Those Endearing Young Charms (3 page)

In a stately way, he welcomed the earl to The Elms, and in a cold, businesslike way, the earl rapped out instructions as to the housing of his servants, the care of his baggage, and the grooming of his horses.

Parsons expanded under these curt instructions. This was just the sort of behavior he expected from one of the quality, and since he was fond of his master and mistress, the butler was gleefully looking forward to seeing this high and mighty lord snubbing the local gentry in the same way as Mr. and Mrs.

Anstey had been snubbed.

As Parsons was bowing himself out -- backward, as if retreating from the presence of royalty --

Emily said, "Oh, do send someone over to Sir James's, Parsons, and tell my parents that my lord is arrived."

When Parsons had left, Emily sat down gingerly on the edge of a chair and surveyed her future brother-in-law with some trepidation.

Embarrassed into saying the first thing that came into her head, she blurted out, "You are not as I remember you."

He poured himself a glass of wine and said over his shoulder, "You will take wine with me?" He poured a glass for Emily without waiting for her reply.

"You are not as I remember you, either, Miss Emily," he said, turning and handing her a brimming glass. "You are remarkably like your sister. That is what deceived me. I did not know it was you until I saw the color of your hair. It was always golden."

"Mary is still the same," said Emily. She took a great gulp of wine, choked slightly, and rubbed her nose, hoping she would not sneeze. "People often think we are twins."

"I am glad time has stood still for Miss Anstey," said the earl coldly. A bitter look crossed his face. "I cannot say the same for myself."

"No," said Emily naively, "now, you look like an earl."

"Indeed? The few earls of my acquaintance are portly and elderly. I did not know an earl looked like anything in particular."

"Well, you know, my ... my lord..."

"You may call me Peregrine."

"Thank you. I mean you look so cold and haughty," said Emily earnestly. "Just like a character in a book I'm reading."

"Which book?"

_"The Travels of Lord Sapphire."_

"And I look like this Lord Sapphire?"

"No, my ... Peregrine. But there is this marvelous villain called the Earl of Perrengo, and he is most harsh and wicked. The heroine, the Lady Bianca, repulses his advances, but he is very lustful, you see,"

went on Emily, so enthralled in the story that she quite forgot the earl was in the room. "Lord Sapphire is quiet and noble. Of course, he is not a lord at the beginning of the book, for his wicked nurse put her daughter's baby in the cradle and sent _him_ out to be brought up by lowly woodcutters. He rescues Bianca just as the earl is carrying her off to his castle in the mountains."

"Does he throw her over his saddlebow?"

"Yes!" said Emily, delighted and surprised. "How _did_ you guess?"

"Oh, I do it all the time."

"It was a monstrous exciting story," said Emily, clasping her hands in her lap. "Lord Sapphire was so good and noble, and Mary said he was a splendid sort of man, but I rather thought the villain the more exciting. You see..."

"I have never heard such a farrago of nonsense in all my life," said the earl.

"How sad. I suppose you are one of those people who think novels wicked and only read improving books."

"Exactly."

Emily took another gulp of her wine. If only Mary would come home!

After a long silence, Emily ventured, "You know, since you find the tone of my conversation too low, it might be civil of you to suggest a topic."

"Perhaps," he said moodily. He turned and kicked a log in the fire with one Hessian-booted foot.

Unfortunately, the log contained a great amount of hot resin; the resin stuck to his boot and the boot caught fire.

"Get your boot off! Get your boot off!" screamed Emily.

"I _am_ getting it off," he said testily. "No, don't..."

But he was too late.

Emily had snatched up the decanter of brandy and poured it over his smoking boot, which burst into blue and yellow flames.

"Idiot!" howled the earl.

He raced out of the room, out of the hall, out of the house, with Emily hard at his heels.

"Please return to the house, Emily," the earl said crossly, as he stood with one foot steaming in a puddle on the lawn. "It has started to rain."

"I didn't know brandy burned!" wailed Emily, wringing her hands. "I shall never drink it. Never! Only think of the damage to one's internal being."

