The Heir and the Spare (4 page)

“I’m perishing of boredom,” his friend replied.

“Then let’s go meet this Miss Highhart.”

He saw her stealing glances at him as he made his way through the crowds. She certainly seemed to remember him, but he could have sworn he had never even seen her before, let alone held her for a moment. He was making a mental note to drink less when Parkhurst suddenly stopped and issued a groan.

“What is it now?” Phillip asked. His friend could really try his nerves sometimes.

“Her chaperone,” Parkhurst muttered with a jerk of his head. “Lady Palmerston. I remember now—she is Miss Highhart’s aunt.”

“Surely you can handle a moment’s conversation with her,” Phillip replied.

“It’s just the way she looks at a person, as if she can read one’s mind. It’s really bothersome,” Parkhurst said. Phillip silently agreed. Lady Palmerston did seem to know everything about everyone, and when she looked at you, you got the distinct impression that she was mentally retrieving every speck of information she had ever heard about you. But he, of course, was not going to be intimidated. If nothing else, her notorious outspokenness would be mildly amusing.

“It would be a great honor if I could fetch you a lemonade, Miss Highhart,” Lord Royce offered. He had a very boyish face, a mop of pale curls, and a cravat that was slightly askew.

“She would love a lemonade, as would I. Thank you so much, Lord Royce,” her aunt answered. Murmuring to Emilia after he left to procure the drinks, she added, “He is a very nice young man. But he has the most annoying tendency to recite his own poetry.”

Emilia merely nodded. It had been two hours of dancing and introductions, and Emilia had given up on trying to remember everyone’s name and whatever tidbit about their character that her aunt had offered. Two more gentlemen arrived, angling for an introduction.

“Good evening, Roxbury. How is your father?” Lady Palmerston asked with a slight grin, quite nearly flirtatious, which Roxbury returned. He was tall, with dark curls that hung about his face like silk and equally dark eyes. He had the look of a Roman statue—noble and a little too beautiful. He seemed well aware of it.

“He is quite well, Lady Palmerston,” he replied.

“I’m sure it pains you to say that. You’re next in line for the earldom, if I’m correct,” she said, with a snap of her fan.

“You are never wrong, madam,” he murmured. “Miss Highhart, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Perhaps I might claim a dance later this evening.”

And so it continued on. Lord Royce returned with the drinks, and an attempt to recite a sonnet, which was lost in the din of the ballroom. Lady Palmerston moved on, and Emilia followed. Her aunt paused to converse with two couples about a house party that had taken place the past week. Since they were all more interested in the story of someone falling off his horse during a foxhunt than Emilia, she took a moment to discreetly look around for Lord Huntley.

She did not want to believe her aunt’s story about him. For what did that say about her that she had enjoyed the attentions of such a man? Enjoyed, of course, being too small a word to explain the way he had made her feel. That kiss. The relentless heat and the intoxicating taste of it. Oh, it had been dangerous and wicked, too. Not the danger of ruination, exactly, but the danger of constantly wanting more. In between heartbeats, memories of moments flashed back to her. The ballroom was very hot all of the sudden.

“Your cheeks are very red, dear. Might you need a bit of fresh air?” her aunt whispered.

“I . . .” Emilia could not finish her sentence. Because there he was, with those dark brown eyes focused on her, as he threaded his way through the crowds of the ballroom, like a wolf stalking a lone sheep. A feeling of unease spread over her. She could only feel it, note it, and ignore it. Her attention turned to the same broad chest that had broken her fall, and the same mouth that had thoroughly kissed her own.

She looked away, turning her attention to the gentleman as he was concluding his story. “. . . And then, splat! His horse bucked him right into the swamp. The look on his face was simply priceless!” he finished up with a chortle that died quickly when Lord Phillip and his friend reached their party.

“I gather you would like an introduction to my niece, Lord Huntley,” Lady Palmerston drawled. “A proper one, this time.”

“If you would be so kind,” he responded with a slight smile, his dark eyes flitting for a moment to Emilia. After the introductions, as unnecessary as they might be, he kissed the back of her offered hand. Emilia braced herself to feel some sort of spark, or magic. She did not have a moment to ponder the absence of it.

