Sally MacKenzie Bundle (96 page)

Charles sat down across from the vicar. “Has Emma never had a beau, then?”

“No. I did not lie when I said she worshiped you.” The vicar sighed. “Looking back, I should have insisted she have a Season. One of my sisters would gladly have sponsored her. But Emma didn’t want to leave Meg—and I didn’t want my comfortable routine altered.” Bitterness crept into his voice. “I am paying for my selfishness now.”

“Now, sir, no self-recriminations, please. I consider you did me a favor, little as we both realized it. I believe Emma and I will suit admirably.” Charles grinned. “I just have to convince her of that.”

There was really no need for her to be here, Emma thought as Mr. Lambert opened the door to the blue drawing room and she followed Mrs. Graham inside. She would have realized that as soon as Mr. Lambert had said the Society was here, if she had not let guilt cloud her thinking.

“Harriet!” Mrs. Begley raised her teacup as Emma and Mrs. Graham entered the room. “And Miss
Peterson. How lovely. Lady Beatrice, have you met Mrs. Graham?”

Emma surveyed the room as Mrs. Begley made the introductions. Mr. Lambert said he had secreted the brandy, but the ladies were looking suspiciously bright-eyed. The Farthington twins sat together on the settee, giggling, while Miss Russell smiled beatifically at a vase of roses.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Graham.” Lady Beatrice was attired in a Pomona green and puce ensemble with plumes in alternating colors, giving the unfortunate impression of a rotting plum. “Would you ladies care for some tea?”

“Yes, thank you,” Mrs. Graham said. “Tea would be very pleasant.”

Lady Beatrice poured and then reached into her workbasket. She pulled out a bottle of brandy and grinned. “Shall I add a dollop of French cream?”

Mrs. Graham laughed. “Oh, no. I would be asleep before I got to the bottom of the cup.”

Emma frowned as she took her tea, also without brandy. “Mr. Lambert said he had put all that away.” She bit her lip as soon as the words were out. It wasn’t her place to criticize.

Lady Beatrice shrugged and put the bottle back in her basket. “Mr. Lambert may be an excellent butler, but he is no match for me when it comes to deviousness.”

“Come, Miss Peterson, don’t frown so,” Mrs. Begley said. “It’s not as if we indulge every day. Why, we didn’t take a drop in our tea yesterday, did we, ladies?”

“Not a drop.” Miss Esther Farthington shook her head slowly.

“And we’ve had barely a drop today.” Miss Rachel Farthington sighed.

Miss Russell smiled at the roses.

“You worry too much, Miss Peterson, if I may say so.” Mrs. Begley pointed her teacup at Emma while the twins nodded. “You are only twenty-six, not sixty-six. You act like an old lady sometimes.”

The twins stopped nodding abruptly and their brows snapped into identical frowns.

“Sixty-six is not old.” Miss Esther clicked her cup on the table. “We are seventy, and we are not old, Lavinia.”

“Indeed not.” Miss Rachel waggled her finger. “Eighty-six, that may be old, but sixty-six—never.”

Mrs. Begley threw up her hands, almost upsetting her teacup. “My point is, Miss Peterson, you are still single, marriageable, attractive…”

With each adjective, the Farthington twins appeared to puff up like angry wrens, feathers ruffled. Mrs. Begley threw them a harried glance.

“What I
mean
is, you are still
young
—too young to be constantly worried about propriety.”

Mrs. Graham chuckled. “I thought it was the young girls who most had to worry about propriety, Lavinia.”

“And I am not young,” Emma said. This was an exceedingly stupid conversation. “My sister, Meg, is young.”

“Your sister Meg is a veritable infant. Children her age need to be chaperoned. You, however…” Mrs. Begley paused, tapping her teacup gently against her teeth.

“You are a second-day rosebud,” Miss Russell said.

Everyone stared as if one of the chairs had spoken. Miss Russell blinked back at them.

“Whatever do you mean, Blanche?” Mrs. Begley asked.

“Miss Peterson—her petals have unfurled just a little. Relaxed. Opened up.”

Lady Beatrice snorted. “Not likely.”

“No, I see what Blanche is saying,” Miss Rachel said. “She’s right.”

Miss Esther nodded. “Meg is like a new bud, fresh, tight…”

“…but Emma’s been out in the sun longer. Been blown about more.”

“Had more bees visit—”

“Miss Esther, I’m not certain where this metaphor is going, but it is beginning to sound quite inappropriate.” Mrs. Graham’s voice had a distinct edge.

