Page 8 of To Marry and to Meddle
“I can see why Violet and Diana have been acting so foolishly this summer, if they’ve been doing lots of that.”
Julian felt his mouth curve upward into a smile before he could stop himself. “You never do say what I expect you to.”
Emily gave him a cheeky smile in return. “Once we are wed, I’m certain you’ll become more skilled at expecting the correct thing,” she said consolingly, as a governess might reassure a pupil who’d received a bad mark. “You mustn’t trouble yourself about it now.”
“I was hardly—” he began, but broke off, seeing her smile widen, realizing she was deliberately provoking him. And all at once the strangest thought flitted across his mind: marriage to Lady Emily Turner might be rather fun.
Two
Emily had spent her entirelife not making a stir. She had been a well-behaved child—one who spoke softly, who smiled prettily, who curtseyed gracefully. She’d been an agreeable debutante, parading around ballrooms in her gowns of white and pale pink and pastel yellow. She did not argue. She did not pout. She did not cause scandals.
But she was rather looking forward to dinner that evening.
“You don’t wish to tell your friends first, privately?” Julian had asked as they’d walked back up to the house after their interlude by the lake.
“No,” she said cheerfully. “Let’s just tell everyone at once, at dinner.”
He had given her a long, considering look, but had not protested further. She now sat before her vanity, allowing her maid, Hollyhock, to dress her hair. The room was silent; she and Hollyhock had never particularly gotten along, as Emily suspected her of reporting all of Emily’s activities back to her mother. Though, given the alternative—Diana’s lady’s maid was openly hostile toward her—Emily supposed that a bit of eavesdropping was not the worst quality in a servant. But it did not lead to idle chatter at the dressing table.
At last, however, she was ready, and Hollyhock was dismissed.Emily surveyed herself in the mirror. She was wearing one of her favorite evening gowns, a pink silk concoction that she always thought made her skin glow. It was not particularly daring—none of her gowns were—but the bodice was cut a smidge lower, and Emily felt quite adult as she stared at her reflection.
Shewasan adult, she reminded herself sternly. She was twenty-three years old, had just that afternoon accepted an offer of marriage, and had kissed her handsome betrothed. Outdoors! In daylight!
Her mother would not have been pleased, but Emily felt quite satisfied with the afternoon’s developments.
There was a soft tap at the door, and Emily crossed the room to open it. Julian stood in the hall, wearing a black coat and an emerald-green waistcoat embroidered with a pattern of leaves and vines, looking so handsome that for a moment Emily could not believe that the man standing before her was actually going to marry her. Somehow, despite her beauty—and her beauty was something that Emily was very much aware of; she tried her hardest not to be vain, but her mother had long ago made it clear that Emily’s face was her most valuable asset, so it was impossible to be unaware of it entirely—Emily had never imagined herself marrying someone like Julian Belfry. He was too dark and dashing and rakish and dangerous. She had imagined a future for herself as the wife of some dull, wealthy viscount or other gentleman—and even this had been much better than the years she’d spent with a growing fear that she’d become the wife of a scandalous gaming hell owner instead. Even if, in her imagination, she longed for something more exciting.
Well, it seemed she was going to get that, at least. She wasn’t quite certain what to expect from marriage to Julian Belfry, but she somehow knew that it wouldn’t be boring.
“Are you ready to cause a stir?” he asked, smiling at her and offering his arm.
She reached out and took it, smiling back at him. “Absolutely.”
It was after the fish course that Julian took the plunge.
Dinner was a long, leisurely, lively affair—they were nearing the end of the house party and, after close to a fortnight in one another’s company, had grown used to sharing meals. Emily was seated between the dowager marchioness and Lady Fitzwilliam Bridewell (or Sophie, as she had invited Emily to call her; she was a new friend of Violet’s and an old flame of Lord James’s elder brother, the Marquess of Weston, known as West). Emily had spent the better part of the past quarter hour being lectured by Lady Willingham on the importance of a gentleman’s calves. Emily, initially thinking she was discussing a gentleman’s wealth and property holdings, found this a touch mercenary but not unreasonable, but it eventually transpired that she was not discussing baby cows at all but, in fact, gentlemen’s legs.
“Finely muscled calves tell you everything you need to know about a man,” Lady Willingham said wisely, sipping from her wineglass with all the solemnity of a trusted counselor of the king imparting valuable wisdom.
“I… see,” Emily said, making a point of not glancing farther down the table at Julian, seated next to Violet, with whom he was deep in conversation. She had never paid much attention to his calves—or his legs in general—which, if Lady Willingham were to be believed, had been a grave error in judgment.
“Your grandson has very nice calves,” Sophie said boldly, leaningaround Emily in a breach of etiquette to speak directly to the dowager marchioness. She seemed to be attempting to shock the lady into propriety, but—as would become evident a moment later—was merely an amateur attempting to outwit a master.
“You would know far better than I, my girl,” the dowager marchioness said serenely, and Sophie dropped her fork on her plate with such a loud clatter that half the table fell momentarily silent.
Julian seized the opportunity. “Thank you, Lady Fitzwilliam, for sparing me the trouble of doing that,” he said with a grin, raising a glass in the direction of Sophie, who was visibly pale, clearly traumatized by the realization that the dowager marchioness was aware of her short-lived affair with Lord Willingham. “But if I could ask you all to spare me a moment of your attention, I have an announcement to make.”
The rest of the table fell silent, everyone’s gaze directed at Julian—everyone, that is, except Violet and Diana, whose eyes were flicking back and forth between Emily and Julian so quickly that Emily worried they would grow cross-eyed.
“I am pleased to announce,” he continued, “that I have asked Lady Emily for her hand in marriage, and she has accepted.”
In a single, uniform movement, every head at the table turned to look at Emily, who blushed to find herself so suddenly the object of scrutiny. She kept her gaze fixed on Julian, trying to ignore the others, and allowed a small smile to curve across her face—the sort of expression she imagined a besotted bride-to-be would make.
“Is there something in the water here?” Viscount Penvale asked, breaking the silence. “First Jeremy and Diana, now you two—”
“Shall we find a bride for you next, dearest?” Diana asked her brother sweetly. “Feeling left out?”
“Hardly,” Penvale said, casting a dark look down the table at her;they looked remarkably alike under ordinary circumstances, and even more so when they were glowering at each other. “It’s more that I’m wondering if I should stop eating or drinking anything served at this table, if this is the result.”
