Page 11 of The Viscount's Promise
“And how do you know the bride and groom?” Lord Morley questioned.
The man’s chest puffed up considerably. “I have been a family friend of Lord Willbridge for many a year. I live a half hour’s ride away. My estate, Handel House, is reputed to have the finest horseflesh in Northamptonshire.”
“Hmm,” Lord Morley intoned. “Strange I have not heard of you then, as I am on intimate footing with all the best breeders. But forgive me, I have not introduced myself. I am Malcolm Arborn, Viscount Morley. My own estate is Fairfax Hall. Perhaps you’re acquainted with its reputation? I have been assured over the past years that we have some of the finest horseflesh in the country.”
To Emily’s surprise, Lord Randall’s lily-white complexion—which, having probably never seen a day’s labor, stood in sharp contrast to the tan, rugged handsomeness of Lord Morley’s—paled. The condescension in his eyes faded into a sickening regret and he cleared his throat. “Indeed, I have heard of you, my lord.” His eyes quickly lost their slightly nauseated cast and took on a crafty interest. “Perhaps, while you’re in the area, you might deign to visit my own humble stables. You will not be disappointed, I assure you.”
“Mayhap,” was all Malcolm said. But the doubt that colored the one word spoke volumes.
The two men stared at each other, Lord Morley with smug condescension and Lord Randall with not a small bit of frustration. Ignored in this game of cock-of-the-roost, Emily’s disbelief at the bizarre exchange transformed first to offended righteousness, then outright anger. And not a low simmering anger, but an inferno. How dare these two men, who had given her so much grief, treat her like a nonentity? In that moment she suddenly, and finally, had enough.
“If you will both excuse me? I do believe there is an empty corner of the room where I can be ignored in a much more polite manner.”
With that she grabbed up her skirts and stalked off.
• • •
Hours later Malcolm was still awed by the glorious display Lady Emily had made in putting himself and Lord Randall in their places.
Yes, he’d acted a complete brute. His intentions, however, had been good. Actually, he would say he’d been damn near a saint, for when he’d entered the drawing room and seen that popinjay Randall talking to her in so rude and condescending a manner, his first instinct had been to take the man by his ridiculously high collar and throw him bodily from the house. Truly, what did the man think he was doing, talking to a lady of the house, indeed any lady at all, in such a manner?
But no, Malcolm had controlled the impulse. After all, what talent had he propagated over the years but the ability to tightly rein in the messier of his emotions? Should he have acknowledged Lady Emily? Yes. There was no doubt as to that. In his defense, however, it had been for her that he’d interrupted in the first place. And he would do it again, in a heartbeat.
Especially if it would wring that same response from her.
For what must have been the hundredth time, he found himself looking her way. She was seated beside her sister, her face tilted away from the main body of the party. Hiding her scar, he knew without being told. It was well after dinner now. The requisite card tables had been dragged out, the typical debutantes fiddling with the pianoforte keys. Much of the male contingent had moved to the billiard room, to smoke and drink and immerse themselves in bawdy talk, though most of the younger generation had hung back to drool over the young ladies. Willbridge and his bride-to-be had disappeared long ago to goodness knew where. And Lord Randall, the pompous bastard, had blessedly departed for home.
He should leave now, he knew, to join the men or retire to his room. Lady Emily was fine, if a bit pale. And Willbridge could not have meant for him to never leave the girl’s side. His friend may want to pique the interest of other gentlemen in her, but he certainly had no desire to have his sister be the subject of less-than-desirable gossip should people notice Malcolm’s attentions toward her.
Even so, he could not make himself go. So he stayed where he was, leaning against the marble mantle, on occasion lifting his glass of brandy to his lips for a sip he did not taste.
Apparently, however, having an idle gentleman in her purview was not something Lady Tarryton was going to allow.
“Lord Morley,” Imogen’s mother called from her place of honor in the midst of several of the more prominent matrons of the group, “you look lonely there by yourself. Surely we can tempt you to come join us?”
“Thank you, my lady,” he replied with a forced smile, “but I assure you I quite enjoy my solitary post. Especially as it gives me such a glorious view of the present company.”
As he’d known she would, the woman tittered, a sound that grated on his ear. His attempt at distracting her through compliments, however, failed. She gave him an assessing look. “How could you possibly prefer to observe the ladies present when there is more joy to be had from conversing with them? Mariah,” she called to her younger daughter, who sat in the very heart of the group of young people, “make room for Lord Morley. He will be joining you in a thrice.”
“I’m sure we would love to have him join us, but we really must respect Lord Morley’s wish for solitude, Mama,” the girl said, flashing him an apologetic smile. Lady Emily, he saw, didn’t look his way. Her profile, however, turned stony, and said volumes as to her wish that he remain right where he was.
“How can any sane man wish to be alone when there are such pretty girls to converse with?” Lady Tarryton scoffed. Malcolm could see in that instant that the woman would stop at nothing to ensure he paid homage to her daughter. It had been no secret in the past months that the viscountess had been fairly manic in her desire to get Miss Mariah before as many titled, unmarried gentlemen as possible. Malcolm himself had called upon the girl in her drawing room several times and had seen firsthand how ruthless her mother could be. With her eldest marrying Willbridge—a catch he knew the woman had wanted for Miss Mariah and not Imogen—she would be doubling her efforts to find a grand match for the younger girl.
And as Malcolm was the highest rank out of the eligible gentlemen present, he supposed he was to be the recipient of her efforts now. Herwastedefforts, if he had anything to say about it. While he liked Miss Mariah well enough, he was not about to be entrapped in marriage to her. Or to anyone else, for that matter. Let the bloody title die with him, for all he cared.
Regardless, he could not let the woman make a scene. He owed that much to Willbridge, at least, though his watching over Lady Emily was going a long way toward paying off any debt he may have incurred with the man.
Pushing away from the mantle, he sauntered toward the group. Everyone welcomed him jovially enough. All but for Lady Emily, who tensed visibly as he approached, keeping her gaze averted. In a moment of mischief he ignored the empty spot Lady Tarryton waved him toward, instead squeezing himself in between Lady Emily and one of the Miss Knowleses (he hadn’t a clue which one; all three looked as alike as anything). He knew he needn’t have satquiteso close to Lady Emily. There was plenty of room on the sofa, after all. But some devil had perched on his shoulder after seeing that she could be pushed to standing up for herself, and he had a morbid desire to find out if he could do it again.
Lady Daphne, who was sitting in a chair on her sister’s other side, leaned over Lady Emily and gifted him with a smile. “You are just in time, my lord. We were discussing what to do tomorrow for entertainment. I know my mother and Lady Tarryton have scheduled fishing for some of the older gentlemen, and lawn games for the guests left behind. There are those of us, however, who are inclined toward something a bit farther afield.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but Lady Emily’s voice was there first. “I’m sure your plans for the younger partygoers would not interest Lord Morley,” she said, sounding as if someone had wrapped their fingers about her throat and squeezed.
He leaned in a bit toward her. “My goodness, Lady Emily,” he murmured, “how old do you believe me to be?”
She shivered slightly, the skin of her cheek flushing scarlet. As he watched, bemused, she ducked her chin into her chest and scooted as far from him as she could manage. Which was not far at all, considering she had already been fairly draped over the arm of the sofa in her attempt to put some distance between them.
“You and Sir Tristan will be joining our party instead, will you not?” Lady Daphne asked, gifting him with a smile. “Please say you will.”
