What a Lady Requires (5 page)

In spite of herself, Emma glanced toward the center of the room, not that she could see well enough to distinguish such a sight. “You mean he’s run through the current crop of young misses?”

“Until a few new ones make their bow.”

One of Miss Marshall’s friends giggled. “Do you know he pinched my bottom the first time he asked me to dance? I mysteriously found myself otherwise engaged on every occasion after that.”

“Lord knows he’d have a hard time missing Lady Wexford’s bottom.” This from Uriana’s latest dance partner. The statement drew a scowl from Aunt Augusta, but she didn’t dare censure someone who wasn’t under her direct control, especially not the heir to a marquessate.

In a gesture of practiced casualness, Miss Marshall drew a finger through a loose blond curl. “You always did have cheek to spare.”

“But not as much as Lady Wexford.” Lord Allerdale tossed her a grin before turning to Emma. “Ah, Miss Jennings.” He leaned over her gloved hand. “A pleasant evening, is it not?”

Emma smiled and nodded while inwardly hoping an invitation to dance wasn’t imminent. With or without her spectacles, she could not guarantee the safety of her partner’s feet.

A footman bearing a tray of drinks pushed past. Lord Allerdale commandeered two glasses of a suspect yellowish liquid. Lemonade, no doubt, flavored with orgeat. He offered one to Emma.

She bowed her head politely. “No, thank you.”

In her place, Miss Marshall reached for the proffered glass. The white of her ball gown nearly matched her pale skin and blond hair. “I suppose this isn’t up to your standards.”

“You mean it isn’t French enough,” put in the giggly friend.

“What could you possibly mean by that?” Emma knew quite well it wouldn’t be anything good, but how far would Miss Marshall go in front of a young man she might well wish to impress?

Miss Marshall raised her glass in a mock toast and took a sip of her lemonade. “My papa says a proper Englishman drinks port.”

Proper Englishmen often drank swill while offering watered-down versions to their women, but Emma could hardly point that out. “What of Madeira?”

“I suppose that would pass, but why anyone would wish to encourage the enemy…”

“Enemy?” Allerdale nearly spit out his drink. “Good Lord, the war’s been over for nearly seven years. Surely we can enjoy French wine.”

Emma eyed her. “And naturally your modiste isn’t French.”

Miss Marshall sniffed. “That’s not the same thing, as Madame Godefroy no longer lives there.”

And if Madame Godefroy’s accent was authentic—if her name, in fact, wasn’t actually Godfrey—Emma would down that glass of lemonade in one draught and ask for another.

Uriana leaned close so she could speak behind the cover of her fan. “You could have taken the lemonade and pretended to like it.”

Emma could have and thus avoided a few unpleasant comments, but she was weary of pretending with these people. No matter how hard she tried, someone found fault somewhere.

She drifted away from the giggling females, taking the occasional step until she’d placed some distance between herself and the others. Once she was far enough removed, she turned and headed for the corridor. Perhaps she’d have better luck in the card room. Not that she wished to wager, but she could observe, and at the same time hope for some serious conversation.

A group of gentlemen had gathered in the corridor, deep in conversation. If Emma could make out someone she knew, she might insinuate herself into the group. At other soirees, a handful of
ton
gentlemen had appreciated her wine recommendations. In exchange, she’d heard about the occasional financial scheme, information she’d used to Papa’s benefit.

A surreptitious squint and Lord Highgate with his scarred face, along with the Marquess of Enfield materialized out of the mist. Older, titled landowners, all of them. Yes. Here she might learn something to her advantage, or at least to her intended’s.

Sparks hovered on the outskirts. Excellent. On Emma’s approach, he nodded, but she cut off a greeting. “Don’t interrupt the conversation for niceties,” she said quietly. “I’m sure I’ll find the discussion fascinating.”

“That you shall. I know I always do, even if I don’t understand the half of it.” Sparks leaned closer to whisper behind his hand. “But I’d wager you will. Something about an investment opportunity in Leeds or Manchester or someplace up north.”

“How interesting. Who is backing?”

Sparks shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Perhaps you’ll explain it to me later.”

An unaccountable blush ran up her cheeks. Besides her father, so many men were all too willing to write off her intelligence over such a small thing as her gender. “Why, thank you.”

“Your papa speaks very highly of you, you know. He has every confidence you can make something of my brother.”

