Colors of a Lady (5 page)

“There she is!” Lord Sheridan announced
happily. He had been in a grand mood since the betrothal
announcement this morning. He was much more attentive exuberant
while Lady Sheridan had taken to her bed indefinitely.

“Good afternoon, father,” she greeted,
giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. Lord Sheridan visibly melted
at her affection. Emma then turned to Thomas waiting. He
immediately swept into an elegant bow.

“Lady Emma, good afternoon. She dipped into
a perfect curtsy.

“How are you faring this chilly day, Lord
Hartwell?” Emma asked, leaning forward slightly to inspect his
face. She sniffed precariously at the air and drew back. Good lord,
she thought, he had been drinking before he arrived. Was the
thought of her so very terrible?

“I am quite well though I could be warmer.
But could not we all?” He said with some trepidation. What a fool
he was. Having downed a few glasses of claret, he should have
realized he would smell of it. Though he was not foxed by any
means, this was a great insult to his future bride. He should have
at the very least freshened up at home before coming here. Instead,
Thomas had driven over from White's.

“But when summer comes we shall be sick unto
death of the heat. I do hope your phaeton will not freeze me to
death.”

“Never fear, I have hot bricks to warm your
feet and some furs if it gets particularly cold.”

“How thoughtful!” Lord Sheridan piped in,
smiling upon the new couple with great pride. The proud fathers
could not stop congratulating themselves on their scheming. This
union was a boon for both them and their children.

“Let us depart then. We may miss the Prince
if we do not hurry.”

That tidbit brightened up Emma. “Will he
really be there? I have read about him in the scandal sheets, but I
have not seen him in person yet. He was not at court when I got
presented.

Emma settled her hand on the arm offered to
her. He led her from the house to his waiting phaeton.

“He is certainly a sight one must see. As
you know his wife, Princess Caroline, is out of the country.

“Oh yes, what a great mess it all is!” She
said with a laugh.

Lord Hartwell felt disconcerted over her
easy acceptance over his insult. She asked no questions and did not
grate his nerves with pious words over the danger of the drink. He
found her silence to be much more affecting to his conscience than
tears or shouts. Disappointment lingered, rushing over him like a
wave.

The Marquess helped Emma into the phaeton,
being sure to point out the hot bricks to her. She sighed in
happiness when she sat her already chilled feet upon them. She
settled back against the furs, relishing the comfort they
provided.

“How has your day been thus far?” he
inquired with the sincerest hope this simple question would
entertain her a launch a tirade of trivialities. It always worked
with Caroline and any other ladies of the ton. During the countless
musicales, routs, and the like, the ability to make small talk was
paramount. A lady’s ability to prattle endlessly about her new
bonnet or ribbons was astounding. Emma, however, simply shrugged
her shoulders as if this life held no joy.

When she was a child, Emma would regale
Thomas with every single facet of her day: the books she read, the
kitten she petted, the biscuits she devoured. All such mundane
details of a girl’s day. Emma told of her exploits with great gusto
as if she were a conquistador.

“Oh, it was good enough. Helena and Lettice
called upon me and we had tea. I learned my aunt should be helping
me with my wedding trousseau.” She added the last part delicately.
It was unheard of that an aunt should be called in when a mother
was alive and well.

Lord Hartwell pulled on the reins, drawing
the phaeton to a stop. He tipped his hat to the group of ladies
waiting to cross the street. They giggled merrily and rushed across
calling thanks over their shoulders.

He cleared his throat, tempted to ask for
more details. A good part of him said to simply ignore it and
continue on with the ride in silence. He was intrigued by her words
and a very small part of him was yelling very loudly, demanding he
ask for her elaboration.

“Your aunt? Why not your mother or even your
sister?”

“They are otherwise engaged.”

“Surely they can find time for you,” he
said.

“They are not the type to do so when I am
involved,” she answered honestly. “It is no matter to me for I have
my aunt who has always been of great help to me.”

“I see,” Thomas answered. Though he really
did not understand it at all and he did not have anything better to
say. Emma chuckled at his lame reply.

