Page 67 of To Marry and to Meddle
“A lot better than you’ll be feeling in approximately ten seconds if you don’t stop comparing me to gemstones,” she said, smiling sweetly at her fiancé.
“To answer your question, my treasured opal,” he said, dropping his arm from her waist and neatly avoiding a kick to his shins as he darted nimbly to the side, “I was out and about, and decided to pop in to see if I could provide my escort as you make your way to my humble home.” He flashed them a charming smile—it was no surprise, Emily thought, that he had been so infamous a rake prior to meeting his match in Diana. “So you would not have to face the ordeal of travel through the dangerous London streets alone,” he added helpfully, with the air of a man who clearly expected them to fall at his feet in paroxysms of gratitude at any moment.
“Why are youreallyhere?” Diana asked, unmoved by this display of gallantry.
Lord Willingham sighed. “I was walking down the street and saw Lady Wheezle coming from the opposite direction, so naturally I sought shelter.” He adopted a mournful, vaguely harried expression. “In the warm and welcoming arms of my beloved, of course.”
His beloved was, in fact, sitting once more on a chaise, regarding him as though she suspected him of recently having committed a crime. A touching scene, indeed, Emily thought, though she could not help but note that Diana seemed to be biting her cheek as if to prevent a smile.
“Sit down and do stop talking,” she said instead. “Emily was in the middle of telling us something when you interrupted, and she’ll never finish if you keep distracting us.”
“Your wish is my command, my adorable sapphire,” Lord Willingham said with what Emily personally considered to be alarming disregard for his physical well-being. He sank down next to Diana on the chaise and rested an arm along its back, his hand lazily beginning to play with a curl at her neck that had escaped her coiffure.
“Yes,” Emily said a bit more uncertainly now, not at all sure that she wished to continue this discussion in Lord Willingham’s hearing. It wasn’t that he made her nervous, exactly—she had known him for years, after all—just that they didn’t have terribly much in common. Except for the fact that they both adored Diana—which, Emily reflected, was really more than enough. Before she could work out what to say next, however, she heard the distinct sound of her own husband’s voice echoing down the hallway, growing louder with each moment.
“Does every man in London think it necessary to visit my house this afternoon?” Diana asked peevishly, before shooting an apologetic look at her betrothed.
“Don’t start fussing over my feelings now,” Lord Willingham said. “I might expire from shock.”
A moment later, Julian appeared in the doorway of the sunroom, Diana’s long-suffering butler hovering anxiously behind him.
“Lord Julian Belfry,” Wright squawked over Julian’s shoulder as Julian walked into the room.
“Yes, Wright, thank you,” Diana said. “I do believe that is self-evident. Belfry, sit down before you cause poor Wright to take to his bed,” she added.
Julian, for his part, ignored Diana entirely—and Diana was not a terribly easy person to ignore—and instead looked at Emily.
“Emily, I need to speak to you,” he said.
“All right,” she said, rising. “Let me just collect my—”
“No, it will only take a moment,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s no need to alter your plans for the afternoon. If I could just speak to you privately for a moment or two.”
“Of course,” she said, frowning, conscious of three very curious gazes watching this exchange. She swept past him through the doorway that led from the solarium into one of Diana’s drawing rooms, shutting the door firmly on her friends’ intrigued faces.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, turning to him. He looked… odd. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what was amiss, and yet he was not at all himself. It was unsettling. There was something unsettled abouthim, in fact—some strange, indescribable energy hovering about his lean form that she didn’t think she’d ever seen in him before.
“Yes,” he said, running a distracted hand through his hair. “No—I don’t know.”
“Of course,” she said politely. “That clears things right up.”
He cracked a grin at that. “Sorry. I’m all at sixes and sevens.” He walked toward her, reaching out to grip her hand. “Miss Simmons showed up at rehearsal.”
Emily frowned. “Miss Simmons, who was last seen fleeing into a rosy dawn in the company of Lord Delacre?”
“The very one.”
“Did she… have second thoughts?”
“Something like that,” he said grimly, and Emily’s frown deepened, not understanding his tone.
“What is the matter?” she asked, perplexed. “Isn’t this good news? Now you can stop worrying about the production so much.”
“Emily…” He took a deep breath. “She came back because my father went to fetch her.”
“What?” she asked, his words not fully registering.
“My father. Followed her halfway across England.” The words came out as short, clipped sentences, like chips of ice broken off a large block. “Apparently by the time he arrived, she’d already realized her mistake—Delacre is a right bastard, after all, and Miss Simmons is no idiot, so it didn’t take her long to realize she’d cast her lot in with the wrong man, but she had no money, no way to escape him.”
