A Valentine Wedding (18 page)

He dismounted and handed the reins to Jemmy, who was riding the pretty roan mare Alasdair had bought for Emma. Without haste, he mounted the steps to the front door and pleasantly greeted the butler who opened it for him.

“Good morning, Harris. Are the ladies at home?”

“Lady Emma and Mrs. Witherspoon are in the salon, sir. They are at home to callers this morning.” He took Alasdair’s hat and whip.

“Who’s here?” Alasdair inquired, drawing off his gloves.

“The duke of Clarence, the Misses Gordon, Lady Dalrymple, Lord Everard, and Mr. Darcy, sir.” Harris reeled off the names of society’s elite with distinct relish.

Alasdair nodded. It rather suited him to find her in the midst of visitors. There would be less temptation to drop the pretence. After the first meeting, the facade would be easier to maintain. “I’ll announce myself, Harris.” He went to the stairs.

Emma was standing at the far end of the salon, talking with the duke of Clarence. She had her back to the door, but as Alasdair entered she felt the fine hairs on the nape of her neck lift, and a current of electric excitement brought goose bumps to life along her arms. She raised her head to the mirror above the fireplace, and her eyes met Alasdair’s. Immediately he turned his eyes away as if he wasn’t aware of her gaze and went to greet Maria.

So that was how he wanted to play it, Emma thought grimly. It had never happened. Well, she could play that game as well as he could. She turned the full force of her attention on the duke, who was so unnerved by the suddenly fixed golden gaze that he lost his thread for a minute and stared blankly at her, wheezing slightly in his creaking corset.

“Newmarket, duke?” Emma prompted politely.

“Oh, yes … yes, indeed. My horse, Needlepoint. You’re a horsewoman, ma’am, you’d have enjoyed watching him win. He flew … flew on wings. Like … like …” A frown crossed his amiable if somewhat red and mottled countenance. “That Greek horse … can’t remember the name.”

“Pegasus,” Emma supplied helpfully.

“That’s the ticket!” he said. “I wouldn’t have put you down for a bluestocking, ma’am.” He beamed at
this pleasantry and managed to bend his stout frame in the semblance of a courtly bow. His corset creaked even more noticeably.

“Emma a bluestocking, sir!” Alasdair exclaimed from just behind them. “I assure you she was never overly fond of her books.” He bowed to the royal personage before giving Emma a pleasant smile. “Isn’t that so, Emma?”

“Perhaps,” Emma said with a cool smile of her own.

“Ah, well, you would know, Chase, lucky dog,” the duke boomed. “Known the lady from the schoolroom … trustee too, I gather. Yes, lucky dog!”

“The role of trustee gives me few privileges, sir,” Alasdair responded blandly. He glanced sideways at Emma, a wicked gleam in his green eyes, a tiny quirk to his straight mouth. “Isn’t that so, ma’am?”

“Since I don’t know what privileges a trustee might expect to have, I can’t really answer you,” Emma replied. She turned back to the duke. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I see that Mrs. Dawson has just come in. I must greet her.”

“Yes, yes … play the hostess … of course,” the duke said heartily. “Do the pretty with your guests … don’t mind me. No need to stand on ceremony, y’know.”

Emma bowed, smiled, and withdrew. She had the feeling that the duke was going to propose marriage one day soon, as he did invariably whenever a new heiress appeared on the social scene. It occurred to her that when she’d compared Alasdair and his liaison with his opera dancer to Clarence’s situation with Mrs. Jordan, she had been unfair. But the provocation had been great; it was no wonder she had struck to hurt.

The image of Lady Melrose came to mind. Had he kept his engagement with her the evening after their visit to Tattersalls? Oh, it was madness to torment herself in this way. What had happened between them last night had been a dream … an aberrant dream. And she would forget it and continue exactly as she’d been intending. Alasdair Chase was not the lover she wanted for Valentine’s feast.

As if on cue, Harris announced Paul Denis. Emma froze. Now what? Something had happened between Paul and Alasdair last evening. She glanced quickly at Alasdair, who was still talking to the duke and appeared not to have noticed Paul’s arrival.

She went swiftly to greet the newcomer, inspiration coming to her. Last night had never happened. None of the participants wished to acknowledge it, so neither should Paul have to explain his own part in a situation engineered by the Machiavellian Alasdair.

