Authors: Cecily French
“Nervous?”
Emily raised an eyebrow at Anthony’s question. “Why should I
be? I’m only going to meet half the
ton
tonight. By tomorrow’s
breakfast, they’ll all know we’re lovers.”
“And every man will be dying of envy because you’re with
me,” Anthony added. “You look stunning, Emily.”
They had never made it to Hyde Park or even the stable
housing their new horses. Instead they had continued to make love until Emily
had to meet with her hairdresser—an altogether pleasant way to spend the
afternoon.
He followed her glance down to her dark-rose gown. Touching
the flowers pinned at the nape of her chignon, she said, “How many eligibles do
you think will be at the rout tonight?”
Anthony fingered his cravat. “Two dozen at least. While not
a patroness of Almack’s, Lady Featherstock’s word can make or break the
reputation of a girl who has just made her bow. Her standards are incredible
and more than one man has been known to consult her on choosing a wife.”
Emily leaned forward and moved his hand. “Davis will kill
you if you mess up this beauty of a knot,” she warned. “As to choosing a wife,
I have my own set of standards. Though they may not match with what our hostess
has to say.”
“And what might your standards be?” Anthony teased.
“Actually, they’re more for what makes a good husband,”
Emily amended. “A good husband doesn’t laugh at his wife when she expresses an
opinion about something, or criticize her even if she doesn’t know a great deal
about the subject. He should have no secrets from her unless he has a wonderful
surprise for her. They should share all financial planning for their household
and she should never be kept in the dark if there are problems. He shouldn’t
refuse to attend activities she enjoys just because he doesn’t prefer them, no
more than she should refuse for the same reason. And he should always, always,
always admit when he has made a mistake.”
“What about him saying he’s sorry?”
“That too,” she agreed. “But I’ve yet to meet a man who will
admit he is wrong even when he is.”
“You’re a strict judge,” Anthony drawled. “Did you ever
advise young women when you and Isaiah were married?”
“Yes.”
He couldn’t be sure in the dim light of the carriage’s
interior, but he could’ve sworn a blush crept across her face. “Go on,” he
prompted.
“It was part of my duties as a vicar’s wife and there was
sometimes the devil to pay for it, if you’ll pardon me speaking so boldly.”
I’ve seen you naked, heard you scream my name while I
made love to you, let you wash my prick and you’re worried about speaking
boldly?
“I’d like to hear what happened,” Anthony said cautiously.
“As a vicar’s wife, I helped more than one young woman
decide if she should marry, especially if she had no female relative to advise
her,” Emily told him. “And many of them had received proposals from men they
found less than desirable. The men, of course, thought the young women would be
overjoyed by the offer. And too many of them had families who would have loved
to have their eligible daughters married and out of the house.”
“I suppose if the family ran high to daughters, a young
woman’s parents might want her to be provided for,” Anthony said. “What did you
tell them?”
“Several things. I’d ask her to imagine day-to-day life with
her prospective groom. Asked her if they enjoyed the same things, shared the
same goals and dreams. Asked her if he made her laugh and if he respected her
opinions, or at least let her voice them. But no matter how she answered, I
would give her one last piece of advice.”
Anthony feigned a shudder. “I’m almost afraid to ask. What
did you tell them?”
“To never, ever settle.” Emily raised her chin. “To never
accept anything but their heart’s desire. That to marry for anything less than
mutual affection would be the death of their hearts and souls, trapping them
forever in a loveless existence.”
“Like yours?” Anthony asked gently.
She nodded. “If I could keep one young woman from entering
such an existence, I could rest a little easier.”
Then why did you marry Isaiah? Why didn’t you wait for
me?
“What about what the man wants?”
“Well, I think I can guess what a man in your position
wants. You need a young woman from a good family.” Emily tilted her head in
thought. “Not necessarily rich, but one would expect girls who had just made
their bow to be from families of means. But you wouldn’t want to marry someone
who didn’t truly care for you. And with my experience, I think I can help you find
someone like that.”
“You would do that for me? Make sure the woman I marry loves
me?”
“I can’t guarantee that,” she answered. “But I’m an
excellent judge of character and between Jocelyn and me I think we can ferret
out the best candidate to be your duchess, someone who will at least
care
for
you
,
not just your title or your inheritance. And one who will be a good
mother to your children.”
