Page 22 of A Murder, a Marquess, and Miss Mifford
"I--I beg your pardon?"
"I apologise," he replied, his blue eyes dancing, "You are correct, my ego got in the way of our investigation. While it's vaguely possible that Ethel is the true villain, Sir Cadogan is the man we should be focusing on."
Emily blinked, unable to comprehend such a swift and sincere apology, for she usually never receivedanyapology when she fell out with her sisters.
"Oh," she answered, for want of anything better to say. She paused, and allowed herself a few seconds to gather her thoughts, "I suppose, if you see if you can learn anything about Sir Cadogan's movements on the night, I can try find out if there's anything we need to know about Ethel. Servants are always gossiping, I'm certain if there's any scandal attached to Ethel that some of the staff in Northcott House already know it."
"How clever," Lord Chambers smiled, "I would never think to ask a servant."
No, Emily agreed--though she did not say it aloud--he wasn't the type of man to spend an afternoon conversing with his staff.
A harmonious silence fell between them, and Emily pondered what she might say next. She wasn't terribly adept at small talk, and she suspected that attempting any with a man as handsome as the marquess would not go well. True, she found him highly annoying, but even she could not deny that he was the most handsome gentleman in all of London--perhaps, even all of England.
Lord Chambers' grip on her wrist had now loosened, but he did not let her go. Instead, his hand slipped down to her own and held it gently--though for all his gentleness, it still felt to Emily as though her skin beneath her glove was burning.
She glanced up at him, with some confusion, and found that his blue eyes--usually twinkling with amusement--were now as dark and tumultuous as the sea before a storm. Her breath caught in her throat, and as Lord Chambers tugged her towards him, Emily realised that he intended to kiss her.
More startlingly, she realised that she wanted him to.
Her lips parted in an "o" of surprise, and she braced herself for the feel of his mouth against hers--
"If you'd all like to follow me to the pond, you'll have a chance to glimpse my rare night-blooming water lilies, found on an expedition to the Americas--which Igenerouslysponsored."
Emily jumped in fright at the sound of Lady Wilcox's booming voice sounding out across the night air. The countess was an avid collector of rare botanicals, and had obviously corralled a number of her guests into a tour of the gardens.
"The lilies lasted longer than the peacock," Lady Wilcox continued loudly, "Poor thing didn't survive the winter."
"We shouldn't be seen out here alone together," Emily whispered nervously to the marquess, as she realised the party would soon pass by them. "You remain here, and I will return the way we came."
"Allow me to escort you--" he began to protest, but Emily hushed him with a wave of her hand.
"No, no need," she said, her voice so high-pitched that it was a wonder he could hear her, "Er, we shall just continue with our agreed plan, and reconvene if we learn something interesting. Goodnight, my lord."
Without waiting for a reply, Emily fled the scene, her mind awash with confusion. The Marquess of Highfield had attempted to kiss her--and, worse, she had wanted him to.
Had he truly wished to share a passionate embrace with her, or was he just an opportunistic rake?
As she raced from the parlour room, towards the card room, Emily racked her brain to see if she could recall any gossip about Lord Chambers, but she could come up with none. The marquess' reputation was as immaculate as the starched white cravat he wore at his neck.
Still, she could not allow herself to attribute their shared moment to anything other than a mild insanity, brought on by the balmy night and the excitement of the murder mystery.
Lord Chambers had no real interest in her, Emily assured herself, as she smoothed down her skirts before she entered the card room. It wasn't possible--for it would mean that her mama had been right about something, and she could not allowthatto happen, or she'd never hear the end of it.
Chapter Six
Freddie waited for a few moments after Miss Mifford's swift retreat, before he too returned inside. He debated whether he should return to the fray of the gala, but found the thought of watching Miss Mifford from across the room--and being unable to touch her--too much to bear.
Curses, he thought to himself, as he stalked towards the entrance hall, he was in deeper than he had first imagined.
Not once in his life had Freddie found a woman more interesting and absorbing than he found himself, and he was uncertain how he was supposed to proceed. The memory of Miss Mifford's hand in his, her sweet scent as he pulled her close, and her plump lips ripe for kissing, filled his mind, and when the footman at the door questioned if he should summon his carriage, Freddie was momentarily at a loss for words.
"Yes," he eventually replied, clearing his throat to disguise his embarrassment, "Yes, do."
His driver and carriage arrived in record time and as Freddie clambered into the compartment, he instructed the driver to take him to White's rather than home.
He had no idea why, as he was usually content in his own company, but tonight he felt he needed to hear the comforting chatter of men, while he nursed a large brandy.
White's, one of London's most exclusive gentleman's clubs, was situated at the top of St James' Street in an imposing building made of Portland stone, with a grand Palladian facade. Freddie's carriage stopped just at the front door. He disembarked and swiftly climbed the steps to the entrance, where he was ushered inside by a sombrely uniformed footman.
