Splendid (13 page)

“Fine!” Alex declared happily, resting his arm along the sofa behind her back. “That settles it. We have no problems.”

“That's
exactly
the problem!” Emma decided abruptly.

Alex quirked an eyebrow questioningly.

Emma was not deterred. “
You
decided there are no problems so
voilà
! We have no problems. What if I think we have a problem?”

“But you just said we didn't have any problems.”

“I said no such thing. I said I wasn't sure what the problem was. And now I know. So that settles it. We have a problem.” Emma punctuated this declaration by getting up off the sofa and moving to a nearby chair.

“What problem would this be?”

Emma crossed her arms. “You're far too bossy.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really.”

“Well, it just so happens that
you
need some bossing. Look what happens to you when you're
left to your own devices—I find you unconscious in the street!”

“I cannot believe you have the nerve to say that to me!” Emma fumed, getting up to pace the parlor floor. “I was unconscious in the street because I saved your nephew's life! Would you rather I let him get trampled?”

“Forget that,” Alex grumbled, unable to believe his own stupidity. “Bad example.”

“And another thing—I don't need bossing,” Emma said emphatically, working herself up into a fine rage. “I am perfectly able to take care of myself. What you need is a good swift kick to remind you that you are not God!”

“Emma?”

“Oh, be quiet. I don't want to speak with you anymore. You'll probably just laugh smoothly and dish up another sexual innuendo. Frankly, I don't need that kind of aggravation.”

“Emma—”

“What?!” she snapped, whirling around to face him.

“I was just going to remark that I don't think I've ever gotten into such a vehement argument with a woman within twenty-four hours of meeting her.” Alex stroked his chin thoughtfully, curious about the depth of their emotional reactions to one another. “Actually, I don't think I've ever gotten into an argument like that with a woman ever.”

Emma looked away. “Are you trying to insult me?”

“No,” Alex said slowly, as if trying to work out a problem in his head as he spoke. “No, I'm not. Actually, I think I've just complimented you.”

Emma looked back at him, her expression reflecting the confusion she felt. He was still rubbing his jaw, and his eyes had narrowed perceptibly. Long
seconds passed, and Emma could see a wide assortment of emotions pass over his face. Every now and then he would start to say something and then pause, as if a new solution had just offered itself to him. “Do you know what I think this means?” he finally said, his words slow and well thought out. “I think this means we're going to be friends.”

“
What?
”

“It's a novel thought, actually. Friends with a woman.”

“Don't overexert yourself.”

“No, I mean it. Think about it for a minute, Emma. We do argue incessantly, but quite frankly, I've enjoyed myself more in the last twenty-four hours than I have in years.”

Emma merely stared at him, quite unable to think of a response to such a statement. Alex continued, “I think I like you, Miss Emma Dunster. Of course, I
want
you, too. That much must be quite obvious to you. Lord knows it's painfully obvious to me. But I really do quite like you. You're a good egg.”

“
A good egg?
” Her voice came out strangled.

“And I think that if you think about it, you'll realize you like me, too. When was the last time you had so much fun?”

Emma opened her mouth but didn't have an answer.

Alex smiled knowingly. “You like me. I know you do.”

Emma finally laughed, unable to believe his nerve yet still admiring him for it. “Yes, I guess I do.”

This time Alex's smile was radiant. “Well, then, I guess we're friends.”

“I guess so.” Emma was not quite sure how this truce had come about, but she decided not to question it. Despite her better judgment, she knew that
Alex was right—she did like him. He was completely outrageous and more than a little domineering, but she just couldn't help enjoying his company, even if they did spend half their time yelling at each other.

Just then they heard Belle and Sophie coming down the stairs toward the parlor. Belle started coughing uncontrollably, and Sophie yelped, “Oh my!” Emma rested her face against one hand and began to laugh.

Alex merely shook his head, a wry grin spreading across his face. “Well, my love,” he said, “I imagine my sister has just remembered that she doesn't have a harpsichord.”

