Page 32 of The Viscount's Promise
Emily frowned. “Does he shirk his duties for pleasure, then?” That certainly wouldn’t do for Daphne.
“Not that I’m aware,” Drew said, his attention wandering to his cuff. “He’s got a tidy property in Kent, and another sprawling estate in the north by the border. Rich as they come, from what I’ve heard. Sir Tristan lives much of the time in London, but I haven’t heard of any scandal attached to him. No, he’s a right jolly fellow, is all. Probably having a bit of fun before he settles.” He speared her with a teasing look. “You sure you’re not interested? I could help things along.”
“Not in the slightest,” Emily pronounced primly. At least, she silently corrected, sending a covert look across the room to where Sir Tristan and Daphne were laughing together, not for herself at any rate.
Yes, she thought with a small, private smile, he would do nicely for Daphne indeed.
Chapter 12
By the next afternoon, Emily was just beginning to comprehend the full extent of the monumental feat she had set out for herself in trying to marry off her sister in the space of a fortnight.
She leaned back against the trunk of a willow tree that grew close to the riverbank. Its drooping branches reached out over the small river—more of a brook, really—affording Emily a private place to observe Daphne as she swung her battledore at the descending shuttlecock. The racket hit the feathered cork with a resounding smack, sending it back up into the sky. Daphne squealed in delight. Sir Tristan, standing with Lord Morley on the small stone bridge that spanned the brook, cheered her loudly. She didn’t even glance his way.
It was not as if Daphne had been completely uninterested in the man. If that was true, Emily would have been hard pressed to continue with her plans. She didn’t want to go to London, but she would not subject her sister to an unhappy union in order to achieve that end. Thankfully there had been several small tells—a sideways glance, a blush, a quick and surreptitious pinch to the cheeks when she thought no one was looking—that proved Daphne’s interest was still in play.
But there was also this strange aloofness she showed the man, when he was so obviously trying to claim her attention. Worrying at her lip with her teeth, Emily attempted to make sense of the situation. There were not many chances the Masters girls had to meet new gentlemen. They had been extremely sheltered up till that point. As were most young women of good breeding, she supposed. Still, it did not lead to proper confidence in dealings with the more masculine sex.
Mayhap that was the problem, Emily conceded. Her sister was young, only seventeen years of age. It could very well be that Daphne’s lack of interactions meant that she was unable to translate her more tender feelings properly. Perhaps she was even confused by them.
Well, far be it for Emily to let her sister remain befuddled. She would be glad to help in any way she could. The problem with that, however, washowshe could accomplish it, while spending as little time in Lord Morley’s company as she could manage, for that man had been chained to Sir Tristan’s side since the wedding.
It was to be expected, she supposed. The two were close friends; they would surely be in each other’s company often. That closeness, however, would make getting Daphne and Sir Tristan alone a near impossibility.
Just then Daphne broke away from the game. She dropped her battledore to the blankets that had been laid out for a picnic, her face becomingly flushed, several curling strands of hair falling from her chignon. The other girls called out, begging for her to return to the game. She laughed and flapped her hands to ward off their entreaties. “I am done for the time being,” she called to them, letting out a relieved breath as she flopped down. “I shall join you again after I’ve caught my breath.”
Emily was certainly not going to question this apparent gift from the heavens. She had been struggling to think of a way to get Daphne alone all through the morning; her sister had become the center of the small group of young women and was rarely without a friend at her side, day or night. Emily hurried from her bower, knowing she had to grasp at this chance to promote a match with Sir Tristan, yet not having the faintest idea how to go about it. It was only when she came near and spied the overflowing picnic baskets that an idea popped into her head. If her sister’s insecurities regarding London were still as strong as they had been, it would work like a charm. She dropped beside the containers of food, making a great show of rifling through them. A frown creased her forehead. “Oh dear,” she muttered.
As hoped, Daphne peered over at her, suddenly alert. She had been the one to painstakingly put this picnic together; she would be sensitive to any problems that might arise.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“I thought for certain you would have strawberries. But I see none. And what is a picnic without strawberries?”
Emily had no idea if strawberries werede rigueurfor picnics. She was not exactly what one would call up-to-date on all the necessaries for these types of things. But neither did Daphne, a fact that Emily was counting on.
Daphne bolted upright, hurrying to Emily and the baskets. “Do you think it’s very important?” she fretted, looking within the confines of the wicker basket.
“Oh, certainly.”
Daphne stilled in her frantic perusal and turned to Emily, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. “How would you know?”
Well, Emily certainly hadn’t expected to be questioned on her pronouncement. She had hoped that if she declared such a thing with enough force that Daphne would take her word for it. Mind whirling, she cast about for a reason that would sound believable. As luck would have it, Miss Mariah Duncan’s light laugh carried to them and provided Emily with the perfect excuse.
“I overheard the others talking about it,” she lied, hoping her face didn’t betray the massive fib she was spewing. “Apparently it’s all the rage in London.”
To Emily’s relief, that seemed to do the trick nicely. Daphne’s mouth formed a small circle of dismay. She looked at Emily wildly. “What shall we do?”
A little stab of guilt shot through Emily at causing her sister anxiety.It’s all for the greater good, she thought stoutly. Now was not the time for a conscience. Not if she wanted to keep from London next year.
“Isn’t there a clearing not far from here where we can find some berries?”
Daphne’s face fairly lit from within, her relief was so great. “Of course. You know,” she whispered, “perhaps we should make a game of it, gather everyone together to help in the picking, give out prizes for the most berries harvested.”
Which was actually a grand idea, Emily thought, her heart dropping. But not at all helpful in what she was trying to do, which was to get Daphne and Sir Tristan alone together. And so she did something reprehensible.
She gave her sister a horrified look.
“What?” Daphne demanded. “Is that not proper?”