She turned her face to him and accused, “I
do not think you do, Lord Hartwell.”

“Then explain,” he offered. She shook her
head and licked her lip, a feeble attempt to warm them against the
biting wind.

“I do not believe it is good ton to speak of
my family in a negative manner, my lord. Especially to you and
about my sister. You are bound to be biased and find me to be a
shrew for speaking against her.”

The phaeton turned into Hyde Park, home of
Rotten Row. Eligible men sat perched on horseback, leaning down to
converse with walking ladies. There was a flurry of excitement in
the air, that of new gossip. Emma was sure it was in regards to
Lord Hartwell and her. Her assumptions proved to be correct.
Everyone they passed could not help but lapse into furtive whispers
and some even pointed in a most undignified manner.

Well, that was certainly not good ton. Emma
smoothed her long skirt and glanced sidelong at Thomas. The line of
his mouth was firm and quivering as if he was smothering some
heated words. Emma coughed and informed him in a stern voice that
was peppered with nonchalance, “I know you do not want to be
married, Lord Hartwell.” She paused and waved happily to an
acquaintance she had not spoken to in years.

“To be honest, I feel the same. I know you
to be a good man, but it has never once been my dream to have
Caroline’s rejects. I hope that, aside from the manner of our
betrothal, we shall live in relative contentment.”

His stiff shoulders relaxed and a small
smile tweaked his lips. Lord Hartwell tipped his hat to a
schoolmate from Eton before speaking to Emma.

“We are partners for life. I am quite
amenable to it as long as you do not rail against me as you used to
when we were children.”

Emma gasped. How impertinent! She had
matured so much since then too.

“Why, Lord Hartwell, I just--!” She
sputtered and huffed, annoyed that her childhood transgressions
would come back to haunt her. Her spirit soared at the knowledge
that he did remember their times together. Even if it was in a
somewhat negative light. It was better than no memories at all.
Perhaps they would become great friends again. She could survive
with that. Friendship was better than animosity though it was a far
cry from love. Who in the ton could expect love from a marriage
where fortunes and titles were involved? It was simply not done.
That was bad taste. One got married to enrich their fortunes and
spend the rest of their days ignoring one another.

It was all a rather cynical business, but
the institution of marriage had not suffered. People still got
married like clockwork since the Church had deemed it a requirement
to be respectable.

Emma peeked at her fiancé, admiring his
handsome profile. Could she happily look at this for years to come?
The quirk of his lips as he tried to hide a smile; the way his
curls fell across his forehead like the image of a Greek hero upon
the fragment of a vase; his straight back and intelligent eyes. It
would not be difficult, she decided. In fact, it would be the
easiest thing she had ever done in her life. That truth worried her
most of all.

Lady Lucille Wren,
spinster aunt to Caroline and Emma and sister to Lord Sheridan,
arrived in London without fanfare. Her summons was unsurprising.
She knew when the day came her brother would call upon her to help
Emma with her wedding plans. Lucille knew all too well of her
sister-in-law's vain and hapless nature. That was the misfortune of
being sister to a brother married to a shrew. She bit back more
harmful words reminding herself that she was still a lady, whether
she had married or not.

Many would call her an ape-leader, which
perhaps was not far from the truth. Her life had been far from the
drudgery of being a companion to an elderly woman or a governess to
ungrateful children. As the product of an indulgent father and
loving mother, she had grown up to be spirited and independent.
Those qualities were very much frowned upon in society. They were
the same that got her in trouble.

With her feisty nature, Lucille had risked
no time at all falling in love with an unsuitable rake. One could
call him a fortune hunter and the declaration would not be untrue.
Though he was of an old family, he had wasted no time in gambling
away the small fortune left to him upon his father’s death. Once he
found himself wallowing in debt, he decided it would do well to
attend Almack’s, turn a leg, and meet young debutantes with
considerable dowries.

Lucille, coddled too much, had only seen
beauty and love in him. At that point, her brother was her
guardian. He could not bear to marry his sister off to such a man.
But then their brother died.