She spoke in a low voice before he had a chance to open his mouth. “Oh, Mr. Denis, can you forgive my bad manners? I do beg your pardon for not returning to the conservatory last evening, but poor Maria was suffering so badly, I couldn’t leave her.” She smiled brilliantly. “Do say you forgive me.”

Paul bowed over her hand. “Madame, you could never be at fault,” he murmured. “Of course you had to attend to your companion. My own claims were insignificant.”

“I trust you didn’t wait long for me.” She waited curiously for his response. Did he know what was going on? Did he believe that she hadn’t returned after he’d been induced or persuaded to leave?

Paul believed it. But he couldn’t believe his good fortune. There was no need now to produce an excuse for his own hasty departure. “An eternity, madame,”
he said jocularly. “Every minute out of your sight is an eternity.”

“Now you’re being absurd again,” Emma accused. “Oh, I believe the duke is leaving. I must make my farewells.”

“Mr. Denis, I haven’t run into you for a couple of days.” Alasdair greeted him with a smile. “Not since we met at Tattersalls. I trust you found a horse to your liking.”

Emma, while seeing the duke to the door of the salon, strained her ears to catch their exchange. They were both behaving perfectly normally. Chatting like old acquaintances who hadn’t had seen each other for a while. And there was no constraint between them. But they must have met last night. And how could it have been a pleasant encounter? Her head was beginning to ache with the puzzle. They must both be supreme actors, carrying their parts without a misstep. But
why?
Were they in some kind of partnership? Was
she
a factor in that partnership?

Oh, she wanted to scream with the frustration of it all.

Instead she went to talk to Lady Dalrymple and listened to a minute account of that lady’s latest ailment and the revolutionary treatment of her new physician.

“Yes, only think, Emma,” Maria said in awe. “Two days ago, Lady Dalrymple was laid upon her bed, unable to lift her head. And now see how well she is. And it’s all thanks to sheep’s blood and vinegar. Isn’t that truly amazing.”

“Truly amazing,” Emma concurred faintly.

“I trust you’re feeling more the thing, Maria.” Alasdair spoke amiably from behind Emma’s shoulder.

“Oh, yes, thank you, Alasdair. Just the headache,
you know. But it soon passed.” Maria looked a trifle flustered.

Alasdair nodded, exchanged a word with Lady Dalrymple, and turned to Emma. “I understand you’ve purchased a racing curricle, Emma.”

She looked startled. “How could you know that?”

“I received the bill,” he said dryly. “You’ll cut quite a dash.”

“That was my intention,” she returned coolly.

Alasdair met and matched her tone. “Your horses were delivered this morning. Jemmy has set up stabling for them in a mews off Park Street. Perhaps you would like to take a look at the mare. I don’t believe you saw her at Tattersalls.”

“She’s here?” Emma dropped the cool facade.

“In the street with Jemmy.” A smile lit his eyes at her eagerness. Until three years ago, she had always been so enthusiastic about everything, so utterly open in her responses. It was good to see the wariness that seemed to have replaced those qualities no longer uppermost.

“Do you care to come down and make her acquaintance?”

“Oh, yes, immediately!” Emma was halfway to the door even as she spoke.

Alasdair followed, that enigmatic smile still alight in his eyes. She was ahead of him on the stairs, her floating muslin skirts gathered in one hand as she almost jumped down the last steps. She hurried across the hall. A footman, looking a trifle startled at this inelegant haste, jumped to open the door for her.

Emma ran down the steps to the street. “Good morning, Jemmy. Oh, isn’t she pretty?” She took the mare’s face between her hands and stroked the velvety nose, before walking around her, examining her
carefully. “Lovely lines,” she murmured appreciatively.

“Aye, Lady Emma. See those sloping shoulders.” Jemmy sounded as proud as if the mare was his own possession. “She’ll have rare speed, I’ll lay odds.”

“Mmmm.” Emma rested a hand on the horse’s hindquarters, letting her know she was behind her, as she ran a hand down her flanks. “She’s beautiful, Alasdair.”

“Did you expect me to buy you a jobbing hack?” he protested, teasing her.

She looked over at him. He was smiling, a warm smile certainly, but even with the greatest self-deception and the best will in the world, one could see no particular significance in his expression. Emma returned the smile with a fleeting one of her own.

