The Harlow Hoyden (13 page)

Pearson laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I say, Trent, no need to be so abrupt. I’d be pleased to take Miss Emma Harlow down to dinner.
Truth be known, I’ve always thought she was a fetching little thing.”

Although Pearson sought to appease his friend with this confession, he only angered him more. “You’re merely to take her down to dinner. You’re not to be engaging or amusing or winning in any way. Do you understand?”

Pearson had never seen his friend behave in such an erratic fashion and was now very eager to meet Miss Harlow.
“Perfectly.”

Dinner progressed without incident, although Emma was much surprised to find herself partnered with a handsome gentleman who had many funny stories to tell of Trent’s salad days. Pearson had only a small suspicion of what the duke was up to, but he decided there was no harm in advancing Trent’s suit. And clearly the girl was interested. She plagued him for more stories until he
had to make a few up.

Afterward, he signed her dance card and promised to return shortly. Emma was pleased at the novelty of having names in her dance card. When they struck up another waltz, Trent mysteriously appeared at her side.

“I believe you requested a waltz,” he said, bowing.

She furrowed her brows. “I have no such recollection, your grace.”

“How quickly they forget! But no matter.
I recall clearly your standing in my conservatory stealing a blossom and making me promise to waltz with you.”

“That was days and days ago. We already had our dance.”

“Since you didn’t specify a number, Miss Harlow, I assumed you meant all your future waltzes.” He held out a hand.

“Very well. I suppose one more wouldn’t do any harm. But you must sign my dance card first. That’s the way it’s
done.”

Trent complied, taking note of Pearson’s fluid scrawl. When they were on the dance floor, he said, “You seemed to enjoy Pearson’s company very well.”

“He’s an amusing fellow.”

He had noticed them laughing together and had been very unamused by the sight. “What did you talk about?”

Thinking it wouldn’t do his ego any good to know that they’d talked of little else but him, she said,
“Oh, you know. This and not. What did you talk to Lavinia about?”

“Drainage systems,” he answered.

“Excellent!” She smiled happily. “Nobody knows more about drainage systems than dear Vinnie. I knew the two of you would get on together. She’s very interesting once you get to know her. Tell me, do you think she suspects anything?”

“I cannot know that, although it seems unlikely.”

“Good.
You’ll take her for a drive tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid I have to go to Tattersall’s tomorrow,” he said, although this was not the whole truth. He didn’t
have
to go, he just didn’t want her thinking she could order him about.

“All right. Then the next day or the next. You can also take her to the theater. Vinnie loves the theater.”

“It wouldn’t do for me to take her alone, but perhaps we can
pull a party together.”

Emma sighed. “I’m so relieved my scheme is working.” She looked at him. “Tell me the truth, your grace, Vinnie isn’t so awful, is she?”

“Not at all. I find her quite pleasant and very easy to talk to. Why would you think that?”

“Because she hasn’t had many beaus and is only marrying Windbag as a last resort, I am convinced. It’s a horrible, horrible waste. She could
do better than that villain. If he had his way, Vinnie would never install another drainage system again.”

The duke laughed. “I suspect most husbands would prefer that their wives never install drainage systems.”

“But you wouldn’t mind, would you, your grace?”

“No, I don’t think I would,” he answered, softly.

Emma nodded, pleased to have her theory confirmed. The duke and Lavinia would
make an excellent pair. Wouldn’t her mama be shocked when one of her daughters married a duke? She’d have to take an interest then. And she could just imagine the expression on the horrid Sir Windbag’s face when he learned he’d been thrown over for a nonesuch like Trent.

“I knew my plan would work,” she said. “And Kate was right. You are just the man for the job.”

“Who is Kate?”

“She’s
my dearest friend.”

“And you told her about your plan?”

“Of course, one needs a confidant, no?”

Trent wasn’t sure he agreed. “Is she trustworthy?”

“One hundred percent. It was she who was drawing up the list for me. I relieved her mind greatly when I told her not to worry. She was having trouble coming up with names.”