Recalling his parents’ love-filled marriage and his father’s
heartbreak when Anthony’s mother died unexpectedly the year before he went to
Cambridge, Anthony nodded slowly. “I’d like that.”
The carriage stopped and the tiger jumped from the back to
pull down the steps and open the door. Anthony alighted first and let the
servant assist Emily to the pavement. Before them, a great, white stone mansion
gleamed in the moonlight. A line of torches blazed at the top of a set of
marble stairs, beckoning the guests forward, and from a line of long windows,
candlelight flickered in invitation.
Anthony held out his arm. “Come, madam. Let’s go charm the
ton
.”
Her gloved hand on his arm started an unusual sensation of
ownership surging through him. He darted a glance at her and his heart swelled
with pride. He’d bet a fiver there wouldn’t be a woman in the room with her
humor or good sense.
Or her beauty.
They climbed the porch and the doors to the house swung open
before Anthony could raise his hand to knock. Voices rolled out across the
foyer from a candlelit room. Two footmen, identically clad—from their silver
and black livery to their powdered wigs and buckled shoes—took their wraps.
Another man, dressed even more gorgeously and carrying a long staff, led them
across the foyer. At the room’s entrance, he pounded the staff three times and
called, “His Grace, Anthony Dyson, the Duke of Bradford and Mrs. Emily Martin.”
As they walked down a small flight of stairs, every female
present watched them, making Emily’s pulse pick up even more. Some of their
eyes were merely curious, while a definite jealousy shone in others. Here and
there, several young women—marked as debutantes by their white dresses—stared
at her in open challenge. She gave them her kindest smile and was rewarded by
their blinking and a lowering of their heads. They could be as rude as they
liked. She was with Anthony and, for tonight, the
ton
would have to
accept that.
“Lady Helen Featherstock.” Anthony’s voice broke into her
thoughts. They had stopped before an older woman in a dark-blue gown holding a
quizzing glass. “Thank you for inviting me to your spring rout so soon after my
return from Florence. No one wants to miss it.”
“Are your sisters with you, Dyson?” The woman offered
Anthony her free hand.
“They remain in Paris, ma’am. With my aunt, the Dowager
Countess of Arden.”
Lady Featherstock’s blue eyes narrowed. “But shouldn’t the
eldest be making her bow this Season?”
“Grace refuses to do so until Tabitha can be with her,”
Anthony explained and a loving note entered his voice. “Her shyness is such
that she cannot imagine making her bow without Tabitha beside her. They will be
presented together next year. Lady Helen Featherstock, may I introduce my good
friend, Mrs. Emily Martin, who arrived in London only a few days ago. Emily,
this is Lady Helen Featherstock, also a good friend. Her husband is Admiral
James Featherstock, retired.”
“One of Nelson’s finest,” Emily said, sinking into a
courtesy. “My late husband had a cousin who served in the navy. He keenly
followed all reports of naval activities while we were at war.”
The older lady’s eyes sparkled and she kept her quizzing
glass lowered. “On which ship did your husband’s cousin serve?”
“The
Hyacinth
, my lady. Isaiah was very proud of his
cousin.”
“As well he should have been. It was a fine ship with a good
crew.” Lady Featherstock sighed. “Well, I mustn’t keep my other guests waiting,
but I’d enjoy talking with you later, Mrs. Martin. Welcome to London.”
Anthony led Emily away and only when they were out of
earshot did he say, “Nice touch, Emily, bringing up Isaiah’s cousin. I think
you pleased her.”
“I was only trying to be polite,” Emily said. “Certainly not
to curry favor.”
“A good thing, too, because she would have seen that at a
glance. Having Helen Featherstock as a friend will be helpful as you move about
Society.”
“She called you ‘Dyson’ and not ‘Your Grace’,” Emily teased.
“Aren’t you offended?”
Helen Featherstock knew me when I was in leading strings,”
he answered with a grin. “We’ve never stood on ceremony.”
“There’s someone over there trying to get your attention.”
Emily gestured her fan at two splendidly dressed men standing at the
refreshment table on the far side of the crowded room. The taller of the
two—and he was very tall indeed—waved and beckoned to them.