Chapter 8

D
uring the next few weeks, Emma's life settled into something of a routine, albeit a rather exciting and entertaining one. Overnight, she had become one of the most sought-after members of London society. It was quickly decided (by whomever it is that decides these things) that, while her red hair was regrettable, the rest of her certainly wasn't, and so she was hailed a beauty, despite those fiery locks. Some of the more conservative matrons deemed her a little too bold (especially with “that red hair”), but most of the
ton
decided they rather liked talking with a female who could converse on topics other than ribbons and petticoats. And so Emma and Belle (who had acquired a similar although blonder reputation the previous year) went laughingly from party to party, enjoying their popularity immensely. For Emma, this time was a delightful interlude in a life that would surely take her back to her father in Boston where she, as his only child, would eventually defy current industry standards and take over his shipping business.

The only complication was, of course, the Duke of Ashbourne, who had emerged from his selfimposed exile and taken his place in society with a vengeance. No one had any doubts as to the reason for his sudden reappearance.

“He is positively stalking Emma,” Caroline once grumbled.

To which his “prey” had shrewdly replied, “I'm not sure if he likes me or if he just likes to stalk.”

Of course that statement was only half true. During the previous few weeks, Emma had seen Alex almost every day, and the friendship between them had developed into a fairly strong one. Emma was certain that Alex truly cared for her as a person and not just as some sort of prize to be won. Still, the friendship was often fraught with sexual tension, and, well, Alex did seem to enjoy stalking.

He was as quick as a lion and enjoyed surprising her. Once Emma had gone to a musicale he had said he did not plan to attend. She had been standing idly next to an open window when she felt a warm hand grab hers. She had jerked away, but the hand held firm, and she had heard a familiar voice whisper, “Don't make a scene.”

“Alex?” Her eyes darted about. Surely someone noticed a hand snaking through the window.

But the rest of the partygoers had been involved in their own flirtations and didn't notice Emma's flustered expression. “What are you doing here?” she whispered urgently, keeping a benign smile pasted on her face.

“Come out to the garden,” he had ordered.

“Are you crazy?”

“Maybe. Come out to the garden.”

Emma, cursing herself fifty times for a fool, had made up a story about a tear her dress and stolen away. Alex was waiting for her in the garden, hidden among the trees.

“What are you doing here?” she repeated as soon as she found him.

He grabbed her hand and yanked her deeper into the shadows. “I figured you missed me,” he replied cheekily.

“I most certainly did not!” Emma had tried to pull her arm back, but he wouldn't let go.

“Now, now, of course you did. It's all right to admit it.”

Emma had grumbled and muttered something underneath her breath about overbearing aristocrats, but one look at his wicked smile was all it took to force her to admit to herself that she
had
missed him. “Did you miss me?” she countered.

“What do you think?”

She felt herself grow bold. “I think you did.”

He had looked at her mouth then, looked at it with such longing and intensity that Emma was sure he was going to kiss her. Her mouth went dry, her lips parted, and she felt herself sway toward him. But all he had done was drop her hand with startling abruptness, flash her a smile, and murmur, “Until tomorrow, love.”

In a blink of an eye, he had disappeared.

It was moments like these that had tied Emma's feelings into a tangled knot of confusion. No matter how many nights she laid awake thinking about him, she could not seem to sort out her thoughts about Alex.

On the one hand, his domineering attitude provoked her to no end. He was constantly trying to boss her around, although, Emma thought smugly, he was finding that to be no simple task. On the other hand, he was proving to be quite convenient as his mere presence effectively scared off most of her persistent suitors, which was fortunate since she hadn't wanted any suitors in the first place. She was always in demand at parties, but she had skillfully managed to avoid any awkward proposals of marriage.