“I do believe I hear a waltz starting. Would you care to dance, Miss Highhart?” he asked, smiling down at her.

“Well, yes, but . . .” She had promised this waltz to Lord Royce, who was now walking toward her. She watched as he paused, taking note of Lord Huntley, and turned and walked away.

“Yes, that would be lovely,” she said. Even if for a few moments, she could be in his arms again. And then he might tell her how much he had enjoyed their kiss last night. And how enjoy was too small a word. All this would be murmured in his low, smooth voice, so that no one else might hear.

Or not.

She was too aware of all the stares and whispers. She was too aware of her aunt’s disapproval that she was waltzing with this man, this absolute scoundrel. She was too aware of him. His hand on the small of her back. The distance between them. All the things she wanted to ask him, but couldn’t find the words for. Never mind that it was simply not appropriate to ask a man if he did, in fact, ruin four women, and whether that had been his intention toward her the other night.

“The other night . . .” she began, hoping that the sentence would finish itself, because she had no idea what she meant to say.

“Hmm. Yes. You might want to refresh my memory,” he said with the slightest smile, the gaze of his dark eyes roaming over her features. She took a moment before responding, because she didn’t want the horror she felt to reveal itself in her tone. He didn’t remember! She tripped over her steps, but managed not to fall.

“You don’t remember?” she asked finally, hoping her voice sounded flirtatious.

“Perhaps I simply wish to hear you tell me of it,” he murmured with a slightly reassuring smile. A slightly seductive smile. Lud, he was handsome. How was a woman supposed to think around him, let alone speak?

“I just wanted to thank you for catching me when I fell,” she said.

“Is that all?” he asked. She could only stare at him for a moment. She could only look into those dark eyes and attempt to discern if he was serious. Is that all!

“Yes. That is all,” she said. But she could feel the blush on her cheeks giving her away.

“I thought so,” he murmured. There was a faraway look in his eyes. Perhaps he was reliving the kiss, as she had done. Perhaps he was trying to remember it. Perhaps it had not meant anything to him at all. And perhaps it should not mean anything to her either. Perhaps . . .

The waltz concluded. It wasn’t perfect, but she still wanted more of him. She was still sorry to see him vanish into the crowd.

“Groves! What happened to my drawing room? It seems to have been replaced with a flower shop,” Lady Palmerston declared as she stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, and surveyed the room.

“Are all these for me?” Emilia wondered, peeking over her aunt’s shoulder. At least a dozen flower arrangements were placed on the mantel and on the side tables scattered around the room.

“Well, I’d wager that none are for me, so they must be for you.”

“Yes,” Groves added, “these arrived for Miss Highhart this morning.”

Emilia strolled to the mantel, over which hung a large, imposing portrait of the late Lord Palmerston, and picked up a card nestled in a bouquet of pink roses.
“To match the blush upon your fair cheek
—
Lord Ballington.”
She smiled at that, and moved on, hoping perhaps the red tulips or pink peonies were from Lord Huntley. None of them were. Worse, she did not recall some of the names on the cards. She had been too busy wondering about a scoundrel who kissed and fled, and who did not send flowers. Since when had she become so foolish?

“I fear I might get a headache from the scent,” Lady Palmerston complained, strolling over to her favorite chair, which was upholstered in gold damask. Emilia sat on a green damask settee, with her back to the doors leading to the dining room, so she had a view of the street through the two large windows.

“Lord Chatham,” Groves announced.

The gentleman in question, a plain man of indeterminate age, was shown in, and he took the seat on the settee opposite Emilia.

“I understand your father owns a shipping company,” Lord Chatham said after a perfunctory conversation about the weather.

“Yes, Diamond Shipping,” Emilia replied warily. She had had this conversation with men before. What they really wanted to know was just how much, exactly, she would bring to a marriage.

“And you do intend to reside in England permanently, do you not?”

“I’m not quite certain. It depends. I do intend to return to America, at least to visit.”

“It is a very long and arduous journey,” Lord Chatham replied.