She dipped her head in acknowledgment. “I don’t know what to say.” And she didn’t. A discomfiting sensation prickled through her at the reminder of her upcoming nuptials. Part of her wished she were marrying Sparks. She might have managed a comfortable friendship with him, if nothing else. He carried nothing in his nature that roused feelings of contrariness. Unlike his brother.

But she really needed to stop musing and lend an ear to the conversation if she wanted to discover anything useful. The discussion revolved around mills, as she might have surmised the moment Sparks mentioned Leeds, but what really made her ears prick was mention of a cheaper method of transport between Liverpool and Manchester.

“A railway.” Lord Anstruther made a dismissive gesture. “I tell you, it will never work. And why should we put good money into steel and steam when we’ve got perfectly good canals already in place?”

A railway would deliver raw materials faster. It would lead to increased production.
But Emma didn’t get a chance to voice her objection.

“So here’s where you’ve been hiding yourself,” a newcomer interrupted. “Very effective, but I’m on to you.”

Emma looked to her left. “Mr. Crawley. You nearly gave me a fright.”

“Your pardon. I was hoping for a dance, nothing more.”

“Do forgive me, but I’m certain my cousin would be delighted to dance with you.” Emma cast about for a sighting of the sea-foam green smudge, but none was in the offing. Her cousin was most likely still in the ballroom, in any case.

“Dash it, and I was hoping for the opportunity for an uninterrupted conversation with you.”

Good heavens, this could not be happening. Or rather, it could. A great many who claimed the title gentleman had tried to get her alone. Compromising her would be an easy avenue to a fortune, but most of her would-be suitors went about the business rather more subtly.

She graced him with her frostiest smile. “I’m certain we have nothing to discuss of such a private nature that you cannot do so before others.”

“If you’d only consent to dance with me, you might hear something to your advantage.”

“I believe the lady is otherwise engaged.” That voice. The last time she’d heard it, an overabundance of spirits had slurred it. Not so tonight. Tonight, it was low and hard as granite.

Mr. Crawley retreated a pace. “Battencliffe,” he said cautiously. “I didn’t expect you to attend tonight’s entertainment.”

“I thought it best to put in an appearance.” Battencliffe stepped into her field of vision at last, his body forming a wall between her and the others. A perfectly tailored evening coat of black superfine highlighted the line of his shoulders and offset his golden good looks. “I owe my intended a waltz, at any rate.”

“Intended.”

“Yes. Only yesterday, Miss Jennings accepted my offer.” He turned to her, his lips easing into a brief smile, as if he truly were pleased to see her. But it was only an act. Some other, hotter emotion blazed behind his eyes. “Miss Jennings. I do hope you got my flowers.”

“Y-yes. How thoughtful of you.” She’d meant to chastise him for the extravagance at the earliest possible opportunity, but she could hardly do so in front of their current audience. More than that, she no longer wished to. Not when she’d rarely been on the receiving end of such masculine flattery. Just what sort of power did this man wield that he could make her want to set all practicality aside?

And then there was his demeanor to consider. His entire bearing, from the set of his jaw to the tension around his shoulders, proclaimed his possessiveness
.
To her utter shock and confusion, that realization did not arouse outrage, and it should have. This man, by his very presence, awakened something inside her—something uniquely feminine that she’d never known existed, that made her long for the innate skills the other ladies seemed to command without thought. But Miss Conklin had always bemoaned her inability to instill in Emma the proper coy smile and flirtatious sway to her shoulders.

He bent over her hand, long fingers capturing her wrist, and rather than kissing the air above her glove, he pressed his lips directly to the fine kidskin. The action, along with his proprietary expression, turned her knees to jelly.

Sliding his grip to her hand, he turned to face Crawley. “If you’ll excuse us.”

She waited until they’d claimed a spot on the dance floor before addressing her betrothed. “I ought to warn you, I’m not much for dancing.”

“Just smile and follow my lead.” He stared at a point past her, his expression pleasant, as though he wanted to be nowhere else but holding Emma Jennings in a near-embrace. “Waltzing is like everything else in society—a display.”

He kept her at a perfectly respectable distance, yet the hold somehow felt intimate, as if she were pressed up against the length of his body. Before she could reply, she had to find her voice. “Like the one you put on for Mr. Crawley just now?”

His fingers tightened on her waist for a moment, the touch all too fleeting. “That was naught but a reminder. One you’d best keep in mind, as well.”