"I really don't think the damage is at all the same," said the earl, limping back toward the house,

"unless you drink a glass of brandy and throw a lucifer down after it."

He sat in a chair in the hall and ruefully examined the charred remains of his boot. "Another pair of boots, John," he said without raising his voice.

"Very good, my lord," came a voice from the landing above, and Emily started.

"My Swiss," explained the earl. "He is invaluable. Always somewhere on hand."

"I am truly sorry about your boot," said Emily earnestly.

He watched her expressive little face with some interest. A deep and dark thought had obviously just struck her.

"Perhaps God was punishing you because you were so haughty about my taste in novels," said Emily slowly. "Pride cometh before a fall, and a haughty heart ... How does it go?"

"My dear child, if you are going to go about seeing the hand of the Almighty in every trivial domestic accident, you will end up in Bedlam. You are not a Methodist, I trust?"

"Oh, no, my ... Peregrine. We were Nonconformist, Papa says, but Mama said it was not a genteel religion. I should not have told you that," added Emily miserably. "I feel a great weight on me at the moment, you see, what with you kissing me because you thought I was Mary and no one else being here."

"You will not be alone much longer," remarked the earl. "I hear a carriage arriving."

His servant put a new pair of glossy Hessians on the earl's feet.

"It is wonderful that your foot was not burned," said Emily, hoping to put him in a good mood so that Mary would not receive too much of a shock.

But the earl had risen to his feet and was watching the doorway. There was an intensity about him, a stillness, a waiting. Emily felt an odd little pang of envy and wondered if any man would ever wait for her in such a way.

The door opened; Parsons materialized to take cloaks and hats. Mr. and Mrs. Anstey came rushing forward, babbling welcomes, my lords, and apologies.

The earl hardly seemed to hear them. He was looking across their heads to where Mary stood, just inside the door. Mary's eyes had lit up in welcome, but gradually the glow left her face and she looked wary and frightened.

Then the earl turned slowly and looked at Emily, a little crease between his brows.

"If only he would kiss her as he kissed me," thought Emily. "If only he would say _Mary_ with that special husky note in his voice."

But the earl walked forward and formally raised Mary's hand to his lips.

"I am glad to see you, Mary," he said. "It has been a long time."

"Very long," whispered Mary.

Mary raised her eyes, and Emily, who knew her so well, read the unspoken words in her wide, frightened gaze. _Too long._

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*Chapter Three*

Two days had passed since the arrival of the earl. Emily did not know what Mary was really thinking about. There seemed no time now to sit and chat. The house was in an uproar, with guests beginning to arrive, caterers discussing catering, musicians discussing music, and Mr. Parsons hiring extra staff.

The weather was cold and clear. Two large marquees were to be erected on the lawn at the back of the house, one for dancing and the other for food.

It came to be known that the Earl of Devenham was not pleased that accommodation had not been arranged for relatives from his side of the family. Mr. Anstey had naively thought that since the earl's parents were dead, it followed that he did not have any relatives at all.

The local inn had to be taken over and rooms found in various private houses for the other remaining guests. Society was quite prepared to house the earl's relatives. No one really wanted the Anstey relatives, whom they damned as being either pushing and vulgar or faded and vulgar.

Emily knew that the day after his arrival, the earl had taken Mary out for a drive. When they had returned, Mary had looked quiet and resigned, and the earl more taciturn than ever. One thing was certain. They were no longer in love.

But there was no sign of either of them calling off the wedding, thought Emily miserably. Mary seemed determined to put a brave front on things and kept saying in her quiet way that she was very happy.

Emily twisted one golden curl nervously around one finger and looked out of the drawing room window to where Mary could be seen hurrying down the drive.

She is going to the church, thought Emily. I do hope she does not find our poor Mr. Cummings is in love with her. It would be just too much to bear. Mary is too sweet, too retiring, for such a cold autocrat as Devenham. If only there were something I could _do_!

