Outwitting the Duke Page 6

  Emily glanced back. The women were deep in childhood memories. She slipped out. Approaching, she peered over his shoulder at the book he held.

  “The Lady of the Lake,” she said. “I did enjoy that one. Made me long to visit Loch Katrine.”

  The boy started. “Who are you?” he barked over his shoulder. Then he turned back. “Never mind. Just go away.”

  She noted that one of his arms lay close to his side and the hand and fingers were scarred and twisted.

  “Not in the mood for company?” she asked cheerily.

  “No.”

  “Are you ever?”

  “No!” he barked.

  “Is it a temporary condition, then?”

  His head whipped around. “Is what a temporary condition?”

  “Your bad temper.”

  His mouth worked, but it was clear he had no idea how to answer—and every desire to lash out in an even more ill-tempered fashion.

  “Don’t waste your time,” she advised. “I’m practically immune to the rudeness of young men. I’ve one about your age at home.”

  “Who are you?” he bit through gritted teeth.

  “Do you really wish to know this time?”

  “I really wish to know,” he affirmed. “So that I know who I may correctly call the most annoying girl of my acquaintance.”

  “Bravo—that set-down was well done. But I’ve hardly reached annoying yet.” Crouching down beside him she looked pointedly at his arm. “How did it happen?”

  “Don’t you know?” He looked surprised.

  “How should I? We haven’t even met.”

  “Are you not one of them?” He nodded toward the house. “One of the ton?”

  “Goodness, no!” She laughed. “I’m . . . American.”

  “Truly?’ He sat straighter. “Which part?”

  “Boston.”

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Too civilized for Red Indians, I suppose.”

  “I know a thing or two about them,” Emily hedged.

  “Like what?”

  “Their skin is not really red, for one. And they dress in buckskins and wear feathers in their hair.” She’d heard as much and more from Jasper.

  “How I’d like to travel and see them for myself.” He sounded despondent.

  “It won’t be long before you are old enough,” she said placatingly.

  He glared at her. “Are you blind? Or mad?”

  “Neither,” she said with a shrug. “Nor are you, from what I can tell.”

  “I’m crippled,” he spat. Struggling, he lifted his arm. “Look at this thing. It is crooked, withered, useless since the accident.”

  “Are your feet compromised as well?” she said, suddenly stricken.

  “No.” He frowned.

  “Your legs?”

  “No.”

  Emily frowned back at him, thinking. “Were you cack-handed, then?”

  “Was I . . . what?”

  “Oh, pardon. It’s what my Scottish . . . neighbor . . . used to say. Was your left hand dominant—before?”

  “No.”

  Exasperation surged. She let him see it, as she suspected he’d been coddled much of late. “Then why not go to Boston? You don’t need that arm to walk aboard a ship.”

  “I can’t swim.” Anger surged red in his face.

  “It’s not required,” she said cheekily. “Your ticket covers the whole trip across the Atlantic.”

  “Why are you talking to me this way?” he asked in a sudden whisper.

  “In what way? As if you’ve a brain and three limbs left?”

  “How dare you!” He stood. “I am the heir to the Marquess of Feltham.”

  “And I am merely Miss Emily Latham, but I know it is absurd to sit here and brood over the things you cannot do rather than be thankful for those you can.”

  “I can’t bowl or bat,” he said plaintively. “I was a rollicking good bowler.”

  “Ah.” Emily was all sympathy now. “That is a blow.” She frowned. “Move your fingers,” she said, pointing.

  He stared, but wiggled the fingers on his bad hand.

  “Can you grip?”

  “Barely.”

  “Well, then!” she said triumphantly. “Strengthen those muscles and you’ll likely ride again. And in the meantime you can write and draw—even fence.”

  “Fence?” He brightened.

  “Well, they only use one hand to hold a foil, do they not?”

  He blinked. “I hadn’t thought of fencing. The balance . . .” his voice trailed off.