Trent took comfort in this. If the woman had wanted to aid Emma in
her insanity, she could have come up with a dozen names instantly. Clearly she hoped to steer the Harlow Hoyden away from calamity—a daunting task. He made a note to discover who this Kate was and seek her out.

Emma was silent for a few moments, enjoying the dance and the lovely sensation of again being in his arms. Was it only this afternoon that she had been swept away by passion in the drawing
room? “Your grace, you must kiss Lavinia.”

Why the duke was surprised by this statement he didn’t know. She was always making outrageous suggestions. “Excuse me?”

“You must kiss Lavinia.”

“Why?” he asked, thinking of their kiss earlier. He didn’t want to kiss her sister. He wanted to kiss her. She was a very tempting morsel, especially when in his arms.

“Because she’s only kissed Sir Windbag.
He cannot know how to go about it as well as you.”

“I suppose that’s a compliment.” There was wry amusement in his voice.

“And once she learns that there are men who kiss better than Sir Waldo, she’ll drop him like a hot potato,” Emma explained logically. “That’s why it’s very important that a lady kiss more than one man before she marries.”

Trent stiffened. “No, women should only kiss the
man they are to marry.”

“What nonsense is this?” she asked, surprised by his conservative answer. “How is a woman to know what a good kiss is unless she’s able to compare it? Surely that’s why men kiss so many women before they chose the right one.”

The duke knew for a fact that her theory was ridiculous. Men kissed women for a variety of reasons, the least of which was the comparison of chaste
embraces. Still, he was not so much disturbed by her radical thinking as the vivid picture it brought to mind: that of Emma standing at the head of a long line of men with her lips puckered. It was unacceptable. “It’s different for men.”

Emma was not surprised by this answer. It was what men always said. “How so?”

“It just is.”

Miss Harlow scoffed. “You’re like the others—a hypocritical
tyrant. You defend society’s constrictive rules against women while taking full advantage of your own freedom. How nice it must be to be a man.”

The duke didn’t respond. He was still smarting from Miss Harlow’s remarks. How could she tell him to kiss her sister when he’d kissed her only hours before? The last thing she should want was to see him in the arms of another woman. The very idea should
be repellent to her. Why was she not as upset as he was? Earlier he’d wanted to plant a facer on Carson for dancing with her, and dinner had been interminable, watching her laugh with Pearson. It seemed inconceivable that she didn’t feel the same way.

“Very well, I will kiss your sister,” he said, hoping to make her jealous.

If they hadn’t been dancing, Emma would’ve clapped. “Excellent, your
grace. I knew you’d see the wisdom of my thinking. I can’t imagine Sir Windbag is any good at it. He is always so stiff and formal and so
boring
. I don’t doubt that Lavinia will be quite swept away by your technique. I don’t have much experience yet, but I suspect that you’re unusually good at it.”

As the waltz finished and Trent led her off the dance floor, he made a silent vow that she’d never
get much experience.

CHAPTER SIX

By the end of
the fortnight, it was glaringly clear to Emma that her plan was working better than she could have ever imagined. The Duke of Trent hadn’t called the day following the ball, as he had to go down to Tattersall’s to look at horseflesh with a friend, but he came by the next day and the next and every day after that. He dropped by to take Lavinia for long drives in the
park, during which they discussed the surrounding flora and fauna. Trent quickly discovered that the other Miss Harlow had a wicked sense of humor when it came to strutting fauna in ridiculous ostrich-plumed hats.

Lavinia would return from these drives laughing, her cheeks flushed. The promised theater party was another success. Sarah had been reluctant to go, as Roger was expected to return
the next morning, but somehow Trent convinced her that it would be an excellent way to pass the hours. Everyone had a fun time, except Emma, who could not stand the way Trent kept whispering in Vinnie’s ear.

Because she’d never experienced the emotion before, it took Emma almost a week to realize she was jealous of her sister.

When Vinnie came back from the first of these carriage rides, Emma
had sat her down in the front parlor and insisted that she reveal every detail. She was eager to hear how her plan was progressing. Vinnie obliged, lingering over a particularly funny story about Lord Redkin and his hobby horse.