Before she could demand an explanation for that cryptic remark, he sailed into a turn, guiding her expertly between the other couples. She nearly stumbled over her feet in an attempt to keep up. Gritting her teeth beneath her smile, she forced herself to concentrate on the rhythm.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

Once again, those fingers burned like brands against her waist. “Let yourself go. Don’t think where to put your feet. Just dance.”

How enticing he made that sound. Never in her life had Emma been tempted to act like one of the empty-headed young ladies who seemed to abound at these balls, but that appeared to be just what he was proposing. And somehow, amid all the circling and changes of directions, she felt as if she was halfway to a place where she didn’t need to think.

Where she only had to feel, his arms her sole anchor. Where she only had to sense. With every sweeping change of direction, her head felt as if it were floating a little bit more. Somehow his body communicated with hers, each tiny contraction of his muscles a signal to her to follow.

Oh, yes, he was truly leading her now. She could only pray the end of the journey wouldn’t find her lost in some form of perdition.

The wedding came upon Emma all too soon. One day, it seemed, her aunt was badgering her about a trousseau, and the next Emma was standing in the drawing room reciting vows in front of a parson. The ceremony passed in a whirl, not unlike the waltz she had shared with Battencliffe. How little time was required to attach her life irrevocably to another.

She stared at the champagne in her hand, alive with bubbles. Papa had insisted on celebrating her nuptials with the best. Fueled by the drink, his laughter echoed throughout the sitting room as he chatted with her new husband and brother-in-law.

Emma imagined she knew just what those bubbles felt like in their wild swirl, buffeting one another, careening this way and that. Since the Pendleton ball, the light-headed feeling she’d experienced in her then-betrothed’s arms had remained her constant companion. It still was—and she hadn’t taken so much as a sip. Not even when Papa toasted to her future with Mr. Battencliffe.

Uriana eased over to Emma’s side. Her cousin cast a wild glance over her shoulder before leaning in. “Mama says he’ll hurt you dreadfully tonight,” she whispered, jerking her head in Battencliffe’s direction.

“How thoughtful of her to point that out.” How thoughtful to ensure her daughter would carry the tale to Emma—as if Emma’s personal misgivings weren’t sufficient to set her stomach on edge.

Uriana tsked. “You know what Miss Conklin used to say about sarcasm.”

Emma fought an urge to roll her eyes—which was just as unladylike and liable to lead to more reminders of the rules. She was quite happy to obey rules, as long as they made sense. Unfortunately, none of Miss Conklin’s dictates obeyed anything resembling logic.

Before Emma could come up with an adequate response, Uriana leaned close, her brown eyes large in her face. “You’ll tell me, won’t you?”

“Tell you what, exactly?” Although Miss Conklin had never given any explicit proviso on the matter, Emma was sure the topic under discussion was just as forbidden to well-bred young ladies as sarcasm.

“If he’s a gentleman.” Uriana’s voice held a note of urgency, as if her entire worldview hinged on this single point. “He’s so handsome. He just
has
to be a gentleman about…about…well, you know.”

Uriana was blushing now, and soon Emma would be, too, though for an entirely different reason. Her cousin’s naiveté was so exaggerated Emma felt embarrassed. Her more devilish side prodded at her to play the green little miss and claim she didn’t know. Pure curiosity, of course, to see in what terms Uriana would describe what happened between a husband and wife behind closed doors.

But she tamped that part of her nature down so as not to prolong the discussion. The less she thought about the upcoming wedding night, the better. “Do you remember that maid Aunt Augusta had to dismiss?”

Uriana’s brow puckered. “Mary?”

Not that her reply indicated knowledge—Aunt Augusta couldn’t be bothered to learn the maids’ real names. They were all Mary.

“She told me it was a great deal of fun.” Another glance at the figure her husband cut in his wedding clothes—the deep blue superfine of his topcoat set off his golden looks to perfection—inspired a new thought. “I’m not at all certain I want him to be a perfect gentleman.”

Whether or not her statement was the complete truth, it had the desired effect. Uriana’s cheeks went purple, and with a squeak, she scuttled off. Never one to let pass an opportunity, Aunt Augusta had sidled up to Sparks, and she not-so-subtly grabbed her daughter’s arm in passing.

“What do you make of that?”

Emma stifled a gasp. Her husband of all of two hours had managed to steal up on her. And his proximity—he stood close enough that she fancied she could feel heat emanating from his body. His body that would make its demands of her known all too soon.