  “Can be adjusted for, I’d wager. Give it a try?” A pile of gnarled branches lay next to an apple tree. She took up two and handed him one—and then brandished hers. “Have at me,” she said on a laugh.

  He stared at her and the branch in his good hand for a moment, then slowly smiled. Standing, he thrust it at her. “En garde,” he said.

  She laughed and smacked his branch with her own . . . and they were off.

  Chapter 5

  His plan was working perfectly. The rumors of Hart’s betrothal flew through the ton—and everyone’s attention shifted toward his unknown fiancé. Disappointed debutantes abandoned him and concentrated on catching a glimpse of her. Instead of spying out Parliamentary schedules, they stalked the shops of Bond Street, left cards and delivered invitations to Herrington House.

  Hart was left to his committees, the business of the earldom and his agricultural interests—exactly the way he’d wanted.

  Why then, did he feel this vague dissatisfaction? Why did his brain constantly wander off topic to wonder how she was adjusting, who she was meeting, what she was wearing? Why was his head not filled with plans for abundant fields instead of images of abundant curves?

  He didn’t know, any more than he knew why his feet were carrying him towards Herrington House this afternoon instead of toward his club where he could search out his friend Peter Grant so he could find out what he’d missed at that lecture the other day.

  And yet, here he was, arriving at his own doorstep and being informed that his mother was not at home just as if he was a visitor and not the Earl.

  “I’m here to fetch some papers from the study, Bridges,” he said testily. “Get out of the way.”

  He pushed past and took his time finding just what he didn’t really need in the first place, but after thirty minutes his mother and Emily had still not returned. Sighing, he gathered up some papers.

  “Tell Mother I called,” he began to tell Bridges, then stopped. “On second thought, where did they venture off to this afternoon?”

  “The countess has asked me not to share her schedule, my lord.”

  “She didn’t mean with me, man!” Hart exclaimed.

  The butler raised a brow.

  “Who do you think pays your salary, in any case?”

  The man’s hesitation evaporated. “She’s at her sister’s, Lady Feltham’s.”

  “Thank you,” Hart said with a good dose of sarcasm, as Bridges opened the door. “I’ve been meaning to head over to see young James, in any case.”

  He stopped suddenly, as a trio of ladies stood waiting on the stoop.

  “Oh, forgive me. Mrs. Paxton, is it not?”

  “Indeed.” The older lady curtsied. “How kind of you to remember. And this is my daughter, Miss Paxton.”

  “Miss Paxton,” he inclined his head. The other girl was dressed in a more plain fashion and not introduced, so he assumed she must be a maid. “So sorry, ladies, but my mother is not at home and I am on my way out.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Miss Paxton cast him a questioning look. “And are we to offer you felicitations on your engagement, sir? The rumors say as much.”

  “Ah, yes.” It felt different to tell the lie himself. “Well, there’s been no announcement yet, but yes.” He pushed past. “If you’ll excuse me? Good day.”

  They exchanged glances. “Good day, my lord.”

  Almost before he knew it, he found himself bein
g welcomed into his aunt’s parlor. His mother was there, and another lady, but there was no sign of Emily. He sat, allowed tea to be pressed upon him, but before he could ask after her whereabouts, the door opened again and the Paxtons entered.

  Had they followed him? He suppressed a surge of annoyance.

  “Oh, how funny to find you again so soon, my lord!” The elder Paxton told the whopper without a flinch.

  Another flurry of introductions and Mrs. Paxton joined the ladies while her daughter wandered toward the window.

  Finally, Hart had the chance to lean in towards his mother. “Where is Emily? Are you not taking her about with you?”

  “Of course!” His mother glanced around. “She is here, somewhere . . .”

  “Emily?” his aunt asked. “I thought I saw her step onto the terrace.”

  “I believe this must be her.” Miss Paxton sounded like she was biting back laughter—and not the friendly kind. “Out in the garden.”

