Lady Emma's Campaign (2 page)

Eighteen Months Later

Lord Dewhurst was without a
doubt one of the most eligible bachelors in London. His manners were exemplary, his dancing graceful, his waistcoat a la mode and perfectly fitted. He was an attentive conversationalist, classically handsome, charming nearly to a fault. And Emma hoped desperately that he would not propose.

This was the fifth time he had called at the Drakes’ London residence since he and Emma had been introduced a few weeks earlier. He’d appropriately limited his visit to thirty minutes, conversing about such easy topics as the weather or the events of the Season. But today, instead of being contented to remain in the drawing room where Emma could depend on her mother or Amelia’s presence, Lord Dewhurst had insisted that it was a pity to waste such a lovely afternoon indoors. He had waited while she fetched her bonnet and gloves, and now the pair strolled through the small garden behind Emma’s family’s town home.

Her mother’s roses perfumed the air around them, and ivy covered the wrought iron trellis above a garden bench, which was picturesquely situated in the shade of a willow. Birds sang in the trees. The garden was one of the most beautiful in town, and the early summer displayed it splendidly.

Tilting her head the slightest bit, Emma glanced up beyond the edge of her bonnet to find Lord Dewhurst looking directly at her. She looked away quickly, casting her eyes about for something—anything—to focus on in order to avoid meeting his gaze.

“Do you mind very much if we sit for a moment, my dear?” He gestured to the bench. “There is something I should like to ask you.” He caught her hand and held it for an instant as he led her from the path.

Emma was disappointed to note that his touch did not send her heart fluttering. It was the same with the other men she had met in her two Seasons. She had briefly clasped hands as she stepped from a carriage or partnered in a dance, but as usual, the sensation was no different than what she would experience if her mother had taken her hand, or William.

Emma sat upon the edge of the small bench with her back straight, her head tilted demurely, and her lips curled in the slightest bit of a smile, casting her eyes downward in the manner expected of a proper young lady.

Despite her outward appearance of serenity, Emma’s mind raced. How could she distract Lord Dewhurst from the question she was sure he intended to ask? “I do believe you told me you meant to purchase some new horses, my lord,” she said. If there was anything to divert a man’s mind, it was the mention of horses.

Lord Dewhurst smiled, and his eyes took on a dreamy aspect. “Why, yes. It took a bit of persuasion, but in the end, Baron Wilkinson and I managed to agree upon a price. And I must admit I feel as though I got the better part of the bargain . . .”

As he launched into a description of the animals, Emma began to relax. Perhaps his equine report would occupy the remainder of his visit. She glanced up at him again while he spoke. He was indeed one of the handsomest men she knew, and she did enjoy his company. She had already refused four suitors in her two Seasons but thought that it would be more difficult this time, as she did have tender feelings for Lord Dewhurst. She had hoped that if she spent enough time with him, her affection for him would grow into something deeper than friendship. But even though their association was genial, the idea of becoming his wife produced a sour taste in her mouth.

Her musing was brought to an abrupt end when Lord Dewhurst turned toward her and laid his hand upon her shoulder. “I also inquired after a smaller mare. A gentle mount more suitable for a lady. Which brings me to the reason I had intended to speak with you.”

Emma began to feel an uncomfortable sort of sinking feeling in her stomach.

“My lady, or if I may call you,
Emma
,” he paused a moment, possibly waiting for her to acknowledge his request, but she kept her gaze firmly upon her gloved hands folded tidily in her lap.

“From the moment you entered the Chanceworths’ ball, I was impressed with your gentle and reserved nature. It was not long after making your acquaintance that I was certain I would not rest until I knew you better.” He shifted his position, leaning forward and tilting his head in an attempt to catch her eye.

Emma did not look up.