“They are only saying Emma has enough experience to be interesting,” Mrs. Begley said. “I quite agree.”

Emma sat bolt upright.

“I do not have any experience.”

“Not of an intimate nature, of course. At least, I assume…?”

“Lavinia!”

“Well, Harriet, she certainly has more life experience than a seventeen-year-old chit,” Mrs. Begley said.

Emma’s ears were still burning with the word “intimate.” She snorted, trying to act as if the conversation were not galloping away from her. “Oh, yes. Nine years more experience, to be exact.”

“And each of those years is important, miss. Not all of marriage occurs in the bedroom, you know. Men do allow one to emerge from the sheets to eat, read the papers, converse. It is vastly more appealing to have a wife with a few interesting thoughts knocking around in her brain box—or his brain box in the case of one’s husband, of course.”

Sheets? Emma felt a light flush travel up her neck. The image of Lord Knightsdale scantily attired in his
bedsheets the night he’d come hunting ghosts in the nursery flashed into her mind.

“You are…seasoned, Miss Peterson,” Mrs. Begley said. “Much more attractive to a man with a discriminating palate.”

“Mrs. Begley,” Mrs. Graham said, “you make Emma sound like a beefsteak.”

“That could do with a little more seasoning, unless I miss my guess.” Lady Beatrice added another splash of brandy to her tea. “Lavinia is correct, Miss Peterson. You worry too much about propriety. You need to take a few risks—have some fun. You are not a girl in her first Season—and yes, I know you’ve never had a Season, but the concept holds. Society, at least here in the country, will give you a little more freedom than you seem willing to give yourself.” She held up her purloined brandy bottle. “A little deviousness is all to the good, Miss Peterson. It’s a dull woman who knows only propriety.”

“And no man wants a dull woman,” Lady Begley said.

“Especially not my nephew.”

Emma spewed a mouthful of tea back into her teacup.

“Did I miss something?” Mrs. Graham asked.

“No. There’s nothing to miss. Nothing at all. Lady Beatrice has simply imbibed too much spirits. She is befuddled. Bemused. Confused.” Emma was horrified. Now all the ladies of the Society knew Lady Beatrice’s matrimonial opinion—ladies who had little sense of decorum and tongues that ran on wheels.

“I am not confused, miss. Charles needs an heir; his nieces need a mama. Whom else is he to choose? I mean, look at your competition. Lady Caroline…”

Miss Esther oinked.

“Miss Oldston.”

Miss Rachel neighed.

Lady Beatrice nodded.
“And
she looks remarkably like a toad as well. Entire family does. Then there’s Miss Frampton.”

“Spotty.” Mrs. Begley wrinkled her nose.

“Miss Pelham.”

“Nasty mother.”

Everyone stared at Miss Russell again.

“Well, it’s true. Miss Pelham has a very nasty mother. I wouldn’t want her as a mother-in-law.”

“Exactly.” Lady Beatrice nodded, sending her plumes bobbing. “That leaves only you.”

“And Meg and Lizzie and Miss Haverford, as well as countless ladies of the
ton
not present at this house party.”

Lady Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Meg is only interested in weeds, and Lizzie is only interested in the Earl of Westbrooke. Miss Haverford is one of Miss Russell’s new rosebuds—too young. I just cannot see Charles offering for her.”

“Miss Haverford is not too young,” Emma said. “She is seventeen, the same age as Meg and Lizzie. A perfectly acceptable age for marriage.”

Lady Beatrice snorted. “Not for Charles. He would be so bored, he’d fall asleep before he could—”

“Lady Beatrice, please.” Mrs. Graham scowled at Charles’s aunt. “Emma is a gently bred, unmarried lady.”

Lady Beatrice scowled back. “And she’ll stay that way if she doesn’t bestir herself. Charles is a plum waiting to be picked. She can have him if she wants. She just needs to stretch out her hand and pluck him off the bachelor tree.”

Mrs. Begley grabbed the brandy bottle. “Gawd, Lady Bea, don’t go poetic on us.”

“Well, it’s true. Part of grabbing a husband is finding one who is ripe. Charles is. The title is sitting heavy on his shoulders. Someone will pick him before the year’s out—may as well be Miss Peterson.” Lady Beatrice leaned toward Emma. “Go on, girl. Go harvest the man before some other chit beats you to him.”

Emma stared back at Lady Beatrice. How did one respond to such a statement? That she wanted something more from marriage?

But what, exactly? Love, of course, but what of the disturbing feelings that flooded her whenever she thought of Charles’s body hard against hers?