When she replied, she strove for a breezy tone. “My aunt would never pass up a chance to see her daughter a countess.”

“But she must know the conditions under which we married.”

Emma kept her gaze pinned on the scene across the room. Thank goodness her aunt had overlooked the sin of leaving her spectacles on for the wedding ceremony. Said aunt now waved a hand to emphasize whatever point she was making. Sparks’s expression remained immutable in that mild smile he always wore. If an artist were to paint a portrait and entitle it “Benign,” he’d choose Sparks as his subject. “She does, but she won’t let such a trifle stop her. Not as long as she thinks she can change your brother’s mind.”

“She simply does not know him.” Battencliffe let out a low chuckle. The vibration somehow burrowed deep into her bones, awakening an answering hum in her belly. The sensation was at once pleasant and unsettling. It made her want to shift her weight from one foot to the other and press her hand to the spot. “It takes him so long to make up his mind, there’s no changing it. But what about you?”

The abrupt shift in the conversational direction nearly tore her gaze away from her aunt. “What about me?”

“What does it take to make you change your mind?”

She drew in a lungful of sandalwood-scented air. Him. Her husband. She was taking him into herself. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“You’ve practically set up housekeeping in the corner—just as you did the first time I met you.”

She snapped her attention to him. “Have I? I hadn’t noticed.” The truth, that. But his remark was singularly keen. “I suppose I prefer to observe. People give away clues about themselves when they don’t realize they’re being watched.”

“That they do. Take your aunt as an example.” He nodded toward the woman, and the movement brought him into even closer proximity. “Her expression reminds me of a dog eyeing a meaty bone, but your cousin looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.”

“Aunt Augusta is making a valiant attempt at a sale, but the goods are rather reluctant. As for your brother, I cannot gauge his level of interest. His expression hasn’t changed the entire time.”

“Yes, he’s good at that. He hides behind that mask of his, and people think him slow. I wouldn’t want to sit at the card table with him, though. But come.” He laid his fingertips at the back of her arm, the gesture at once casual and proprietary. How could such a light touch leave her with the impression she’d find four oval burn marks on her skin tonight? “The others are nearly ready to take their leave.”

That statement rushed through her like a sudden icy downpour. “So soon?”

He reached for her forgotten wineglass, and his fingers brushed hers. Long fingers with neatly trimmed nails. Fingers that would have every right to map all the regions of her skin the moment everyone left. “Pity you didn’t try the champagne. It was lovely.”

Before she could respond, he plucked the glass from her hand. For a moment, she expected him to down the measure, but he set it on a side table and offered his elbow.

She stared at it, as the full significance of the pose struck her full in the gut. They were a pair now. Host and hostess in their own home. Social obligation required them to make a round of the room and bid their guests farewell. Not family anymore. Guests. Even her own papa was relegated to that status.

Battencliffe cut her a sharp look. “You needn’t fear me.”

“I don’t.” Not even a lie made out of bravado. He didn’t generate fear so much as a sense of unease—a feeling that all wasn’t quite as it should be—yet the effect wasn’t completely unpleasant. Just strangely disturbing. But when he turned his perfectly chiseled face toward her and commanded her attention, she could not tear herself away.

That was the problem. That was what was amiss. He shouldn’t hold such power over her. Nor should he raise so many questions in her mind. Not when the nature of those inquiries revolved around the texture of his skin, the taste of his lips, or how the solidity of his chest might feel pressed against her.

Later. Later, she would have a chance to discover that for herself, as long as she was bold enough.

Rowan held back as Emma bid a final goodbye to her father. Jennings bent and kissed her cheek before turning and touching his forehead in a form of salute. The movement appeared friendly enough, but the man’s eyes held a warning:
Take care of my daughter.

Even if he was entering this marriage out of strict financial necessity, Rowan intended to take care of his bride. And that started with giving her a proper wedding night. It was the least he could do, after the poor first impression he’d made. That he was looking forward to unwrapping the delectable little package she presented in her wedding attire didn’t hurt. Delicate dotted fabric in ivory skimmed her generous curves, hinting at a body made for a man’s pleasure.

As long as Rowan could set aside his memories of other events in this house, he might manage to get this marriage off to a proper start. He reckoned he could keep her happy in the bedroom, if nowhere else. Provided he could fend off the ghosts of his sins.

But bitter experience had taught him purposes counted for bloody little. At one time and with the best of intentions, he’d entered this very house and royally buggered his life. Destroyed a friendship, destroyed a marriage, all but destroyed himself in the process.