To complicate matters, Emma was discovering that Alex was truly an entertaining escort and companion. He constantly challenged her intellect
and, although he said the most outrageous things to her, she never tired of his company. She privately vowed, however, that he would never hear such high praise from her lips—his ego certainly did not need any polishing. But what most confused Emma was her physical reaction to the man. The mere sight of him somehow set her entire body quivering with expectation. Expectation for what, she wasn't exactly sure, although she imagined Alex knew. Once, when she was confiding her feelings to Belle (who was already up to
Hamlet
in her grand Shakespearean quest), she said that the only way she could describe her reaction to him was that she experienced a “heightened sense of reality.”

“It's corny and trite, I know,” Emma had remarked, “but it just seems that I'm so aware of everything when he's near. The scent of the flowers is stronger. My lemonade tastes sweeter, my champagne more potent. And it's so difficult not to look at him, don't you think? It's those green eyes of his; he should have been a cat. And then I get short of breath, and my skin
tingles.
”

Belle was blunt. “I think you're in love.”

“Absolutely not!” Emma protested, aghast.

“You might as well accept it,” Belle advised, pragmatic as usual. “In this day and age it's a rare thing to find someone you love, and it's even rarer to have enough money to be able to do something about it. Most people have to marry for family considerations, you know.”

“Don't be silly. I certainly don't want to marry the man. He'd be absolute hell to live with. Can you imagine? He's insufferable, overbearing, domineering—”

“And he makes you tingle.”

“The point is,” Emma said, ignoring her cousin,
“that I don't want to get married to an Englishman. And he doesn't want to get married at all.”

The Duke of Ashbourne's lack of interest in the matrimonial state, however, did not prevent him in the least from flirting with Emma outrageously and on every possible occasion. To be fair, Emma did her share of flirting, too, although she had to admit she wasn't nearly as skilled at it as he was. It was becoming great sport among the
ton
to watch Alex and Emma spar with each other, and wagers had already begun to appear in the books of all of London's most elite gentlemen's clubs as to whether and when the couple would finally marry.

But if any of the young lords who had made such bets had actually taken the time to ask Emma about the situation, she could easily have informed them that wedding bells were certainly not forthcoming in the foreseeable future. First of all, she didn't want to get married. Second of all, Alex didn't want to get married. But the most telling clue was that Alex hadn't even tried to kiss her once since that first night when he had stolen into her bedroom.
That
was what left Emma most puzzled. She suspected that it was all part of some master plan, for she was fairly certain he still desired her. Every now and then she'd catch him looking at her with a fiery gleam in his eye that made her tremble. At such times his gaze would burn hotly into her, leaving her breathless and dazed. Then after a few moments, he'd look sharply away, and the next time Emma saw his face, his cool, unflappable facade would be back in place.

Their sometimes easygoing, sometimes tense relationship continued quite peacefully in this manner until the night of the Lindworthys' ball.

Emma never suspected that the evening wouldn't
be like every other. She was particularly excited to attend the ball because Ned had just returned from a month-long jaunt to Amsterdam with his university friends, and she had missed his companionship during his absence. The entire Blydon household was a flurry of activity as everyone prepared for the evening.

“Emma Dunster! Did you take my pearl earrings?” Belle suddenly appeared in the doorway of Emma's room, resplendent in a low-cut gown of ice-blue silk.

Emma, who was seated at her dressing table, fussed with her hair and ignored Belle's question as she reached for a crystal vial of perfume. “Your father will kill you when he sees that gown.”

Belle tugged at the bodice. “It's no worse than yours.”

“Yes, but you'll note that I've got a shawl on.” Emma smiled blithely.

“Which you will undoubtedly remove when we arrive at the Lindworthys'?”

“Undoubtedly.” Emma dabbed a few drops of the scent on the side of her neck.

“But I don't have a shawl that matches this gown. Do you?”

“Only the one I'm wearing.” Emma motioned to the ivory shawl that was draped over her bare shoulders. The pale material glowed against the dark green silk gown she had donned for the evening.