Page 37 of The Forbidden Lord
“After you’re done with Pollock, I want a word with you.”
He said it as if there was no question of her agreeing. Everyone’s eyes were on her, and they clearly expected the same. After all, he was quite an eligible catch. If he wanted a word with her, she was expected to drop all other amusements to indulge him.
But she knew what he wanted to discuss. He wanted to trick her into revealing the truth, especially now that she’d roused his fury by criticizing him. She daren’t allow that.
“I’m afraid that will be impossible. I promised Mama that we could leave as soon as she finished seeing Lady Astramont’s house, and she must be nearly done. I’m sure she’ll meet up with us while we are in the gardens.”
An angry flush darkened his handsome face. Being refused anything by a woman was clearly as unfamiliar to him as taking tea on the moon. Well, too bad. As long as he couldn’t be certain she was Emily Fairchild, he wouldn’t dare expose her.
“Another time perhaps,” he clipped out.
“Yes, another time.” Feeling more sure of herself, she walked off with Pollock.
Another time, indeed. If she had her way, it would come when pigs flew and fish took ferries, and not a minute sooner.
Chapter Eight
Whom do we dub as Gentleman? The
Knave, the fool, the brute?—
If they but own full tithe of gold, and
Wear a courtly suit.
— ELIZA COOK,ENGLISH POET, “NATURE’S GENTLEMAN
Minutes later, Jordan stormed out of Lady Astramont’s after taking quick leave of his hostess. How dare Lady Emma rebuff him before a crowd of people!
He leapt into his carriage and ordered Watkins to drive to his club, her words still burning his ears.Then your life must be dreary indeed.The little chit had actually pitied him. Him! The Earl of Blackmore! A man who’d accomplished more in his lifetime than a dozen noblemen.
Just because he didn’t wander the streets in a perpetual state of infatuation like that fool Pollock didn’t mean his life was hollow and meaningless. He was respected, envied even, by all who knew him.
Perhaps he did go to bed alone most nights. And there was the occasional time—more often, now that his stepsister had moved out—when his house felt like a pharaoh’s rich and cavernous tomb. Sometimes life worked out that way. Chasing after love’s dubious promises only brought disappointment, as he’d learned very young. If one allowed oneself to crave affection and happiness and to hope for more than simple contentment, one suffered pain.
Yet her voice still troubled his thoughts.Life is worth nothing without such luxuries.
As if a woman her age knew anything about life. He snorted as he gazed out the window as dusk laid a gray, unforgiving cast over every walkway, especially in this part of London. An aging strawberry seller trudged silently homeward, tugging a cart of half-sold berries with bare, chapped hands. Farther along, a whore stood under the oil lamp seeking companions before the sun had even hidden its face.
Though he’d been raised with wealth and privilege, he’d seen a great many such sights, especially once his reformer stepmother had married his father. Indeed, sometimes he felt guilty that he’d escaped such penury. Anyone who did escape it should feel fortunate enough, without asking for more.
Yes, love was a luxury, more so than Emily … Lady Emma …whoevershe was … could ever realize. Until Nesfield and Lady Dundee had dressed her up and set her on display, she’d never even left the country. What did she know of love’s fickle nature, the way some people held out a promise of it, then snatched it away?
He curled his fingers into fists. She was a babe in the woods with her teasing and flirting and lofty statements about life. She thought because she wore satin gowns and spoke eloquently, because her companions lapped up her every fanciful word, she could say what she pleased and act irresponsibly.
Well, she was wrong. Such behavior would bring her attention in the worst quarters. If she weren’t careful, men would treat her as some fast-and-loose sort, and she’d be in danger.
If she were Lady Emma, she would find herself compromised by some fortune hunter. And if she were Emily in masquerade? Nesfield would abandon her if she got into serious trouble. Jordan couldn’t fathom what Nesfield was about—or Lady Dundee, for that matter, who seemed an intelligent woman—but it was obvious the man hadn’t created this masquerade to help Emily. So whatever she planned to achieve was doomed to failure, no matter what she thought.
Thank God, they’d reached Brook’s at last. He left the carriage and hurried inside. Brook’s was the favorite gentlemen’s club of many Whig members of Parliament and almost as old as its predominantly Tory counterpart, White’s, across the street. Its sedate atmosphere and stodgy décor generally soothed his temper immediately.
Not tonight, however. Here, among his sensible peers, he ought to be able to relax. There were none of Astramont’s silly tittering females around, with their talk of fairies and romantic feeling.
But there was also no Lady Emma. She was back at Lady Astramont’s, with Pollock. Pollock was the one brushing against her, smelling her lavender scent, listening to her melodic voice. Deuce take the man! And deuce take her, too. How dare she choose Pollock?
Of course she’d done it to evade Jordan’s interrogations. It had to be. Still, whether she were Lady Emma or Emily, no one else had the right to her but him, and he’d make Pollock understand that the next time he saw the devil.
The servant took his greatcoat, informing him in respectful tones that Lord St. Clair awaited him in the Subscription Room.He muttered a curse. He’d forgotten all about his appointment with Ian.
