Page 31 of Reforming Lord Ragsdale
Lord Ragsdale nodded. “Too bad you were not my mistress, Emma. Think of the savings to me!”
“My lord!”
He laughed and held his hands to his face as though to ward off a blow. “Just kidding. I’d as lief kiss the devil as you, Emma.”
So would I, she thought. “Now remember, sir, you are to become a model of deportment, if we are to proceed with your reformation,” she said instead.
“Of course, Emma, how can I forget?” he murmured, and then grimaced. “And now I must gird up my loins—so to speak—and accompany my mother and cousin to Almack’s.” He sighed.
“. . . Where you will find any number of unexceptionable young ladies to choose among,” she said. “One of them may even like you.”
“Emma, I don’t even know what I want in a wife,” he protested.
“Johnny! You have progressed no farther than your shirt and breeches?” his mother said, coming from the sitting room and starting purposefully toward him down the hall.
“Emma distracted me,” he hedged. “There she was, shivering on the front step, with no idea how to use a door knocker, bless her black Irish heart. What could I do but let her in?”
“Wretch,” Emma whispered under her breath. To her amusement, he leaned toward her and cupped his hand around his ear.
“Hmm? Hmm?”
She continued toward the servants’ stairs, and so did the marquess. “Emma, get me up by ten tomorrow morning,” he ordered. “We need to discuss what I should be looking for in a wife, and I want to sign this list of Fae’s over to you so my banker can deal with it.”
She curtsied as Lady Ragsdale bore down on them and took her son by the arm. She shrieked when he flipped his eye patch up and grinned at her. “Mama, should I leave this off tonight or wear it? It’s not fashionable.”
Lady Ragsdale looked at Emma, who was struggling not to laugh. “Don’t encourage him, Emma,” she scolded. “Johnny, you would try a saint! Come along now, before I lose all patience.”
Lord Ragsdale shuddered elaborately and grinned at Emma as his mother tugged him along the hall. “Tomorrow morning at ten, Emma. Find a tablet and pencil. And by the way, nice gloves.”
“Yes, aren’t they?” she agreed as she started down the stairs for another evening of cold stares and solitude.
Chapter 10
He had not dancedin years, so it did not greatly surprise Lord Ragsdale that he dreamed about Almack’s. It was a pleasant enough dream, even though the sound was magnified and the events speeded up until he woke up dizzy with too much waltz and tepid conversation. He lay there, his hands behind his head, loitering somewhere between half-asleep and full-awake, reflecting that conversation with women was stupid.
“Do be charitable,” he scolded himself as he settled more emphatically in the middle of his bed. He considered charity for a brief moment, then abandoned it. Most of the Season’s beauties were uncomfortably young, undeniably lovely, and utterly bereft of idea. He did not require a great deal of conversation while dancing; indeed, country-dancing only permitted the occasional passing comment. The waltz was another matter. While he could not deny that he enjoyed gazing down upon the same beautiful bosom for the duration of one dance, dialogue of at least a semi-intelligent nature would have rendered the whole event more pleasant. As it was, he learned a great deal about the weather last night.
He stretched his charity a little farther.It is entirely possible that I have forgotten the art of conversation. I will have to get Emma’s opinion on the matter, he thought as he yawned and rested his eye again.
He lay there, rubbing his forehead gently, remembering the brief disappointment last night of arriving home to find the book room dark. There was no Emma, sorting through his correspondence now, throwing away the rags and tatters of his disordered life. He had wanted to tell her about the scene in the card room, when Lady Theodosia Maxwell—she of the red-veined nose and towering turban—had accused her meek little husband of cheating at whist and thrashed him with his own walking cane. The young diamond of the first water he had been waltzing with merely tittered behind her gloved hand. Emma would have done such a scene justice with that full-bodied laugh of hers.
He reached for his watch on the night table, impatient for Emma to appear. The upstairs maid had already delivered the morning coal and the brass can of hot water. He had already convinced Hanley that he did not need help shaving and dressing. It remained for Emma to deliver his morning tea and furnish him with some good reason to rise.
Ah, there it was. She had a firm knock, which he preferred to the scratching of most servants.
“You’re late, Emma,” he said to the closed door.
“Your watch is fast,” she countered and opened the door. “Besides that, the postman was late, and I had to sort your mail.” She came closer to the bed and set the tea tray across his lap. “Look here, my lord. You are even getting invitations to places that Lady Ragsdale assures me are quite respectable.”
He looked at her and grimaced. “Emma. I am already tired of orgeat and bad whist, and that was just my first visit to Almack’s!”
She went to the window and flung open the draperies. “What you are is bored, my lord,” she said, her tone firm. “I do not know what I can do about that. I would wish that you had an occupation, because you appear—somewhere under your lassitude—to have a great deal of energy.”
He grinned and took a sip of tea. Ah. Just the way he liked it.
“Emma, you are the only person I know who can compliment and condemn in the same sentence. Is this an Irish characteristic?”
It was her turn to look thoughtful. “I suppose it is, my lord.”
