Rhonda Woodward (22 page)

Keep reading for a special excerpt from another Regency Romance

by Rhonda Woodward

LADY EMMA’S DILEMMA

Available March 2013 from InterMix

1817

“Well, if I am going to take a lover, I had best meet a few gentlemen,” Lady Emmaline Fallbrook declared in a flawlessly serene tone of voice.

“Emmaline!” the dowager Duchess of Kelbourne exclaimed in a sharp whisper, whipping her regal head around quickly to see if the people streaming past their theatre box had heard her granddaughter’s outrageous statement.

Keeping her expression calm, Emma gazed at her grandmother with barely suppressed amusement. She knew her comment was outrageously scandalous, but did not care. With a delicious feeling of mischief she watched the play of emotion cross the old lady’s surprisingly unlined face.

In truth, it gave her a secret thrill of satisfaction to see her normally imperturbable grandmother’s flabbergasted expression. Since she was a child, it had been a great feat to elicit such a reaction from her.

“Did I shock you, Grandmère?” she asked, raising her brows in feigned innocence. “That would be above strange since you have been telling me for years that I have grown dull from too much time spent in my own company.”

The dowager’s jewels, flashing beneath the light of the chandelier, matched the glint in her perceptive steel blue gaze. “Saying you have kept yourself from Society for far too long is a far cry from suggesting that you take a . . .

a . . . I shall not repeat such outrageousness! To make such an announcement where just anyone might overhear— Well! I confess myself shocked at you.”

Emma reached over and laid her hand upon her grandmother’s arm and finally gave way to her suppressed mirth. “You must forgive me, Grandmère, you know how much I love to tease you.”

As the noise of the crowd, still flooding in from the streets, reached almost deafening levels, Emma scrutinized her grandmother’s expression.

Despite the good lady’s words to the contrary, Emma could tell that Grandmère was not as shocked as she pretended to be. This knowledge afforded Emma some measure of relief.

Just as Grandmère opened her mouth to reply, the velvet curtain at the entrance of their box fell aside. An elegant gray-haired gentleman, dressed completely in black, except for his parchment white shirt and cravat, stepped in and made an elegant leg.

“My dear duchess,” he intoned, “I cannot express my delight when I glanced up to see that you had decided to treat us all to your most desirable presence.”

“Harwich!” Grandmère cried out like a young girl. “I wondered if you would be in Town this Season!” She held out her gloved hand to him.

By the way he lingered over Grandmère’s hand, Emma had a suspicion that the earl had once been one of Grandmère’s beaux.

“You remember my granddaughter?” the dowager asked, sending a look to Emma that showed a great deal of pride. “Emmaline, I am sure you recall Lord Harwich.”

Smiling up at the earl, Emma said, “Indeed I do. I spent some time with your daughter in Bath last spring and enjoyed her company immensely. I trust that Lady Davinia is in good health?”

“She is very well, Lady Fallbrook. And I know she certainly enjoyed your company as well. I must say that it is very good to see you again. I clearly recall the year of your

come-out, what, nine or ten years ago?”

“’Tis gone thirteen years, sir,” Emma said with a smile.

“Truly? I remember it so vividly. Everyone was agog with your beauty and poise. As they are again.”

“You are too kind, Lord Harwich.” Feeling the blush come to her cheeks, Emma chided herself for being such a pea goose. Her grandmother may have it right after all; she had allowed herself to become much too provincial and had lost some of her polish.

“Not kind at all. Just yester eve I supped at Lady Colhurst’s and half the evening was spent discussing the dash you have already cut through Town.”

Grandmère waited long enough for Emma to thank the earl again before tapping him lightly on the wrist with her sandalwood fan. “Unless you have guests waiting for you in your box, why don’t you join us?”

Lord Harwich’s smile anticipated his answer. “How kind, my dear duchess. As a matter of fact, my guests sent their regrets at the last moment—how exceedingly lucky for me.”

The elegant old lady blushed at his gallantry and the earl seated himself on the gilded chair between her and Emma.

As Grandmère and Lord Harwich continued to chat, Emma resumed her perusal of the theatre. The last play she had attended had been with Charles in the early years of their marriage, when she had still been hopeful that they could find something in common to enjoy. However, Charles had hated everything about Town, especially the theater. “A play? Who wants to mix with the rabble?” he used to say whenever she suggested a visit to Drury Lane.