“The waving fellow is Brandon Hightower, Viscount
Pemberton,” Anthony said as they moved between the guests. “The other is
Gregory Keller—Sir Gregory Keller I should say as he has just been awarded a
baronetcy for service to the Crown during the wars.”
“Really?” Emily studied the slender, dark-haired man. “What
service did he render the Crown?”
“No one knows for sure and if they do they’re not saying.”
From the corner of her eye, Emily watched a sly grin creep over Anthony’s face.
“Greg certainly isn’t talking, but the wags say he smuggled valuable documents
across the Channel on more than one occasion.”
They stopped in front of Anthony’s friends and introductions
were made. Sir Gregory smiled at Emily. “You must be the lady for whom Anthony
purchased a mare this morning at Tattersall’s, Mrs. Martin. She’s a beautiful
animal, gentle but with a good spirit. She’ll do you well.”
“And since Greg is regarded as having one of the best eyes
for horseflesh in London, you may count on his opinion,” the viscount added.
“I’d never buy a horse without asking his opinion first. Anthony, did you hear
that Phillip and Franny may put in an appearance tonight?”
“Is she enough recovered from childbed for that?” Anthony
asked.
“So they say,” the viscount answered. “Though we’ve hardly
seen Phillip at his clubs since his son was born. The wags are saying he’s
always in the nursery, holding or rocking or trying to help. The nursemaid is
more than a little put out.”
“I think it’s wonderful a new father should want to spend so
much time with his baby,” Emily said. “Good for Phillip.”
“He’s Viscount Danbury,” Anthony corrected.
“Good for Viscount Danbury then,” Emily rejoined and the men
laughed.
“We call ourselves Rogues’ Gallery, Mrs. Martin,” Viscount
Pemberton explained. “If Phillip and Amos Quincy were here, we’d be complete.
But perhaps Phillip would no longer wish to be styled a ‘rogue’ now that he’s
settled down to a life of marital bliss.”
“As your mother would have you, Brandon,” Sir Gregory said
gleefully.
“Please, Greg, try not to mention that too much tonight. She
made damn sure—begging your pardon, Mrs. Martin—to speak with the mother of
every eligible and promise I would dance with them. May I steal a dance or two
from you as well so I may be assured of intelligent conversation this evening?”
Emily could not stop her laugh at Hightower’s woeful
expression. “Of course, Lord Brandon. I’ll be happy to dance with you.”
“Your Grace?”
A well-built man with graying hair and a face marked by old
pox scars stood nearby, his approach having gone unnoticed. Beside her, Anthony
stiffened, his expression in the flickering candlelight shuttling between
sorrow and annoyance. A mask of resignation settled over his features and he
turned. “Good evening, Sir Edgar,” he said tonelessly. “I didn’t know you’d be
here. Emily, this is Sir Edgar Lennox. Sir Edgar, may I present Mrs. Emily Martin.
Sir Edgar is a physician, Emily.”
“Retired,” Sir Edgar corrected with a bow. “Your servant,
Mrs. Martin.”
“Sir Edgar,” Emily said, watching Anthony as she curtseyed.
“I’d heard you were back in town,” Sir Edgar continued.
“Welcome home, Your Grace. Are your sisters with you?”
“Thank you and no, they are not.” Anthony looked past the
doctor, his features still set in stone. “You will pardon me. I must speak to
Miss Margaret Stanhope about putting my name on her dance card.”
He left them, the speed of his stride suggesting the Prince
Regent was waiting for him. Music began from an overhead gallery and, after
murmuring a farewell, Sir Edgar hastened away, moving between the couples
lining up for a country dance. A sprightly tune set their pace, and Emily
turned her attention to the silent men beside her. “What was that all about?”
Sir Gregory’s returning glance was thoughtful. “How well do
you know Anthony, Mrs. Martin?”
Better than I’m going to share with you.
“He and my brother were at Cambridge together. Anthony spent
the summer with us the year before they completed their studies.” It was
Emily’s turn to hesitate and caution prompted her to lower her voice. “I know
they say Anthony’s father killed himself last year. I also know Anthony doesn’t
believe it.”