Lucille felt her heart catch in her throat.
She left the country and left it all behind. She had not looked
back at those events in years. Being in London revived their old
memories.

It was the first time she had stepped upon
English soil in five years. The rakes and bucks she knew as a girl
were married with their own broods of children. It was much colder
up here than in sunny Italy. But the nip in the air was refreshing
and nostalgic. It was lucky that she was traveling in Paris when
she received a letter from her brother. It meant a shorter trip to
London instead of having to trek from Southern Europe.

Having arrived in Dover that morning,
Lucille was now riding through the streets on London. She politely
refused her brother’s offer of staying with the family. She found
that her rented lodgings could be used for wedding planning and
fittings, far from the prying eyes of her sister-in-law.

As the carriage pulled to a stop, Lucille
leaned forward to look outside at her new lodgings. Lord Sheridan
had picked them in a fashionable part of Mayfair, much to her
annoyance. Lucille had hoped to avoid any unwanted run-ins with the
ton. The carriage shook as the footmen unloaded her trunks. They
dropped to the ground with a thud. Lucille silently praised that
she had not packed anything fragile.

With a gloved hand, she pushed the door
open, too impatient to wait for assistance. Lucille elegantly
stepped out, shoes clicking on the pavement. She admired the clean
architecture of the newer homes. Rented lodgings did not hold
ghosts of times long gone. Everywhere she was reminded of her
youth. Those follies caused by her head-strong ways. Those days and
nights of unbridled merriment that ultimately resulted in
despair.

Shortly before her sojourn in France, they
reveled in lopping off the heads of the aristocracy. Some escaped
with their lives but lost their fortunes. To many, it may have been
better to die than to be destitute. The English did not look too
fondly upon the refugees of a country that had supported the
colonists in their revolution.

It was 1796 when Lucille arrived in Paris.
The country was in a process of recovery after beheading their
monarchs and unleashing a terror upon the populace. They had
reached a time of relative peace with the formation of the
Directoire. In only a handful of years, Napoleon would seize
control.

France was in perpetual war, within itself
and outside its borders. She had known and lost many dear friends
in the campaigns. The wealthy in England did not know the heartache
of those who lost their kin and dear friends in battlefields across
Europe. The memories still ached.

“Not today,” Lucille muttered. She did not
need more ghosts haunting her. Not all of those dear friends lost
in a senseless grab for power.

“Lady Emma...? What are you doing here?” The
voice belonged to a long-legged man who was bounding down the
street towards here. Once he was in closer view of Lucille, he
stopped short. “Oh, I am sorry. I have mistaken you for someone
else.”

Lucille tucked a few stray curls behind her
ear and smiled kindly. “It is no matter. Mistakes happen.”

The man's cheeks flushed. He was not yet a
grown man. There was innocence to his features that told Lucille he
had not known hardship in his life. He probably dawdled about,
spending his days at the gentleman's clubs and his nights at the
countless soirees in London homes. The life of the ton was one of
leisure. They did not have the problems of the people on the
Continent who had been ravaged by war at Napoleon's hands for
years.

“Are you newly arrived in London?” He asked,
looking at the footmen who were carrying her trunks into the
house.

“From France, yes. I am here to help my
niece with her wedding.”

“Niece?” He repeated. “Are you, perhaps,
Lady Lucille Wren?”

“Why yes, I am,” she replied. “How do you
know my name? I have not been in England for many years.”

“Lady Emma Wren, your niece, is my
betrothed.” He paused and shook his head. “I have forgotten my
manners. I am Thomas Blake, Marquess of Hartwell.”

“Ah, my soon-to-be nephew. How delightful it
is to meet you at last. I met you once or twice before I left for
the Continent. But you would not remember, you were still a
baby.”

“That is out of the realm of my memories. Is
Lady Emma aware of your arrival?” It had been two weeks since their
engagement. Every single time Thomas saw his fiancée she would
mention how excited she was that her aunt was coming to stay. Her
eyes would light up in genuine delight.