“The weeks we’ve known each other have done nothing but firm my conviction that you are a person I would feel comfortable sharing a life with and the one who shall make me happier than any other. You are a beautiful, gentle young woman who needs to be taken care of, and I should like to be the man to see to your comfort. I have, of course, spoken to your brother who insists—even though you are not of age—that the decision is entirely yours.” He took a deep breath. “Lady Emma Drake, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Emma would have been a fool to expect a declaration of love which they both would have known was untrue. Marriage to Lord Dewhurst would be a marriage of convenience. So many of her friends had formed practical connections, marrying for a title, money, or out of desperation because it was a well-known fact that marriage—even a loveless marriage—is much more desirable than becoming an unwed spinster. Lord Dewhurst’s offer was possibly the best she’d received, and the Season was nearly over. Her
second
Season. If only she felt more for him than a friendly affection.

She tried to tell herself that she was simply being childish, dreaming of true love. But then she thought of William’s face when he looked at Amelia: as if she were the most precious creature in the world. How Amelia smiled when he entered the room, and the way William touched her arm when he passed or kissed her cheek when he thought they were alone.

It was a stark comparison to what her parents’ relationship had been—an arranged marriage filled with violence and tears and ugliness. She did not imagine that Lord Dewhurst could be cruel like her father. She had never seen anything in his manner besides kindness. His reputation as well as that of his family was beyond reproach; but even so, she longed for a relationship like William’s, and she’d tried again and again to find it.

The truth of it was that Emma had enough people determined to take care of her. Her mother, especially, treated her as if she were still a child. Would her entire life be filled with people pampering her and never trusting her with anything more difficult than pouring tea or choosing curtains?

How could she possibly expect to spend her life with a man with whom she had merely exchanged a few sentences while they had danced, ridden through the park with his mother, and visited a few times in her drawing room? She tried to remember whether Lord Dewhurst had even heard her laugh. Would he ever try to make her laugh? Or would such a thing ruin his opinion about her gentle and reserved nature?

Only when he took her hand did Emma look up at him, realizing she had remained silent far too long. “Please forgive me, my lord, I am contemplating.”

“Of course, my dear. And you must call me Maynard.”

Maynard?

Still pondering on the fact that she’d not even known Lord Dewhurst’s Christian name until this moment, Emma was quite taken by surprise when he leaned close and kissed her on the cheek. It was a feat that required some agility, as he was compelled to negotiate the brim of her bonnet. She froze, waiting to feel something magical, but his kiss did not send her heart racing any more than his grip upon her hand.

Obviously believing her pause to be the result of her pleasure at his romantic gesture, Lord Dewhurst bent closer to kiss her again.

Emma rose to her feet quickly. “I am sorry, my lo . . . Maynard. I need time to consider your offer, and I must speak with William and my mother before I can reply to your request.”

He stood with her. “I understand, my dear. Farewell. I believe I shall call upon the earl right now, myself.” Inclining his head in a bow, he added rather as an afterthought, “And I shall, of course, visit you tomorrow.”

Emma dipped in a curtsey, holding her hands behind her back to discourage any further familiarity as they parted. Once Maynard, Lord Dewhurst, had gone into the house, she settled back upon the bench, relieved for the time alone with her thoughts.

Removing her bonnet to enjoy the gentle breeze, she looked around the garden. It was truly a work of art. The small bench was a splendid setting for a proposal. She attempted to further unravel her feelings. Lord Dewhurst would make an amiable husband. He was wealthy and kind and respected. A position as his wife was quite possibly the best situation she could hope for.

Lord Dewhurst would give her everything she could ever desire: gowns, jewels, children. He possessed all the attributes she had ever wanted in a husband. Except one. He was not Sidney.

Emma sighed. She indulged for a moment, permitting her mind to travel down a path that it took more frequently than she should allow. She touched the bracelet on her wrist; her fingers traced the familiar flowers carved in the jade. She had found it upon her pillow the day Sidney had departed, accompanied by a note which Emma had read so often that she could see his script when she closed her eyes.

Emma,

I purchased this bracelet in Macau. The Chinese use jade to represent all that is pure and beautiful, and I cannot think of a more worthy recipient than my lovely young friend.

