Page 42 of To Marry and to Meddle
“Precisely,” Diana said, leaning back in her seat and looking pleased with herself.
Violet took a prim sip of her tea. “Has anyone else noticed that we spend an awful lot of time scheming of late?” she observed.
Diana and Emily said, “Violet,” in unison.
“What?” Violet asked, raising her hands in defense. “It just seems—”
“Wedoseem to be scheming a lot lately,” Emily interrupted. “Because you started the coughing and counterfeit doctors and lying in bedpretending to be dyingin the first place.”
“Oh,” Violet said, at least having the grace to look a bit sheepish. “Well, I suppose that’s not strictly inaccurate.”
“I believe it’s entirely accurate, you ninny,” Diana said with an air of exasperated affection born of long friendship. “So if you can spend a fortnight putting fake bloodstains on handkerchiefs—”
“I did no such thing!” Violet protested, then paused, considering. “Though really, I should have done. It would have been much more convincing.”
“My point is, I think Emily can pretend to have temporarily lost her mind for a single evening,” Diana said dryly. “It’s quite tame, by comparison.”
“You think I’ll be able to convince Julian of this in a single evening?” Emily asked skeptically.
“I do,” Diana said cheerfully, “if you have reinforcements. And spirits.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Don’t you think it’s time you had a dinner party?”
Thirteen
Hosting a dinner party inhis own home, Julian thought, was surprisingly enjoyable. He’d never been in the habit of entertaining—as a bachelor, the logistics of hosting a dinner party had always seemed somewhat beyond him, and both Laverre and Bridgeworth, his closest friend from Oxford, were married, so it was easy enough to dine at their homes, to which he was frequently invited. The rest of his set—other friends from Oxford, acquaintances from the theater world—were either unmarried or had wives who wanted nothing to do with the scandalous Julian Belfry, so his evenings with them were passed in gentlemen’s clubs and gaming hells and even less savory environs. Never at his home, across a table laid with gleaming china and polished silver, waiting for a soup course to be presented.
And yet, at the moment, that was precisely where he found himself.
Emily had suggested the idea of a dinner party several days earlier, noting that her friends were now returned to town and it would be nice to gather everyone together; furthermore, she had hinted significantly, it would be a perfect opportunity for him to introduce her to his friends, something he had rather shamefully failed to do so far. Julian had felt a bit sheepish about that, because truly, he should have doneso—Bridgeworth and Jemma, his wife, would be entirely respectable company for Emily, and furthermore, he actually thought they would all get on quite well. But he’d been busy, and he wasn’t accustomed to having a wife to care for, or about, and so he’d put it off. But tonight, both Bridgeworth and Jemma were coming, as were Audley and Violet, Willingham and Diana, Penvale, Laverre and his wife, Lucie, and—in what Julian strongly suspected was a bit of matchmaking, though Emily innocently protested otherwise—the Marquess of Weston and Lady Fitzwilliam Bridewell. West, being Audley’s elder brother, did join their party on occasion, and Julian knew that Emily and her friends had befriended Lady Fitzwilliam that summer, but he still smelled a rat.
“If West and Lady Fitzwilliam wish to resume their romance,” he’d said lazily as he perused the proposed guest list a few days earlier, “I think they’re perfectly capable of managing it without your interference.”
“Hmm,” Emily had said, the noise implying a great degree of skepticism even if said skepticism was not expressed verbally. “IfI were attempting to matchmake—and I will admit to doing no such thing; I think quite enough people’s romantic lives have been interfered with among this set of late—I would feel compelled to note that I have yet to see any evidence that men are capable of working things out without a fair degree of outside assistance.”
“I believe I managed my courtship and marriage without any interference from your meddling friends,” he responded smugly. “I wasted no time in securing my prize.”
Emily blinked at him. Twice. He had been married to her just—just—long enough to know that two blinks signaled danger.
“You make me sound like a fat pig to be won at the village fete,” shesaid. This being Emily, there was no hint of anger or even irritation in her voice, but the moment she crossed her arms over her chest, he knew he was in trouble.
“Not at all,” he amended hastily. “I merely meant that you were so clearly a desirable match that I did not hesitate for a second before I sprang into action.”
“That is not quite how I recall matters unfolding,” she said, her arms still crossed. Clearly he was not out of danger yet.
“And how, then, do you remember things?” he asked, setting down the list and rising from his spot in an armchair by the fire—they were ensconced in the library, enjoying after-dinner glasses of port and sherry—and beginning to slowly prowl toward her.
“If I recall correctly,” she said, tapping her chin with a thoughtful finger, “you asked me to dance at a ball, then proceeded to mildly stalk me across several society events—”
“Stalk!”
“—before going out of your way to attend a country house party that I know perfectly well you never would have attended otherwise—”
“Ilikecountry house parties,” he objected, nettled. “Blood sport and liberal amounts of brandy, what’s not to like?”
“—before proceeding to suggest wemarry, of all things, after having spent the better part of a fortnight attempting to convince me of all the ways that we might be of use to each other.” She paused, registered his rakishly raised eyebrow, and added, “Notlike that.” His eyebrow rose even higher, and she conceded, “Well, notonlylike that.”
“Are you quite done?” he asked.
“I believe so,” she said with great dignity.
