Page 54 of West End Earl
A heavy sigh rolled out of Phee. “Not this again.” She held out a hand to ward off Emma’s protestations. “You need to tell him yourself. Have you told Roxbury?”
Tears welled in Emma’s eyes, and she suddenly seemed far younger than eighteen. If anyone saw Emma crying, there’d be no stopping the rumor mill. Glancing over her shoulder for witnesses, Phee pushed against the library door and hustled Emma inside. She settled the girl in a chair and handed her a handkerchief.
Instead of dabbing at her tears, Emma let them fall while she twisted the linen square around her hand until the tips of her fingers turned pink, then white. “I called on him two weeks ago. He’s refused to see me since.”
Phee sat, then rested her elbows on her knees. “I take it things didn’t go well.”
When Emma shook her head, blond ringlets bounced about her ears. Although she opened her mouth, her chin quivered too hard for words to form. Fresh tears pooled, and she gave an indelicate sniffle.
“He said I couldn’t prove it’s his,” Lady Emma finally managed, then squeezed her eyes shut.
Phee muttered a curse.
“He said he loved me.” The words wobbled with a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry.” ShoutingI told you sowouldn’t be helpful and frankly would be like kicking a puppy. But damn it, Emma had been warned.
Lady Emma straightened, then scrubbed her face with the handkerchief as if she could wipe off emotions as well as tears. “May I ask, Mr. Hardwick—are all men lying bastards, or only the ones I’ve met?” A heavy pause fell between them.
“Honestly, I’ve met my fair share of bastards. But there are fine men too. Your brother is one of them.”
A glimmer of a smile broke through Lady Emma’s gloom. “You’re right. Cal is a good one. And you seem to be as well. Thank you for listening. And thank you for your discretion, Adam. May I call you Adam?”
Phee nodded.
“Then you shall call me Emma. Anyone who shares secrets should be on a first-name basis, don’t you think?”
“Emma it is, then. Are you returning to the dining room?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Could you tell them I was overcome by the heat or something?”
Phee rose and offered her hand. “I can do that. Let’s get you settled for the night, and I’ll prevaricate the best I can with the guests.”
In the hall they handed over the vase of flowers with apologies to a maid, then climbed the sprawling giant staircase. At Emma’s door, Phee dipped her head in a bow.
“Please break the news to your brother soon.”
The blond ringlets bounced again when Emma nodded, but worry burrowed a groove between her brows. “You’re right. I know you’re right. But at the moment, I want to sleep.”
“Good night, then.” If Phee didn’t return to the party, Cal would worry. She trudged downstairs, her evening shoes padding on the steps. From the sounds of it, the ladies had retreated to the drawing room, which meant the men would be drinking and telling tall tales in the game room.
Phee stopped outside the door, listening for a moment to the muffled din of voices coming from the room. Assuming the persona of her brother took effort today, but she managed. Worries over Emma would have to wait. Right now, she needed to be Adam Hardwick.
It didn’t used to be this hard to lie to everyone.
***
The role of host grated at Cal, and it was only day one of this damned party. When Phee entered the room, a ripple of awareness skittered along his spine.
The men lounged about the room with glasses of port or brandy. Some played billiards; others simply sat and smoked cigars. A cloud of smoke hovered over the room, and Cal tried not to wrinkle his nose. The carpets and drapes would need a thorough airing after this. Such a nasty habit.
In the past, he probably wouldn’t have questioned the rather frank discussion going on around him. Although the men spoke of the women, there was a definite lack of commentary regarding Emma—probably out of respect for him—so for that he could be grateful.
Lord Warrick made the shape of an hourglass with his hands, then cupped imaginary breasts in front of himself, which sent the baron cackling. The cruder comments—mostly from Ainsley and Warrick—stopped when Cal said, “The more you talk about women’s bits, the less convinced I am that you’ve ever actually seen any for yourself. A real man doesn’t need to boast.”
The others laughed uncomfortably but changed the topic, and that had to suffice.
Across the room, Phee shifted in her chair. How did this sound to her? And had he ever done worse in her presence?