Scanning the luxurious boxes, she realized that they most likely held people she had been well acquainted with years ago. She smiled at the prospect of reestablishing some of those connections.

Shifting restlessly in her chair, she leaned forward slightly to look over the front of the box down to the narrow rows of seats in the pit below. The seats were filling quickly with a colorful assortment of people.

Again, she looked around the large oval space, recalling that the theater had not been nearly this grand ten years ago. The news of the fire that had razed the previous building had even reached her in Yorkshire. This new building, with its impressive domed rotunda, tiers of ornately ornamented boxes and sweeping double staircase in the entrance hall, was a splendid example of the new style of architecture.

As the crowd swelled and the candlelight glinted off the fronts of the gilded boxes, Emma felt excitement fluttering in her stomach.

Why had she waited so long to return to London? she wondered for the hundredth time since arriving in Town three days ago. She had missed the excitement that had always accompanied a Season, and now that she was here, all her previous hesitation seemed ridiculous.

Well, no matter now, she told herself. She was here and she was going to enjoy herself.

“I am probably not the first to inform you, dear Duchess, that Devruex is come to London. He had a prime bit of blood make its first appearance today. The filly beat one of Grafton’s favorites by a nose.”

At Lord Harwich’s words, Emma was pulled from her musings and left reeling in surprise.

Devruex.
Her head whipped around to look from Lord Harwich to her grandmother in alarm. Jack Devruex was in London!

Grandmère, the porcelain skin around her blue eyes crinkling with her smile, leaned toward her old friend. “My dear Lord Harwich, I am a day or two ahead of your news. Several of my friends who have unmarried granddaughters are already scrambling to send Lord Devruex invitations. In truth, I doubt their efforts will do much good. Though he usually comes to Town for the Season, Devruex is notorious for shunning the more mundane entertainments. Unless racing, gambling, or fencing is involved, Devruex rarely puts in an appearance in Society.”

Harwich chuckled and nodded his gray head. “You are always aware of everything worth knowing, dear Duchess.”

“In truth, there are so few young people who interest me, I make sure I know what they are up to,” she said. “It keeps me young.”

“You are eternally young, m’dear,” Lord Harwich said with a warm smile for the dowager.

A wave of cold panic washed over Emma’s body.

Frantically scanning the crowds for a tall, black-haired man, Emma gripped the chair arms to prevent her hands from trembling.

He could be anywhere! She craned her neck in an attempt to see into the nearest boxes. Her anxiety rising, she knew she could encounter Jack Devruex at any moment!

Before coming to London, she believed she had prepared herself for such a thing. After all, she had quite gotten over the fact that young Baron Devruex broke her heart thirteen years ago. Now that she faced the very real prospect of seeing him again, she prayed that it would not be tonight.

Foolish, foolish Emmaline, she chided herself. How could she have ever thought that thirteen years would be long enough?

On the verge of pleading a headache so that she could escape, she caught a glimpse of a black-haired gentleman among the crowd below. Her heart leapt with mounting dread.

Half rising from her chair, she hazily formed a plan to leave the theatre box and hide in the cloakroom if need be. An instant later, the dark-haired man turned and the abject relief that he was not Lord Devruex shook her from the grip of panic.

Relaxing back into her chair, she took a deep breath and waited for her heart to slow its frantic pace. She concentrated on keeping her expression pleasant, and on all the reasons why she had decided to come to London rushed up to rescue her roiling emotions.

Good Lord, I’m almost one and thirty, not some missish schoolgirl!
Finally, she felt her fingers begin to relax, and she released her painful grip on the chair arms.

Feeling calmer, she reminded herself that she had lived an entire lifetime in the last thirteen years. She had faced loss and grief and other situations more onerous than possibly meeting a man who had doubtless given her very little thought since they had last met.

She had always known if she came to London there was a strong possibility that she would encounter Jack Devruex.

Nothing had really changed from a moment ago, came the reassuring thought. Nothing at all. She had a plan and she would see it through, she reminded herself with determination. She would set aside all her worries about the past—and the future—and think only of enjoying herself.

