Читать книгу The Historical Collection 2018 - Candace Camp - Страница 31

“Here’s another.” Nicola came up for air and added a new book to the towering stack Alexandra was holding for her. She seemed determined to take at least one book from every shelf in Hatchard’s bookshop.

Emma tilted her head and examined the spines. “History of the Thames, Roman architecture, Viennese cookery, mechanical engineering . . . Is there some thread that connects all these?”

“Naturally, there is,” Penny said. “It’s somewhere in the tangle of Nicola’s brain.”

“I heard that,” Nicola called from two shelves down.

Alexandra didn’t lift her head from her reading. She had Nicola’s tilting tower in one arm, and in the other hand she held a single book of her own. Something about stars.

“It was a compliment. You know how I marvel at your intelligence.” Penny leaned against the bookshelves. “Just think, if we could put your brain, my soft heart, Alexandra’s common sense, and Emma’s eye for fashion together to make one woman. We’d be unstoppable.”

Alex used her thumb and teeth to turn a page of her astronomy book. “We’d be a well-dressed woman who spends her days tinkering with clockwork and baking biscuits to feed the forty-three ducks, goats, cows, and hedgehogs crammed in the back garden.”

“Only forty-three?” With a skeptical harrumph, Nicola added another book to the stack in Alexandra’s arm.

This time, however, she’d added one too many. The tower swayed, wobbled, and ultimately crashed to the floor.

Everyone in the shop turned to glare at them in silent censure.

Nicola’s freckled brow knitted as she stared down at the heap of books. “I should have known that would happen. See, this is why I need the books on engineering.”

Alexandra chased after her own book, which had landed a few yards from the rest. After having retrieved it, however, she collided with a gentleman—and this time, both of their books scattered to the floor. She began stammering her apologies at once, even though the gentleman’s back was still turned. When he swung to face her, however—

She went silent.

They all did. None of them could speak.

The man standing before Alexandra must have been the most dangerously handsome gentleman in all of London. Even Emma, foolishly taken as she was with her own husband, could see it.

Well-formed features. Roguish green eyes. Brown hair that misbehaved just the right amount.

The gentleman bowed to Alexandra. “My deepest apologies.”

“N-not at all,” she stammered, blushing. “The fault was entirely mine.”

“Allow me.” He crouched at her feet and retrieved her book from the floor, handing it to her before he went about collecting his own.

Alexandra’s eyes went bright enough to attract moths in daytime.

Nicola paid no attention. She was busy stacking and restacking her books in different combinations, trying to find the sturdiest formation.

Penny’s gloved hand latched on to Emma’s wrist. “He’s flirting with her,” she whispered through unmoving lips.

“I know,” Emma whispered back. Although, to be fair, she suspected he was the sort of man who flirted with every woman he encountered.

“You seem to know something about books,” he said to Alexandra. “Perhaps you could be so good as to lend me your expertise.”

“Surely you don’t need my help.”

“I think I do. You see, I need to purchase some books for a pair of young girls, and I’ve absolutely no idea where to start. What do you think of these?” He showed her the collection he’d amassed, leaning close.

“Oh.” Every bit of Alexandra froze. Even her eyelashes. After several moments, she seemed to recall she was meant to examine his books. “They’re all fairy stories.”

“That seemed the logical place to begin for girls. Which ones do you recommend?”

“Er . . . I don’t know.”

“Well, which were your favorites?”

Alexandra still hadn’t blinked. “I . . . I couldn’t say I . . .”

Emma’s face burned with second-hand embarrassment. Poor Alex.

At length, Alexandra finished her sentence in a whisper. “. . . had any.”

“Well, then.” The gentleman didn’t miss a beat, but continued on as if Alexandra had said something fascinating. Or something at all. “I suppose that means I’ll just have to buy them all, doesn’t it? Don’t know why I didn’t think of it. Thank you, Miss . . .”

“Mount.” A long pause. “Batten. Mountbatten.”

“Miss Mountbatten, I am indebted to you for your kind assistance.” A dashing smile, a gallant bow, and he was gone.

Penny waited all of three seconds before pouncing on poor, flustered Alex. “Why didn’t you talk to him?”

“I didn’t know what to say. When I was a girl, I wanted to read about pirates. I never cared about fairy stories.”

“Well, let me tell you, a great many of them start just that way.” Penny cast a wistful look after the gentleman. “You might have at least asked his name. That could have been the beginning of a romance.”

“A tragic one,” said Nicola. “He’s no doubt a shameless rake.”

“Yes, let’s tell ourselves that,” Emma said.

“Oh, no!” Alex moaned, heedless of their romantic musings. “I can’t believe it. Look.” She held up the book in her hands for their view.

“A Compendium of Stories for Obedient Girls?” Emma read aloud. “Well that sounds dreadful.”

“It is dreadful. The gentleman must have confused my book for one of his. He’s stuck me with fairy stories, and he’s walked away with Messier’s Catalogue of Star Clusters and Nebulae. It could take me months to find another used copy. I can’t afford it new.”