Yours, Sidney

P.S. Ensure that you are selective about the men you choose to stand with beneath the kissing bough. Most of us are not deserving of the honor.

Emma pulled her gaze away from the bracelet and looked at the roses instead. It was unfair to compare the kiss of the man who could soon be her husband with that from a man she might never encounter again. She had only received correspondence from Sidney twice since he had returned to sea a year and a half ago, general inquiries about her health and brief accounts of his journeys. It was quite obvious that he did not consider her in any sort of romantic capacity. While he had been thoughtful and diverting during the time they’d spent together, she knew her infatuation was quite one-sided. He no doubt thought of her only as a child.

But she wasn’t a child any longer. If only Sidney could see her now. The baby fat that had plagued her was long gone, leaving her body filled out in all the right places. The fly-away, unmanageable hair that she had kept in braids had been trained by her lady’s maid and a fair amount of pomade to curl softly around her face.

Her second Season was even more exciting than her first had been, and she was currently swept up in a never-ending flurry of gowns, invitations, balls, concerts, luncheons, intrigues, card games, and on-dits. Her dance card was always filled, and the bowl in the front hall overflowed with calling cards and invitations. She moved in the best of circles and found herself at the center of attention at every event she attended. The Season was nearly perfect—or would have been if only she had managed to fall in love.

She stood, brushing off her gown, and picked up her bonnet. She had dallied long enough. Clarice, her mother’s dresser, would soon be searching her out to settle upon an ensemble for the concert that evening. Emma had it on good authority that Olivia Dewitt intended to wear a peach-colored frock—although the pale color would wreak havoc with her horrid complexion—in which case, Emma needed to alter her own wardrobe plans. She would consult with her mother and Clarice as soon as she spoke with William. Lord Dewhurst would undoubtedly have left by now.

Emma walked toward the house slowly, wondering what William would say. She had rejected three other offers this Season and one last. Would William be impatient? She did not think so. He would not insist that she marry Lord Dew—Maynard. While William presented a rather bad-tempered exterior, she knew him to be kind and fair. He had made it clear that she would be allowed to choose her husband and was strongly supported by their mother and Amelia, though Emma’s unwillingness to form an attachment likely frustrated them all. If she did not accept this offer, she would most likely require another Season to secure a husband, and she did not imagine that William would be overly thrilled with the idea.

Emma’s shoulders drooped. Another Season would bring the same men and the same parties. Perhaps she should save all of them the aggravation and not put her family through it again.

Emma stopped with her hand upon the doorknob as thoughts began to fill her head. A plan was taking shape. She could not in good conscience accept Lord Dewhurst when her attachment to Sidney was still so strong. Her breath came heavily as she pondered what she must do. She would confess her feelings to William and ask for his assistance. Amelia would support her. If Emma explained that she had rejected so many offers because she longed for a relationship like theirs, William would naturally understand.

Emma smiled as she imagined it. It would be a simple thing for her brother to invite Sidney to the Manor House for a visit; then Emma would have the chance to see if there would ever be the possibility of a relationship. Could she turn his head now that she was a woman? She must try. And if in the end, Sidney did not feel the same, she would be at peace, knowing that she had made her best attempt. Then she would be free to accept the next proposal that came her way.

Emma entered the main hall and started up the stairs. She would probably find William reading the papers, following the latest news from the war in Spain, and trying not to wish that he was a part of it. The last they had heard, his old ship, the HMS
Venture
, had sailed with the fleet in the campaign to free the Spanish city of Cádiz, which the French had held under siege for more than a year. William had been in the navy for eighteen years prior to the title falling on his shoulders, and Emma knew he was frustrated to read weeks-old news in the soft chairs of his library while his former shipmates were in the midst of the action.

She knocked softly on the door before stepping into the library, expecting to see William behind his desk. His chair, however, was empty. Hearing a sniffle, she turned to the other side of the room, and her stomach sank. William sat upon the sofa with his arms around Amelia as she wept against his chest.