A northeasterly wind gusted suddenly from around the corner of Audley Street. Emma shivered and the mare lowered her head.

“You’ll catch your death in that flimsy muslin,” Alasdair said swiftly. “Get back inside. If you wish to try her paces, then change your dress and we’ll go to Richmond.”

His hand closed over the back of her neck. The clasp was warm and firm and brought back a host of memories. It was one of his favorite ways of touching her, and it dated from their earliest acquaintance. When she’d been a small girl, he’d often held her in this way. Sometimes to propel her along his desired path, other times just because she was standing close to him and his hand had seemed to find its way to her nape with a possessive familiarity that had always seemed quite natural.

Emma’s mouth was suddenly dry. The pit of her stomach seemed to drop and her loins tensed, the
muscles of her thighs clenching in involuntary response. She resisted the pressure for a second and he moved his other hand to the small of her back.

“Inside, Emma! It’s freezing out here and that gown, height of fashion though it is, offers little more protection than a nightgown.”

He urged her back to the house, his hands firm on her back and neck. There was nothing overtly sensual about his touch, and yet Emma found its easy familiarity, its casual possessiveness arousing.

Her response infuriated her. There was no indication that Alasdair was similarly affected. He seemed merely impatient to get her out of the cold.

She shook his hand off her neck and stepped away from the warm pressure on her back, hurrying up the steps and into the house, distancing herself from him.

Alasdair followed at his own pace. In the hall, he said casually, “So, do you care to try her out?”

Emma paused. She could say that she would ride the mare in Hyde Park at five o’clock, during the fashionable hour of the promenade. Or she could do what she really wished to do and ride to Richmond, where she could give the horse her head and really see what she could do. But she could not go to Richmond without an escort.

“I need a groom,” she said, instead of answering the question directly. “Does Jemmy have any friends?”

“You have a groom,” Alasdair informed her. “One of Jemmy’s many contacts. Probably of rather dubious origins, but Jemmy vouches for him, and I interviewed him early this morning. He struck me as ideally suited to the position. Not too polished in his manner, but I’m sure you won’t mind that. His way with horses is unimpeachable. And Jemmy assures
me he’s handy with his fives and can use a pistol should the need arise. So you should be safe enough in his company.”

“Oh,” Emma said, taken aback by Alasdair’s sweeping arrangements, and yet knowing that she should have expected it. “Where is he to live?”

“In the mews. You may send a footman to him with your orders whenever you wish to drive or ride out.” Alasdair raised an eyebrow inquiringly, clearly waiting for further questions that he was also so clearly willing and able to answer.

“You appear to have arranged everything,” Emma said finally.

“Only with your satisfaction in mind,” he responded politely. “You must tell me if any of my arrangements don’t meet with your approval.”

Emma was betrayed into a laugh. “Impossible! As well you know, sir.”

“So I hope,” he said, and his eyes suddenly narrowed. “I like to think that I know both your needs and what pleases you.”

There was a tiny silence. A silence laden with the unspoken. Emma fought the urge to speak out, to challenge him, to force the truth. She fought the urge and won. Whatever game Alasdair was playing, she was prepared to play it too. She would not be the first to crack. If this was one of his competitions, then she would meet and match him.

“What’s this paragon’s name?” she inquired placidly.

“Sam,” he replied. “He’s an ex-jockey too. But I suspect he augmented his earnings as a jockey with a little pickpocketing. But Jemmy assures me he’s a reformed character.”

“And Jemmy is always to be trusted,” Emma said
with perfect truth. “I’m expecting my curricle to be delivered this afternoon.”

“Sam has taken delivery already.”

Emma could manage this absurdly polite exchange no longer. She went into a peal of laughter. “Alasdair, if you weren’t so damnably efficient, I could shoot you for being so managing. I’m quite capable of handling these arrangements myself.”

“But it pleases me to see to them for you,” he said simply.

“So you’re not merely taking care of a simple-minded woman who can’t be trusted to manage her finances alone?” she said with a touch of asperity now.

“You almost deserve that I should say yes, that is precisely what I’m doing,” he returned. “Now, are you going to change and come riding? Or would you rather stand here and exchange pointless banter for the rest of the morning?”

That was not a realistic choice. “Richmond?” she queried.

“That’s what I said. Will it take you more than twenty minutes to change?”