Page 7 of The Viscount's Promise
Something in her began to ache unbearably. Before she could study it closer to determine its meaning, he gave a shallow bow and marched back down the stairs. Emily stared after him, not at all certain what had happened. That he could do something so kind one minute, then follow it up with such meanness, and then throw her off again with that gentle tone, had her thinking he was perhaps a bit mad.
Frustration welled up in her. She turned, striding through the Long Gallery that stretched the whole front of the house. Her small heels clicked on the polished wood floor, echoing through the vastness of the space, bouncing off the paneled walls and the multitude of Masters portraits that lined them. What manner of man was he, that he could play hot and cold with such dizzying regularity? And why did he choose to concentrate his efforts on her? Didn’t he know she was having a hard enough time without his breathing down her neck?
She turned down the hall that housed the guest bedrooms—in that moment currently bustling with servants as they brought chests and bags to rooms—to the family apartments beyond. Why did he bother to seek her out? If he had been any nicer in his manners, she would have thought he was pursuing her.
At that she gave a short, barking laugh. A footman passing her by, his arms loaded with hat boxes, jumped at the sound, nearly dropping his load. Emily ducked around him, appalled that she had let thoughts of Lord Morley affect her to such a degree. Though she was quite determined to put him from her mind; however, she found she could not. He confounded her. But, though she could not make heads or tails of his mercurial moods, there was one thing she was certain of. Lord Morley was not at all the man she had thought him to be. The slow burn of shame heated her skin. That she could have held him in such high regard for so long, putting him up on a pedestal above other men, mortified her to her very soul.
So submerged in thought was she that she had turned into the family quarters and passed by her bedroom without realizing it. She blinked, looking up and scanning the corridor. It was quiet here, the bustle of preparations having faded behind her. But when she would have turned back for her room, a muffled sound carried to her from Imogen’s room.
If anyone in this blasted world could comprehend her fear of mingling with the crowd below, it was Imogen. Without a second’s thought, she knocked lightly on the door.
There was a squeak of surprise before a voice called out, “I swear, I was just about to come down.”
Was it her, or was there a slightly panicked quality to Imogen’s tone? Concerned, Emily slipped inside. Imogen sat at her dressing table, her shoulders a tense line, her arms braced as if she were planning to spring from the bench. In one hand was a white handkerchief that appeared to have been shredded. At the sight of Emily, her breath left her in a rush of relief.
“Oh, Emily, I’m so glad it’s you.” Imogen slumped down in her seat, the wild look melting a bit from her wide turquoise eyes. “I couldn’t bear to go down right away. Yet the more time I take to shore up my defenses, the harder it is to enter the fray.”
“Perhaps you needn’t go down at all,” Emily suggested without much hope.
“I’m sure Caleb wouldn’t mind in the least. He couldn’t be sweeter or more supportive of my shortcomings.” Here she grimaced. “But I am the bride, and as future Marchioness of Willbridge it is my duty to learn to be a proper hostess, to make Caleb proud.”
Emily sat beside Imogen and took up her hand. Her friend’s fingers were cold to the touch. “You could never do anything,” she said with real feeling, “that could ever lose my brother’s pride in you.”
Imogen blinked back tears behind her wire-framed spectacles and gave an audible sniff. “Oh, aren’t you lovely,” she whispered.
They sat there for a time in companionable silence, holding hands as the seconds ticked by. Gradually, however, Emily could feel the tension return to Imogen. Her friend’s mind had wandered, she knew, fretting about the inevitable appearance she had to make below stairs. “If it upsets you so much to have such a large party here for the wedding, why do you allow it?” she asked softly. It had not seemed that the situation had been forced on her, after all. Emily had seen that, much to her surprise, Imogen could hold her own with her mother, the irascible Lady Tarryton.
The smile Imogen gave her was rueful. “If my mother had had her way, we would be planning a London wedding the likes of which you have never seen, complete with the great majority of thetonat St. George’s and a lavish reception with the Prince Regent himself present. If Caleb had managed to get his way, we would have eloped.” She laughed, but Emily could see from the slightly wistful expression in her eyes that Imogen would have much preferred her affianced husband’s suggestion, as well.
“So we compromised,” she continued. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “It seemed a small enough price to pay to give my mother some happiness in the affair. I do love her dearly, despite her abrasive ways.”
Just then Daphne sailed into the room. “My goodness, have you seen the crowd of guests below?” She smiled broadly. “This is going to be a glorious party.”
Imogen looked like she was going to be sick. Emily suspected it mirrored her own expression quite well.
Daphne was too embroiled in her own excitement to notice. She craned her neck to see past them, considering her reflection in the looking glass before giving a nod of satisfaction. Not a single hair was out of place, her diaphanous muslin gown showing off her neat figure to perfection. Daphne had been born with the great good luck of not only possessing beauty in abundance, but a warm and open personality that thrived on human interaction. This whole affair would be like the very nectar of the gods to her.
“Is Caleb asking after me?” Imogen ventured.
“Of course he is.” Daphne looked at once amused and dreamy. “When is he not? My brother is so in love with you I’m surprised he hasn’t tethered you to his side.”
Imogen’s face softened at that. Emily had a feeling that her future sister wouldn’t have minded that one bit.
Daphne heaved a great, happy sigh. “Though I was annoyed that you didn’t marry in London—for I would have loved to have visited the capital in advance of my come-out—I do believe that having the wedding here will do nicely. As Mama has said to me, a small house party is just what is needed to give me the proper social polish for when I make my debut next Season.”
Small house party? If the crowd Emily had plunged through was what Daphne deemed small, then what would they be subject to in London?
The sick feeling that had been present in a small way all through the morning blossomed into something much, much worse.
Miss Mariah Duncan appeared in the doorway. “Daphne, another carriage has pulled up. I do believe it is Sir Frederick Knowles and his family.” Her blue eyes were wide, alight with her excitement.
“There are more people?” The appalled words fell from Emily’s mouth without warning. Mariah’s lovely face clouded with understanding. She had been Imogen’s staunchest protector and would understand the panic in Emily’s voice. Still, it galled Emily to see the pity in her eyes.
“It truly isn’t so many,” the girl soothed. “This is a small party bytonstandards.”
Instead of allaying Emily’s anxiety, however, Mariah’s words served to increase it to a paralyzing degree. How large were the parties in London, that this was tiny in comparison?
Imogen rose, a determined expression tightening her face. “Well, I suppose I have done my hiding for the day. I’d best get downstairs. I won’t have them all think I’m cowed.” She turned to Emily. “Will you stay here, dear?”