  Hart rose to join her—and swallowed a groan. His faux fiancé was indeed out in the garden, sparring with his young cousin with a set of sticks.

  “Perhaps social calls are conducted differently in America,” Miss Paxton said snidely. “I did hear that she comes from the colonies?”

  “What is it?” his aunt called.

  “It is Emily—she’s . . . getting to know James,” he replied.

  “Oh, dear.” His aunt rose to join them. “James is quite ill-tempered just now and doesn’t want company.”

  “Well, you did say that your betrothal was not official, my lord,” said Miss Paxton. “You can perhaps take comfort in the fact that it has not been announced in the papers.”

  Hart shot her a quelling look. “I believe I’ll take comfort in the fact that my betrothed is kind and—”

  A shout sounded from outside.

  “Energetic,” he finished before he opened the door and strode out onto the terrace. The combatants were quite involved in their battle and didn’t notice him, even when he strode out onto the lawn where they fought.

  “If you’ll permit me to cut in,” he began as he came up behind Emily.

  With a gasp, she whirled—and whacked him right in the chest with her stick.

  “Oof!” The shock came from the blow—and from the sight of her. Her eyes flashed with mirth, her skin glowed with health and exertion. She was laughing and happy and beautiful and . . . . so very alive.

  He ignored the snort from Miss Paxton’s direction. “Good afternoon, Emily,” he said with a short bow.

  “My lord,” she curtsied and sparkled up at him.

  “I admit, this isn’t what I expected when I asked that you move quietly through society for the next few weeks.”

  “Ah, well. We so rarely get what we expect in life, my lord.” She laughed. “I daresay it’s a good lesson for you.” She shot a conspirator’s glance at his young cousin. “And James here will not tell tales on me, will you James?”

  Ignoring the boy’s assurances, Hart waved to the growing audience at the windows. “No, but they might.” He knew his own reaction would influence the others, though, and took care to show his good humor. “So if you’ll agree to let me take over the lesson, I’ll show young James a true en garde stance?”

  He shot her a grin, bowed low over her hand, took her stick from her and turned to the boy.

  Emily stared in horror at her audience. Had she committed a social gaffe on her first outing? She held her chin high—and lifted it even higher when she saw that Miss Paxton was in the group at the terrace windows—and she was grinning in gleeful malice.

  Keeping a smile firmly on her face, Emily headed back for the house. She’d tried to help a dejected boy—and might even have succeeded. She hadn’t done anything wrong—and even if she had, she would never admit it in front of that spiteful cat.

  “Well, I’m glad to see your gown has taken no damage,” the countess said thoughtfully as she came in.

  “The modistes in America must be very busy, if this is how the young ladies conduct their social calls.” Miss Paxton did not even wait for an introduction to begin her cutting remarks. Emily shot her a haughty glance even as she waited, breathless on the inside, to see if the girl would recognize her.

  But like everyone else, Miss Paxton saw what she expected. And what she saw was a rival, if her look of disdain was any indication.

  But the marchioness was still staring outside at her son as he faced off against Hart and laughed at something the earl said. She made a strange sound and turned to face them, her hands clasped in front of her and her face oddly red.

  “Oh, you darling girl,” she said on a whisper, and she clasped Emily and pulled her to her bosom. She pushed her away, staring into her face and pulled her close again. “You cannot know how worried I’ve been. Since the accident James has been so distant and dejected. He won’t talk, he barely eats, he won’t try anything for fear of failure. I vow he hasn’t smiled since it happened—and look at him now!” She held Emily by the shoulders. “How did you do it?”

  “I’m afraid I spoke very disparagingly to him,” Emily admitted. “It did the trick, as it often does with boys.”

  “Bless you, a thousand times!”

  The marchioness kissed her—and her fate was sealed.

  Lady Feltham spread the tale far and wide, lauding Emily as a worker of miracles and everyone who had been curious before was on fire to meet her now. They all wished to know the American who had captured Hartford and brought Feltham’s young heir back to life.

