The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (41 page)

“No, what if the cousin tells the duke you stole his
Rhyncholaelia digbyana
? What a fine pickle that would be. Sir Waldo would be horrified by the scandal, and I can’t say that I’d blame him.”

The mention of her sister’s awful fiancé caused Emma to answer more harshly than she intended. “Well, if Sir Waldo Windbag doesn’t—”

“Wind
bourne.
”

“—like it, then I suggest he align himself with another family. The Harlows of Derbyshire cannot spend their lives worrying about what little thing might set him off. You need someone with less delicate sensibilities, who doesn’t take a pet every time a lady says ‘devil’ in his presence.”

Lavinia, who knew her sister’s passions intimately, gave fair attention to this speech but was unswayed by it. “Your language could stand an improvement, my dear.”

Emma made an inelegant grunt that sounded like something one would hear from a horse.

“You know that Sir Waldo comes from one of the oldest families in England. His people are very proud and correct, and they do not do things the Harlow way. But I believe he’s a good man.”

“Too good,” Emma muttered.

“What dear?”

“Nothing.”

“I know you’re upset that I’m marrying, but it won’t change anything, my darling. You shall see. Sir Waldo is not quite the ogre you think he is. I expect we’ll both be changed by our marriage. He’ll become a little more free in his ways, and I’ll become a little less so. Compromise. That’s what marriage is about.”

Emma’s experience with Sir Waldo had convinced her that he was a man incapable of compromise, especially when dealing with a woman. But she held her tongue, unwilling to fight anymore with her sister. “Please, let’s not tease ourselves over this. The important thing is that you have a flower to show at the Horticultural Society exhibition next month. Now do help me select a dress for tomorrow night’s ball. Imagine! Me
finally
dancing the waltz with a man who’s not a relation.”

“I cannot use this flower,” Lavinia said.

“Why ever not?” Emma asked, beginning to despair of ever finding a dress. When had her wardrobe becomes so bland and missish?

“It’s not mine. I haven’t raised it. Using it would be a violation of the society’s rules. Besides, think of the scandal if the duke was to recognize it. What if he entered the very same flower? They would toss me out of the society on my ear.”

This was the last thing Emma wanted. “Of course it wouldn’t do to pass the duke’s orchid off as your own. I meant for you to use it with another one of your plants to make a new plant.”

“Cross-fertilize it to make a hybrid?” Lavinia’s eyes lit up. “That would be just the thing. I have an excellent
Altensteinia nubigena
. No, not excellent like the duke’s is excellent, but the colors are vibrant and the stem fine and erect. Yes, it would go very nicely with this orchid, assuming the cross-fertilization worked. Oh, wouldn’t that be marvelous. I could call the new hybrid the Stolen Trent or something like that.”

“Wonderful. I look forward to seeing it at the exhibition.”

Lavinia laughed. “My dear, how silly you are. You can’t grow a new orchid in six weeks. It might be ready for showing next year but even that’s doubtful. It usually takes two or three years to get a show-quality flower.”

“Oh,” said Miss Harlow. The thought of waiting two or three years to get results seemed intolerable to her. “Well, in the meantime, what do you think of this gown?” She held up a high-wasted cerulean blue silk dress.

Lavinia barely glanced at it. “Very becoming, I’m sure. But I can’t spare much time. I must plant this before the bulb dries out. You’re the best of good sisters to give me such a thoughtful present.” She kissed her sister on the cheek before flying out of the room and leaving Emma to her unsatisfying wardrobe.

Emma craned her neck but couldn’t see above the awful crush at Lord Bennington’s ball.

“Really, Emma, do cease twitching in that ghastly manner,” Sarah Harlow said sternly. “You are making me terribly nervous.”

With effort, Emma stopped her fidgeting and glanced at her sister-in-law. Her brother’s wife was a tall, slim woman with excellent posture and a refined manner. She never twitched or squirmed or chafed, and she could always be relied upon for useful, sensible advice. She and Emma were opposites in many respects, but they rubbed together very well indeed. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I’ll try to behave.”

“I don’t know what your problem is today. You’re never a pattern card of correct behavior, but you usually have enough sense not to stand on your tippy-toes and teeter about. You look like an oak tree about to fall over.”

“I am sorry, dear. It’s just that I am very excited to be here.”

Sarah snorted. It was an unladylike sound and one not often heard emanating from her elegant person. “You’re never excited to be anywhere this crowded.”

