Page 34 of Reforming Lord Ragsdale
The coachman held open the door for them, but Lord Ragsdale stood in front of it. “No ride for you unless you tell me what you were about to say,” he ordered, a smile playing around his lips. “Come, come, Emma.”
They stood there staring at each other, his arms folded across his chest. She pursed her lips into a straight line, then sighed.
“Oh, very well! I was merely going to suggest that you look rather too piratical ever to be mistaken for a pattern card of respectability.” She smiled when she said it, and Lord Ragsdale sighed with relief.Better and better, he thought as he helped her into the carriage.Emma, we have to get along.
“John, take us to the gallery in Kensington,” he said as he climbed inside.
He returned her questioning gaze with a smile. “Emma, you may redeem yourself for all misdemeanors this morning by accompanying me to the art gallery. I have it in my head to invite a young lady I met at Almack’s to tour it with me and my cousin Sally, and I had better know where I am going if I do not wish to appear ... well, overly piratical and uncouth.”
She relaxed at his words and nodded. “You can probably purchase a guidebook at the entrance, my lord. If you commit it to memory, then no young lady will ever accuse you of being uncouth, lazy, and bereft of purpose.”
He wagged his finger at her, and she blushed. “Emma, mind your own manners! If you ever wish to leave my indenture before you are gray-haired and toothless, you must learn to like me at least a little.”
He leaned back in the carriage, satisfied with himself and pleased at the embarrassment on Emma’s face.Now I will deliver the ultimate blow, he decided. “Emma, I almost forgot to tell you. I spoke with Lasker this morning, and he has arranged for you to move into a room of your own.”
“What?” Emma exclaimed, her eyes wide.
He nearly laughed out loud at the look of chagrin on Emma’s expressive face. “You’ll still have to duck the rafters, but you did say your own bed would make you happy.”
He absorbed himself in gazing out the window then, content to let Emma stew in her own juices. He heard her apply herself vigorously to his handkerchief, and his cup ran over with merriment.Got you, Emma. I dare you to be rude now.
Chapter 11
There is no logicalexplanation for my desire to visit the art gallery with Emma, Lord Ragsdale thought as the carriage began to move.I am either a bigger bully than I thought, or I love art beyond my previous recollection.The initial ride had begun with an ardent desire on his part to get the banking business done and then return Emma to the book room. He never considered himself a man susceptible to female tears, but there was something so oddly touching about Emma’s obvious remorse at her mistreatment of him. He hoped she would not mind a visit to the gallery, but he was beginning to find her interesting.
And, he reasoned, there was at least some truth in what he had said to her about wanting to look over the place. He knew he needed to do as his mother and Emma had mandated and find himself a wife. A gallery would be a good place for a quiet tête-à-tête; he would test his theory on Emma. If it proved to be a good place to spark a lady (or at least, in Emma’s case, discussion), he would store the knowledge for future reference.
Emma was still struggling with her emotions, so he did not overburden her with conversation. He was content to gaze out the window at the Inns of Court, where several wigged barristers were getting themselves into a carriage forthe short ride to the courts of justice.English law, he thought,a noble thing.He glanced at Emma. She was watching the barristers too, but her expression was a set, hard one, as though she looked upon something distasteful.
“English law,” he said out loud, and it sounded inane the moment he uttered it.
“Don’t remind me, my lord,” she murmured and directed her gaze out the opposite window.
How singular, he thought.We see the same thing, and yet our estimations are completely different. I wonder if this is because she is a woman or because she is Irish. I suspect it is both, he concluded.
~
So much silence, he thought as they rode along. He was not a man accustomed to silence.I have spent too much time in drawing rooms, card rooms, and taverns, where conversation seems obliged.It was different with Emma, he reasoned. Despite her remorse, she still did not wish to speak to him.Or could it be that she is shy, he wondered.I see Emma as a budding good secretary, but perhaps ours is an odd association. After all, she is female. Indeed she is, he thought for no good reason, and smiled to himself.
He wanted to ask a penny for her thoughts, and the realization gave him a start. He had never cared what any woman thought before. During his affair with Fae Moullé, never had it entered his head to inquire what was on her mind, because he suspected that nothing was.My word, how strange this is, he considered as he settled back in the carriage.I want to know what this woman is thinking.
He stared out the window, not seeing anything on the crowded road.If she is thinking of me, it will not be charitable.He glanced her way and rubbed his forehead, wondering why it mattered all of a sudden that she change her opinion of him.She sees me as a dilettante, a drunkard, a rogue, and a wastrel, he thought,and she is right. And I am British.Hegrinned at his reflection in the glass.That I cannot change, and it may be the only thing that she cares about the most. I wish I understood Emma Costello.
The gallery was bare of sightseers. There was only a cleaning woman, who wasn’t dressed much better than Emma. The charwoman looked up from her brush and pail as they skirted around the area she was scrubbing. Lord Ragsdale could tell she was surprised to see someone so obviously a man of consequence with a woman in broken shoes and a plain cloak.
To his chagrin, Emma noticed the look too. “I really don’t belong here, my lord,” she whispered to him, her face red. “Oh, please ... I can wait outside.”
Serenity, John, serenity, he told himself as he touched her elbow lightly and steered her into his favorite room of the gallery. “Nonsense, Emma. This is a public place, and we are the public. Remember now: I want to bring a young lady here, and you are my trial effort.”
That sounds pretty artificial, he thought as he sat her down on a bench;I wonder if she will buy it.He glanced at her then, gauging her response, and was relieved to see a brief look of approbation cross her expressive face.
“Oh, excellent, my lord! The sooner you are reformed and at least soundly engaged, the sooner you will be rid of me.”
He laughed in spite of his own nervousness. “Emma! Am I that much of a trial? Come now, be fair.”
To his relief, she smiled.I wish you would laugh too, he thought as he watched her.Your laughter is almost a balm. Ah, well, not this time. Perhaps another day.He put his hands behind his back and sauntered over to inspect a painting—it must be a Vermeer—he had not remembered from his last visit several years ago.
All was silence in the gallery; he found himself relaxing in the quiet.This would be a good place to bring someone special, he decided as he moved from picture to picture.The devil of it is, I cannot imagine any eligible lady of my acquaintance remaining quiet long enough to absorb what is here.