“And that is why you ought to have asked his name,” Penny said.

Emma intervened. “Be gentle with her. Any one of us would have panicked. Including me, and I’m married to an intimidating fellow myself.”

An intimidating, unfeeling, insulting beast of a fellow, to put a finer point on it. She was still smarting after the way he’d rejected the wardrobe. Well, it was what she deserved for putting her heart into it. Someday she might learn to stop throwing that fragile organ under men’s feet.

To distract herself, she flipped through the Parisian fashion magazine in her hand. An idea flitted through her mind, and her fingers stilled halfway through the magazine. Perhaps there were other ways she could use her skills. Duchesses didn’t engage in trade, but charitable causes? Now that was a different matter. Perhaps she could help others like Miss Palmer. Women who, for one reason or another, found themselves in need of a fresh start.

Women who might appreciate her efforts, unlike a certain ungrateful duke.

“Wienerbrød.”

This non sequitur came from Nicola.

“Your pet names for the duke,” she said, leafing through a cookery book. “Add it to the list. It’s a Viennese pastry. Wienerbrød.”

Emma burst into laughter. Oh, how she’d needed that today. “Thank you, Nicola. That’s perfection.”

That pet name was so thoroughly absurd and humiliating, her husband just might deserve it.

The Strand was a crush of carts and carriages. By the time Emma made her way home from the bookshop, dusk had fallen. She unbuttoned her pelisse as she moved down the corridor, planning to flop onto the bed for a sleep before dinner. She’d been fatigued of late.

Upon entering her bedchamber, however, she stopped in place, surprised by a glimpse of scarlet peeking out from behind her bed hangings.

Setting aside her bonnet and gloves, she walked to the bed as a pilgrim approaches an altar. Her heart began to pound.

There, laid out across the quilted coverlet, was a gown of the finest material she’d ever touched. She fingered the edge of the fabric wonderingly. Ruby-red silk gauze layered over an ivory satin, conspiring to create a rich, shimmering blush. The cut was a daring Continental silhouette, with cap sleeves that settled just beneath the shoulder and a neckline positioned to skim the bosom. No spangles, no lace. The only adornments were tasteful, exquisitely embroidered flowers and vines decorating the hem, sleeves, and décolletage.

The gown resembled a rose abloom in the midst of a garden.

Once she drew her gaze from the gown, she noticed the rest of an ensemble lay nearby: heeled slippers with rosettes, flouncy tulle petticoats, satin evening gloves, an embroidered chemise, and a fashionable divorce corset. And it didn’t end there. Her dressing table was laden, too. Stockings, garters, jeweled combs for her hair . . .

“Isn’t it lovely, Your Grace? I’ve never seen finer.” Emma turned to see Mary, her lady’s maid, standing in the doorway holding a tray. “His Grace says you’re to be ready by eight o’clock. I took the liberty of bringing up your dinner. I thought we might need the extra time to do something special with your hair before you leave for the theater.”

Emma couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He was taking her to the theater?

“The duke is taking dinner in his chambers, too. Mr. Khan is helping ready him for the evening.”

Having set down the tray, Mary bounced with excitement, rocking up to her toes and then down again. “It’s so wonderful, Your Grace. He hasn’t made such an outing since—”

“Since returning from the war. I know. And that’s been—”

“Nigh on two years,” Mary said. “It’s all your doing, Your Grace. He’s so taken with you. Just as we all hoped.”

Emma didn’t know about that. “He’s only taking me because I deviled him into it.”

“Nevertheless.” Her maid lifted the shimmering gown from the bed and, pinching it by the sleeves, held it up to Emma’s body. She swiveled Emma toward the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. “If the duke isn’t in love with you already, he surely will be by the end of the night.”

“Will you leave me for a moment?”

Mary looked confused, but she did as she was asked. “Certainly, Your Grace.”

Once she was alone, Emma stood staring into the looking glass.

She hadn’t worn an evening gown in six years. Not since that devastating night when she’d reached out for love and been dealt cruel disappointment in return. Her own father had called her a jezebel, a strumpet, and worse. Any temptress in a harlot-red dress, he’d said, was asking to be ill-used.

Emma hadn’t asked for anything of the sort. She’d sewn that gown herself, and she’d poured all her hopes into it. Not to sing a siren song or to invite lust. She wasn’t asking, Grope me behind the hedges.

See me, she’d been pleading. Admire me.

Love me.

A mistake, and she’d paid dearly for it. Again, and again, and again.

But now here she was. Against her better judgment and every resolution, she’d found herself craving all those same things from her husband. Understanding. Admiration. Affection.

Perhaps even love.

She regarded herself in the mirror and drew a deep, unsteady breath. If she put on this gown and went down to him, she would descend the stairs wearing her heart on the outside of her body. Nothing to guard it from being pierced, wounded, broken.

Torn apart.

She would be a fool to take that risk.

He had vowed to protect her, hadn’t he? However, she wasn’t certain any promise extended that far.

Tonight, Emma supposed she would find out.