“Pooh,” she dismissed, trying to stretch her neck in a covert way that would not reveal her true intentions. Alas, all she spied were the jeweled curls of the lady in front of her. “I often enjoy social outings of this stripe.”

“You can’t hoodwink me, my dear. You loath packed drawing rooms and overstuffed balls. If you enjoyed social outings, then your poor mama would not despair of marrying you off.”

Emma momentarily abandoned her ineffectual search and looked her sister-in-law in the eye. “Now you are telling fibs, Sarah. You know very well Mama would despair of me whatever I should do. As long as I’m unmarried and ostensibly still her responsibility, she will continue to despair,” she said without the heat of resentment. “You’ll note that I say
ostensibly
, since she dumped me and Vinnie on you and my brother without a second thought. I’m not complaining, of course. I’d much rather stay with you than with my mother anyway.”

Sarah knew Emma’s assessment was correct—Margaret Harlow’s maternal instinct was sadly lacking—but she didn’t want to admit that to Emma. She would rather that the girl had some illusions left. “Surely
dump
isn’t quite the right word.”

Emma laughed, said no more on the subject and strained her neck again. If only she were just a little bit taller…

“Really, my dear, tell me what has you in this tizzy,” Sarah ordered.

“I’m going to dance the waltz for the first time,” answered Emma, a becoming blush instantly staining her peach cheeks.

Sarah witnessed the flood of color and marveled at its cause. “Rubbish, you know very well that Roger has danced the waltz with both you and Lavinia. You make a handsome pair with your blond heads so close together.”

Not caring to explain yet again the difference between dancing the waltz with a relation and every other man in the world, she simply said, “Well, it will be like the first time.”

Sarah stared at her with a familiar quizzical look. “You’re a strange child.”

At three and twenty, Emma was certainly no longer a child, but she did not take offense at this appellation. She’d been called a strange child ever since she had put her hair up.

The orchestra began a second waltz, and Emma began to fear that the duke’s cousin was not going to show after all. She really wasn’t surprised, of course. Town life offered many delights and distractions to the unencumbered male, especially those just arrived from the wilds of Yorkshire, and a tedious ball with warm lemonade could not compare. Perhaps she should seek out the duchess and strike up a conversation. Surely the duchess would know if he was coming or not. Now, if she could just see over this crowd…

“Well, now,” said Sarah in a contemplative tone, “this is an unexpected development.”

Emma wasn’t interested in Sarah’s unexpected developments but was well bred enough not to show it. “What’s unexpected?” she asked, her eyes straining to see something above the fluffy blond head in front of her.

“Your sister,” answered Sarah.

“My sister?” Emma was unable to conceive of Lavinia doing anything unexpected.

“Yes, your sister is dancing with a duke, one with whom I didn’t know she was acquainted.”

Emma gasped with surprise and clapped her white-gloved hands. “Lavinia is waltzing with a real live duke? But that’s marvelous!” Instantly she was back on her tippy-toes, trying to get a clear view of the dance floor. Oh, why couldn’t she be tall like Sarah? “Tell me. I can’t see. Is he handsome? Of course he is. All dukes are handsome in their finery,” she said before a thought struck her. “Oooh, is Sir Windbag here? Do tell me you see him! Wouldn’t that be above all things wonderful if she were to jilt Sir Windbag for a duke! Very proud of his heritage, is he? He doesn’t have anything on a duchy.”

Sarah sent her a quelling look. “Emma, my dear, you must learn to be discreet and not quite so childish. Sir Waldo Windbourne is an excellent catch and a very nice feather in your sister’s cap.”

“Bah! One does not marry feathers.” Emma dismissed. She would not listen to a favorable word said on his behalf. “Just tell me if he’s here.”

Sarah used her height to advantage. “Yes, I can see him. He’s standing on the other side of the dance floor and he looks none too pleased.”

Emma giggled. “Of course not. So much for his consequence.” Her balance was precarious, and when she felt herself begin to fall, she clutched Sarah’s arm—and accidentally elbowed the lady in front of her. Although Emma apologized charmingly, the woman took offense and haughtily walked away, leaving a clear view of the dance floor in her wake. Greedily, Emma’s eye drank in the scene until she caught sight of her sister’s dancing partner. Then she paled.

“But, Sarah,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, “that’s not a duke.”

“I assure you, dear, that is a duke.”

She refused to accept this. “No, you must be mistaken.”

“Really, Emma, I’ve been out for almost ten years. Surely I know the Duke of Trent when I see him.”

Twenty-four years of
faultless
propriety

are about to go down the
drain
.