With Emma, he had another chance to do it up properly. At the very least, he could calm her nerves. She might be attempting to put a brave face on things, but the chalky pallor to her complexion gave her away. That and her expression. She looked torn between darting out the door after her father and sagging against the oak plank in hopes of keeping her aunt at bay.

With an attempt at a smile, he stepped toward the brandy decanter. Jennings might be removing to his lodgings over his shop, but at least he’d left the spirits behind. “Can I assume we won’t be entertaining your aunt and cousin on a regular basis?”

With her eyes, she followed the movement of his hands as he poured himself a drink. “Not if I can help it.”

He held up his tumbler. “Would you like something? Perhaps not brandy, but we might ring for sherry.”

“I don’t plan on drinking our entire housing budget, and I don’t advise you to do so, either.”

So that was the start she’d make to their married life—frosty and safe and stiff. “Do you think we might leave the finances out of it until tomorrow? It is our wedding day, and I hardly think I can drink my way through a quarter’s profits in a single evening.”

She looked away. “That all depends on how much profit you’re pulling in.”

“In that case, cheers!” He raised his glass to her and downed its contents. “Please sit,” he added after several moments. Good Lord, but he’d never met a more tightly wound female. “I’m not going to attack you.”

In fact, if she didn’t thaw at least a little, he couldn’t imagine conducting a proper seduction. And wouldn’t that be a horrible joke? He was used to ladies who approached him with knowing smiles and easy laughter. Through their loose posture and ready touches, they let him know they were ripe for the picking, if he should so choose. The appreciative manner in which they took in his frame signaled his acceptance in their beds.

Married, to the last. He refused to have any part in their faithlessness. At least his wife came from a different social class. From all appearances, her dealings with polite society hadn’t corrupted her in the slightest. How ironic that duty now required him to attract the least enthusiastic woman he’d ever encountered.

Without a word, Emma obeyed, settling herself on a straight-backed chair and arranging her silk skirts about her. For all her talk of respecting a budget, her gown looked costly enough. He recognized the expert workmanship that allowed the expensive fabric to drape over her impressive bosom and show it to its best advantage. She’d spared herself no expense, so she could damned well allow him a luxury or two.

He cleared his throat and put those thoughts aside. If he wished to get anywhere with her, he needed to set her at ease. “I thought it might be worth getting to know each other better.”

She turned her head to the side, studying him from the corner of her eye. Sizing him up. Gauging his interest. Looking for the snag in the deal he was about to offer. “How do you propose we do that?”

He eased himself into the settee opposite her, stretching his legs until his position was as relaxed as hers was stiff. “The same way anybody does it. We talk. Tell me about yourself. What do you enjoy doing to pass the time?”

“I…I…” Was that a blush? Good Lord, was she about to surprise him with some secret confession?

“Be honest now. I can’t imagine you concern yourself with the typical feminine frivolities. You can tell me you enjoy riding down matrons in a phaeton and I will not judge you.”

“I do the books.”

Good Lord. His disappointment with that statement made him regret finishing his drink so quickly. He could have used the burn of brandy to warm himself up. “I see, but what do you do for pleasure?”

He deliberately drew out the last word. Any society lady would have taken up the flirtation.

Not Emma. She merely blinked. “I just told you. I do the books.”

“And you take pleasure in that?”

She leaned forward, and her expression lightened. “There is nothing better than creating order from chaos, than taking columns of disparate figures and making sense of them, of working at the numbers until they balance and everything is neat and tidy, arranged all in rows.”

Good God, she was serious. Her spectacles magnified her eyes, emphasizing their purplish spark. He studied the line of her neck, elongated like the very column of figures she was waxing poetic over. She wore her chestnut tresses high and twisted into a tight plaited knot minus the loose curls most women left at the sides to soften the effect. Neat and tidy, indeed. Not a single hair out of alignment.

Even so, he searched for the pins that secured her coiffure, his fingers itching to pull a few. And what would she do if he taught her how passion could undo a woman? Leave her stripped bare, in a tangle of sheets, gasping and begging for more. Yes, physical love was a very messy thing, indeed.

The thought stretched his lips into a grin, one he’d used in the past to win ladies’ affections. He’d been told it held the perfect hint of wickedness. “Do you mean to imply you’d never allow yourself to become disheveled? We must work on that. It would be a pity to neglect that aspect of your education.”