“It’s fat and gray, not at all like a horse. Trent said it looked like one of those animals from Africa. And you know Lord Redkin, of course”—actually, Emma didn’t—“all
fat and gray himself. Well, he was riding his hobby elephant, as Trent called it, down a hill when he lost control and came tumb—” Overcome with laughter, she could not finish the story.

For the first time since they were little children, Emma found herself out of sorts with her sister. Not because she failed to finish the story or because she endlessly dropped Trent’s name, but because she
had made Emma feel left out. Emma, too, wanted to go to the park and have adventures and laugh at the fat, gray Lord Redkin on his hobby elephant.

After that first time, she stopped asking about their drives. She didn’t have to ask, of course, for Lavinia made a point of searching her out. Vinnie noticed nothing amiss, even when she found Emma in the draughty wine basement sitting on a barrel
reading Sir Walter Scott. No, she simply located an empty barrel of her own, pulled it close to her sister’s and began telling anecdotes. The next day Emma went out shopping and didn’t return until it was time to dress for dinner.

Emma realized she was experiencing something more than irritation when Lavinia’s endless “Trents” became a trickle then a deluge of “Alexes.” She wondered then if
Miss Harlow had given way to Lavinia or even Vinnie. The idea was insupportable—that Lavinia should be Vinnie when she herself had never been anything but Miss Harlow.

This jealousy was an unexpected development and one she intended to ignore. She tried very hard to cling to the happiness she saw on her sister’s face and chastised herself constantly for her pettiness. It was not, she convinced
herself, that she wanted Trent for herself but rather Lavinia’s happiness. She wanted to sparkle and sigh and moon over a handsome face. Why she wanted it all of a sudden, Emma couldn’t fathom, but she was sure that it would pass as quickly as it came. Every night she went to bed determined to feel differently in the morning. She never did wake up recovered. Indeed, some mornings she didn’t wake
up at all, lying in bed for hours trying to figure out exactly what her problem was.

On the tenth such morning, she was almost ready to call the whole thing off. Because the hour was so late, she ate breakfast alone, which was good. She needed peace and quiet to decide what the best course of action was. Should she make an appointment to see Trent and explain that it was time to end the charade?
He would no doubt be relieved. But what if he wasn’t? What if her plan had actually worked? What if he was besotted? What if he actually wanted to marry Lavinia? The thought made an already tired Miss Harlow feel somehow more exhausted. Trent as a brother-in-law. Handsome, charming Trent. She didn’t think she could bear it. Not because she wanted him for herself, of course, but he would be too
much of a handful for Lavinia. Yes, why hadn’t she seen it before? He was a libertine, wasn’t he? How could she stand idly by and let her sister marry a self-proclaimed libertine? There were those broaches at the Savoy to consider and the dancer in Chelsea. Was it better that she marry that pinched-faced ball of wind? She was debating precisely that point when the pinched-faced ball of wind himself
entered the dining room. Emma cursed his return from the country. It had been a very nice two weeks without his stodgy presence.

“Ah, Lavinia, I am glad to have found you at home,” he said, taking the seat at the head of the table. That he always took the seat at the head of the table whenever Roger was not there was just another thing he did that annoyed her. “I feared you might be out gallivanting
with the Duke of Trent.” He laughed in his high nasal way. “No, really, my dear, I make no jest. I had been told by certain members of the
ton
that you have been passing the time with him in my absence. By certain members of the
ton,
I mean acquaintances who take great pleasure in running to me with tales of your indiscretions. Though these acquaintances sound like enemies, they are the ones we
need to cultivate if I am to have a career in politics.” Here he talked for fifteen minutes about the exact sort of career he saw for himself. Emma watched him unblinkingly, like an owl. “Just as I always say, politics is all-consuming, which is why I am so glad that you gave up writing this horticultural book of yours. If people are going to talk about you at all, it should be about how well you
serve me, not your hobby. Burning those pages was the best thing I’ve ever done. The wife of a member of Parliament should not have a career as an authoress.” Again the horrid high-pitched nasal laugh. “Damn me, what am I saying? No wife should have a career as an authoress. Or any career at all.”