Hang Jack Devruex, she thought with relief and renewed confidence.

Feeling her spirits much restored, she turned back to her grandmother and stately Lord Harwich. Thankfully, neither seemed to have noticed her momentary discomfiture.

Hang Jack Devruex, she thought again, and there was a hint of vehemence in the sentiment. If—or more likely when—they met again, she would simply give him the most elegant cut sublime and move on. He certainly deserved no more from her.

Finally, just as the crowds were growing alarmingly restive, the heavy curtains drew back in a great wave from the stage. The orchestra, hidden from view in the pits, struck up a lively overture.

The audience quieted and the play began. But after several minutes, to Emma’s great disappointment, the company displayed rather indifferent talent in a confusing comedy having something vaguely to do with mistaken identity.

Soon, she found her mind, as well as her gaze, wandering from the stage. Scanning the other theatregoers, she thought many of them more diverting than the play. To her amusement, she noticed most of them following her suit— watching the notables rather than the rather dull show.

Though the actors struggled to be heard over the noise of the restive crowd, Emma still found the whole scene excessively entertaining. It had been so long since she had experienced this kind of excitement.

Then, as suddenly as the closing of a music box, the noise of the crowd ceased. Emma glanced back to the stage in surprise. Even the actors seemed to falter in confusion.

“What is happening?” Grandmère demanded, raising her lorgnette to get a better look at the stage.

Gripping the warm wooden armrests, Emma looked around the packed theatre, sensing the excitement and a palpable feeling of anticipation emanating from the crowd.

“Is the Prince Regent joining us tonight?” Emma could think of no other reason for this odd scene.

Grandmère gave an inelegant snort. “Tosh. No one gets that excited over fat little Prinny.” She continued using the lorgnette to peruse the crowd with curiosity.

“I suspect . . .” Lord Harwich began, squinting in the direction of a box not much removed from theirs. “Yes! Mrs. Willoughby has arrived,” he announced.

Grandmère immediately lowered the lorgnette and sat back in her chair with an indignant twitch of her shoulders. “Oh! I shall not look in that direction again!”

“Who in the world is Mrs. Willoughby?” Emma kept her gaze riveted on the box Lord Harwich indicated as a dark-haired woman entered on the arm of a formally dressed gentleman.

Emma observed them with great interest. Even the actors on the stage seemed to be aware of the late arrivals.

The beautiful brunette glided to the front of the box and stood for a moment where she could be seen more easily by the entire theatre.

It was difficult to judge her height, but her slim, graceful figure gave the impression of regal tallness. Her dark hair, arranged in a riot of ringlets artfully erupting from a toque, must have taken her maid hours to perfect. Her claret-and cream-colored gown revealed an elegant expanse of alabaster décolletage.

Even from this distance, Emma saw that her complexion gleamed pale and flawless beneath the thousands of candles, and her lips were glossy crimson.

Emma, who had inherited a fondness for jewels from her mother and grandmother, took note of the glittering collar of rubies, or garnets, encircling Mrs. Willoughby’s neck. A brooch with the same stone the size of a pigeon’s egg rested in a gather of silk between her breasts.

Emma continued to observe the mysterious woman, fascinated by the manner in which the crowd seemed to be holding their collective breaths at her appearance. Mrs. Willoughby stood above them like a queen accepting tribute from her subjects.

“Who is she?” She directed her question to the earl, who cast Grandmère a hesitant look, as if seeking her permission to speak.

Turning her nose up with a sniff, Grandmère said, “I am sure the subject of Mrs. Willoughby cannot be avoided for long. It is bad enough that the cits and hoi polloi speak of nothing else, but her name is on the lips of half the
ton
as well. And I cannot see why. I will own that she is an attractive woman, but certainly nothing out of the most common way. My granddaughter’s beauty outshines hers tenfold.”

Lord Harwich inclined his head. “I agree. Lady Fall-brook has no rival in beauty, but Mrs. Willoughby has no rival in infamy.”

“Please, Lord Harwich, though I could happily listen to your compliments all evening, I am exceedingly curious about the mysterious Mrs. Willoughby.” Emma glanced back to see that the woman had finally taken the seat next to her escort.