“Well, I believe we have wandered in matrimonial horticulture long enough,” Mrs. Graham said, smiling. “This speculation is groundless until Emma has received an offer from Lord Knightsdale. And I’m certain she would prefer to consider the subject in private, wouldn’t you, dear?”

Emma made some noise that Mrs. Graham must have taken as agreement. The older woman directed the conversation into more acceptable channels. It flowed around Emma—gossip of local families, of the London house party guests. Emma was grateful—the first positive feeling she’d had for Mrs. Graham since she realized the woman was more than just another parish lady to her father.

She tried to think clearly, but she could not get the images, the sensations, of her encounter in the grotto with Lord Knightsdale out of her mind. His smell. His taste. The silky-roughness of his tongue filling her mouth.

She felt hot. Melting. At least something was definitely damp.

She stared down at her teacup. Perhaps disgusting Mr. Stockley was correct—perhaps she did have…urges. She thought of the door between her bedchamber and Lord Knightsdale’s. The door that had no key. The door that was always unlocked.

She waved her hand in front of her face in a vain effort to cool her blood.

“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Graham asked softly.

Emma nodded. She hoped none of the other ladies noted her flushed cheeks. What would they say if they knew
she
had received an offer of sorts? Well, doubtless Lady Beatrice would consider Charles’s words a full-fledged marriage proposal, but Emma did not. She wanted talk of love, not convenience. Of passion, not practicalities. Was that too much to ask?

Probably. Charles was a marquis, after all. For him, marriage was a necessary duty.

But if she did hear words of love—would she marry him then?

Ridiculous. She would not consider it. She was certain he would speak of love when pigs flew.

She did not expect to see porcine flight in her lifetime.

Lud! Emma stuck her head out of her bedchamber and listened. What in the world was that noise?

“Aaahhh! Mama! Achoo! Aaahhh.”

Lady Caroline erupted from her room and flew down the hall, screaming and sneezing. More people poked their heads into the corridor. Emma saw Meg and walked down to her sister’s room.

“What’s going on, Emma?”

They watched Lady Caroline pound on her mother’s door.

“I have no idea.”

Lady Dunlee’s maid finally answered the banging.

“Yes, m’lady? Oh! Oh, my!” The maid threw her apron over her face and started wailing.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Mary.” Lady Dunlee’s sharp voice could be heard over the din. “What is all the caterwauling about? Can’t a body have a moment’s peace—” Lady Dunlee appeared at her door. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes widened, and then
she
started screeching.

Lady Beatrice brushed past Emma, Queen Bess following leisurely behind her. “Lady Dunlee, please, calm yourself.”

“Calm myself?
Calm
myself! I’ll calm myself. Look at my daughter.”

Emma looked along with all the other houseguests in the corridor. Lady Caroline’s eyes were swollen to narrow slits; her face was covered with raised, red splotches; and her nose was streaming. She sniffed, sneezed, and scratched.

“I see.” Lady Beatrice cleared her throat. “I’m sorry Lady Caroline is indisposed.”

“Indisposed? You call this indisposed? I call this a disaster.”

“Well, it certainly is unfortunate. Perhaps she would feel better if she lay down?”

Lady Caroline screamed and hid her face in her mother’s shoulder.

“No?” Lady Beatrice rocked back on her heels. “Precisely what is the problem, Lady Dunlee?”

“That!” Lady Dunlee pointed at Queen Bess, who had decided to sit by Lady Beatrice’s skirts and clean her hind leg. “That
creature
is the problem.”

“Lady Dunlee, do not point at my cat in such a fashion.” Lady Beatrice moved to shield Queen
Bess. “I am sure she did not mean to distress your daughter.”

“Ha! I’ll have you know that Lady Caroline is very sensitive to cats.”

“It was on my pillow, mama. I know it was. I was fine when I lay down to rest.”

Lady Dunlee straightened to her full height. “What was your cat doing on my daughter’s bed?”

“I have no idea. Queen Bess is not partial to pork.”

“Pork?” Lady Dunlee frowned so hard her eyebrows met in a V above her nose. “Why are you talking about pork?”

“Just that Bess is a very intelligent animal. I would have thought she’d have taken one look at your daughter and determined there could be nothing of interest in her room.”

Lady Dunlee drew a scandalized breath.

“Lady Beatrice, are you comparing my daughter to a…a pig?”

“Yes.”

Lady Caroline sobbed louder as the assembled onlookers tried unsuccessfully to muffle their laughter.