  She met scores of people. She and the countess were invited everywhere. She went on calls and to dinners, on walks in the parks and on outings to see the sites. Miss Mary Carmichael became a friend and companion and Emily won over all the smaller Carmichaels by sewing them tiny costumes for the figures in their toy theatre. Her social engagements were reported in the papers, as was her wardrobe. Madame Lalbert’s business doubled.

  Not everything was sunny, though. There were whispered resentments that Hart had chosen his bride from outside of the ton. The girls who started that one were jealous, she felt sure—and she felt sure that Miss Paxton had had a hand in it too. They were convinced that she was not good enough for Hart. They were right, of course, but she’d be damned before she gave them the satisfaction of knowing it.

  She still saw very little of him—and that gave rise to rumors that she was his mother’s pick and that Hart was reluctant to seal the deal.

  Once or twice she did spot the Duke of Danby at a social event, but he didn’t seem to notice her. Only at Lady Atherton’s musicale did she feel that he looked at her for longer than was strictly necessary, but he faded into the crowd and she didn’t see him again, although she suffered through some very questionable musical offerings while she watched for him.

  The very worst news came when Hart arrived to take her for a drive. It started out well. She wore white poplin skirts trimmed in blue, with her blue pelisse—a happy coincidence, since Hart arrived decked in buff and blue. They looked like they belonged together—and the thought sent a flush rising into her cheeks.

  Had she ever noticed how wide his shoulders were? Or how large and competent his hands? He took hers to help her up into his phaeton, and she basked in the lovely heat that rose up her arm and stole into the rest of her. She shivered at the feel of it, at once strange and warmly familiar.

  “How have you been faring?” she asked, anxious to know that she’d done the job he’d hired her for. “How is your work going? Are you accomplishing all that you wished?”

  “Much of it,” he answered as they set off for Hyde Park and the fashionable strut.

  “Have you caught up on the new agricultural developments that will make your estates more profitable?”

  “Some. A couple of committees are hammering out tariff changes that might be advantageous. And there’s a gentleman in Sussex trying to develop a mechanized grain harvester, but it looks to be a ways from being really helpful,” he sighed. “But I
will not bore you with such talk.”

  “I’m not bored at all. Never turn down a chance to learn, that’s what my Papa told me. You never know when it might become useful.”

  “I doubt grain harvesters will ever be of use to you,” he said with a smile.

  “Not so,” she insisted. “Papa was a linen draper—and keeping up with the agricultural news was just one of the things that helped him grow his business into a sizable import firm.”

  “Really?” She’d caught his attention.

  “It’s true. If the sheep in Norwich suffered from dysentery or foot rot, he’d buy worsted before the price could go up. Major storms along the coast of Africa? He’d buy silk.” She shrugged. “He’d turn a tidy profit when others could not afford to renew their stock.”

  “Interesting.”

  “All the world is interesting, Hart.” She flung a hand out to indicate the busy street and the people upon it. “‘It’s a grand, big world,’ he used to tell me. ‘But small too, once you open your eyes to see the connections between us.’”

  “Your father sounds like a smart man.”

  “He was,” she said softly.

  “Something tells me you take after him.”

  The approval in his tone sent a different sort of yearning through her. She tried to tamp it down. Her heart ached a little more each time she saw him, she had to start guarding it before she did something foolish.

  “I’d be honored to have it thought so. He was a wonderful father and husband.”

  “You and your mother must miss him very much.”

  He was fishing, and she knew it—but she allowed it. “We do,” she said. “Now, tell me, have we accomplished what you wanted? I know I’ve not exactly been quiet, but I have drawn the ton’s attention. Has it worked for you—are you left alone?”

  “The gentlemen have been curious, but are easily put off by a word or two.”

  “And the young ladies?” She held her breath.

  “They’ve turned their attention elsewhere,” he assured her, “but for one persistent young miss.”

  “Who is it?” she asked, mentally sifting through the girls she’d met.