“Yes, but worth it to see my father and my friends,” Emilia said, watching as Lord Chatham’s expression showed a flicker of annoyance. Before the conversation could continue, Groves announced another caller, Lord Roxbury. After briefly acknowledging Chatham, Roxbury sat beside Emilia. Lady Palmerston sat on her large chair with a mildly amused expression.

“Good day, Roxbury, we were just discussing the pleasant weather,” Chatham began.

“Yes, we all agree it is just lovely,” Lady Palmerston remarked, as if it were a rare event for people to agree on the quality of the weather.

“Indeed it is. A perfect summer day,” Roxbury said. Taking Emilia’s hand, he turned to her and began,
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

Emilia bit her lip, ready to recite the next line, except she had no desire to tell him, “Thou art more lovely and more temperate.” She guessed that he would not be impressed that she knew Shakespeare, but would take it as a sign of encouragement. Emilia had noticed him at balls, shamelessly flirting with every unmarried woman in his path. She would, in fact, wager that he had recited this very poem to a dozen different girls already today.

Roxbury continued on, and out of the corner of her eye Emilia could see Lady Palmerston and Chatham exchanging wary glances.

“Lady Alcourt and the Misses Alcourt,” Groves interrupted again.

The gentlemen stood, acknowledged the new arrivals, and as a sufficient amount of time had passed since their arrival, they took their leave.

The three women squeezed onto one settee and accepted the offered tea.

“We absolutely had to call and meet your niece, Lady Palmerston. My daughters, Bethany and Belinda, and I were in complete agreement that we should properly welcome her to London,” Lady Alcourt said. She was a stout woman, dressed in a shade of lavender that did not compliment her complexion. Her daughters possessed white blonde hair, fair skin, and wispy figures. They seemed almost angelic.

“Thank you, it is so kind of you to welcome me,” Emilia replied, smiling at the girls, thinking it might be nice to make some friends. Back home she had certainly been on friendly terms with other girls, but she had never had a close friend—probably because her favorite thing to do was curl up with a book, which was not a very social activity.

“I had heard about your hair. It is as red as they say!” Lady Alcourt said.“ ’Tis a pity, though. It is not the thing. My girls are blessed with the golden hair that is so popular this season. They get it from me,” she said, patting her own pale hair, more white than gold.

“How do you ever find hair ribbons to match?” one of the girls asked, with genuine concern in her voice.

“Really, Bethany. It’s not like she loses sleep over something so trivial,” Belinda replied, offering a slight smile to Emilia.

“It is quite a challenge, but one must manage somehow,” Emilia replied, playing along.

Groves entered again, announcing more callers. Lord Ballington of the pink roses stepped into the room, as did Lord Wiltshire. Lady Alcourt nudged her daughters into action, and she turned to engage Lady Palmerston in conversation.

Bethany Alcourt was a shameless flirt, and apparently unconcerned about the fact that the gentlemen present had not come to call upon her. Emilia would have liked to talk to Belinda, but she, too, was conversing with one of Emilia’s callers. She took a sip of her tea, wondering if she ought to know how to gain a gentleman’s attention.

Soon enough, the Alcourt women took their leave. More bachelors called, with bows and compliments delivered in deliberately sultry tones and sly glances at their competitors. Other marriage-minded mamas and their daughters arrived, and like the Alcourts, seemed equally intent on welcoming Emilia and determining what sort of competition she was.

And finally, oh, finally, he arrived. He stood in the doorway, towering behind the butler. His dark hair was pushed back, accentuating those chiseled features he owned. That mouth of his turned up in the slightest smile that made her cheeks hot at the recollection of that kiss. He was clad in the finest garments—pale breeches, a starched white shirt, and a meticulously arranged cravat. His waistcoat was crimson, and his jacket fit him to perfection. In one gloved hand he carried at least a dozen red roses that put the other flowers in the drawing room to shame.

He first offered a greeting to Lady Palmerston, who nodded and hmmphed. He bowed to the other women present, none of whom made any effort to look anything but surprised at his presence. The other gentlemen offered excuses, one by one, and departed. And then he sat beside her.