Suddenly it all seemed very silly to Emily that two people should get married just because they felt they had to. Mary was a dutiful girl, but surely the earl could be appealed to. He possessed a great fortune. It should be easy for him to find a bride.

Emily decided to try to speak to him before her courage failed her.

She knew he had gone to The Green Man, the inn in Malden Grand, to meet his friend, Arthur Chester, who was to be bridesman. She would slip out of the house and ride into the village. If Mama caught her, she could say she had to buy ribbons for her gown.

Emily took a great deal of time over her appearance, putting her unusual concern over the niceties of her dress down to nerves. At last, attired in a fashionable riding habit of bright green cloth, ornamented down the front and on the cuffs with black braid a _la Militaire,_ a small riding hat of black beaver trimmed with a gold cordon and tassels, and a long green ostrich feather and black half-boots, laced and fringed with green, Emily rode off on her little gray mare, Sylvia.

For a little of the way, she simply enjoyed the ride; she had been pent up in the house for an unconscionable period of time because of the long days of rain.

It was only as she was approaching the inn that Emily's courage began to desert her. Papa would learn she had ridden out without a groom and would give her a lecture, and God forbid he should find out the nature of her visit. What if Lord Devenham had told him! Somehow, Emily could never think of the austere earl as Peregrine.

But the thought of Mary's sad, sweet, resigned face drove her on.

* * * *

As Emily went in search of the landlord, one lady who appeared to be all nose and glaring eyes said in a loud voice to her companion, "Well, if dear Peregrine is set on tying himself down to a family of counterjumpers, there is nothing we can do."

The landlord informed Miss Emily Anstey that the Earl of Devenham was abovestairs in Mr.

Chester's private parlor. He would ask my lord to descend to the coffee room.

Heart beating hard, Emily selected a quiet and dark corner and sat waiting, pressing her knees together to try to stop their trembling.

When the earl entered the room, stooping to pass through the low doorway, Emily's courage nearly deserted her. His face wore a closed and shuttered look as he approached her. He looked not in the least pleased to see her.

"I had hoped it was my fiancee," he said abruptly. "Is anything the matter?"

"No, Devenham," said Emily, deciding Devenham was a compromise between Peregrine and my lord.

"Then it was you who were overcome by an irresistable desire to see me?"

"No, Devenham."

"Well, Miss Emily, and what is you pleasure?"

The drawled words held a mocking note.

Emily raised her eyes to his and took a deep breath. "I have come," she said, "to talk to you about your forthcoming marriage."

"Odso! And...?

"And after careful observation, I have decided that Mary and you are not in love with each other."

"Mary has told you this?"

"Oh, no. Mary would not dream ... Mary is so dutiful...."

"Miss Emily," said the earl coldly, "I suggest you return home before I put you over my knee and smack you. Your sister is a woman of mature years and knows her mind. When a lady has waited faithfully for me for ten whole years, then it is my duty to marry her. Duty is a higher virtue than love. I suggest you keep you maudlin thoughts for those romances you read."

Emily flushed. She felt very young and silly.

"I am sorry," she whispered. "I love Mary and do not wish her to be unhappy." Emily hung her head.

He put out a long finger and tilted her chin up, noticing the glint of tears in her brown eyes.

"You are a mere child," he said in a gentle voice, "and yet a child with a tremendous power to make me angry. Get home with you, Miss Emily."

She stared into his eyes, seeing something there she did not understand, wondering what it was. His gaze seemed twined and joined with hers like the poet's thread. Color came into her face and her bosom rose and fell as she felt her breathing become restricted.

He released her chin, stood up, and, without another word, turned and stalked out of the coffee room.

Emily sat for a long time in silence. Never before had she felt so young and immature. In her humiliation, she began to think she had read signs of unhappiness into Mary's demeanor that did not really exist.

With a little sigh that was half a sob, she got to her feet. She felt as if she had left a very dashing and mondaine Miss Emily Anstey behind. It was a chastened schoolgirl who mounted her horse and rode away.