lightheaded from speech. He would have indeed picked her bodily up off the dance floor and made sure she listened to him, regardless of the scandal
it caused.

When he had arrived at the Northrups’ earlier that evening, he’d believed that nothing could sway him from his course. He would leave with Emma as his betrothed or he would leave not at all. Indeed, he had amused himself with the image of him and Emma arguing on the balcony long after the other guests had departed. But now he had been struck with the truth and right between the eyes,
at that. The episode in the carriage—the episode that had sustained him these many long days—meant nothing to her. The most deeply moving experience in his life, perhaps the fifteen happiest minutes of his entire existence, was mere experimentation for the Harlow Hoyden. She had warned him, of course, had told him straight out to his face that she believed women should experience other kisses.
An outlandish idea, certainly, but one in keeping with her philosophy of freedom. Despite his disappointment, the duke could not cavil at her treatment of him. She had been honest. It was not her fault he hadn’t listened.

“Very well,” he said, suddenly realizing that she was still sitting there. “I guess there’s nothing else to say.” He offered her an arm. “Shall I return you to your family?”

Emma blinked in surprise. “Is that really all?” she asked, suspicious of this easy capitulation. Pretending to give in was one of her favorite tactics, and she couldn’t imagine anyone agreeing with her without an argument. But as she examined the discussion from other angles, she realized there was nothing to be gained by pretending to give in. The Duke of Trent was not trying to manipulate her
or to get her to agree to something distasteful.

“Yes, unless there is another matter you’d like to discuss,” he said.

Emma tried to think of a topic, but nothing came to mind. She didn’t know why she was so reluctant to end their talk, but for some inexplicable reason she was. She recalled the heavy expression on his face when he was deep in contemplation moments before. What had he been
thinking of to look so? She wanted to ask but knew that wouldn’t be the thing. One does not tell a man that his beautiful kisses meant nothing one moment and then ask what was on his mind the next. She had that much sense at least.

“No, there’s nothing I’d like to talk about,” she said. “But I think I’d like to stay out here for a moment longer, if you don’t mind.”

It was on the tip of his
tongue to tell her that he minded very much. It was not the thing for a young lady to be out on the balcony alone, where she was vulnerable to all sorts of bounders and cads. Anything could happened out there and no one be the wiser. In fact, anything just did. But the duke only nodded. The Harlow Hoyden’s behavior was no longer his concern. The impulse to protect her from harm or scorn was still
there, but he had no right to it. She was once again her parents’ problem or her brother’s or even Sarah’s, but she was not his. The sooner he got used to that, the better.

Trent bowed and left Emma sitting there on the balcony with a confused look on her face. He’d known what she was thinking—it was all there on her face for anyone to read—and under different circumstance would have been amused
by it. But now it only saddened him and all he wanted to do was get out of there. He returned to the ballroom long enough to say his good-byes and find Pearson. He had a bottle of very fine brandy at home waiting to be consumed.